ACT I. SCENE I.

An Apartment at Lady BETTY LAMBTON'S.

STILL I can't help thinking but Lady Betty Lambton's refuſal was infinitely more the reſult of an extraordinary delicacy, than the want of affection for your Lordſhip.

O my dear couſin you are very much miſtaken; I am not one of thoſe coxcombs who imagine a woman does'nt know her own mind, or who, be⯑cauſe they are treated with civility by a lady who has rejected their addreſſes, ſuppoſe ſhe is ſecretly debating in their favour: Lady Betty is a woman of ſenſe, and muſt conſequently deſpiſe coquetry or affectation.

Why ſhe always ſpeaks of you with the greateſt reſpect.

Reſpect! — Why ſhe always ſpeaks of you with the greateſt reſpect; does it therefore follow that ſhe loves you? No Charles — I have, for ſome time you know, ceas'd to trouble Lady Betty with my ſolicitations, and I ſee myſelf honour'd with her friendſhip, though I hav'nt been ſo hap⯑py as to merit her heart; for this reaſon I have no doubt of her aſſiſtance on the preſent occaſion, and I am certain I ſhall pleaſe her by making my addreſſes to Miſs Marchmont.

Miſs Marchmont is indeed a very deſerving young woman.

Next to Lady Betty I never ſaw one ſo form'd to my wiſhes; beſides, during the whole period of my fruitleſs attendance, ſhe ſeemed ſo intereſted for my ſucceſs, and expreſs'd ſo hearty a concern for my diſappointment, that I have conſider'd her with an eye of more than common friendſhip ever ſince. — But what's the matter with you Charles, you ſeem to have ſomething upon your ſpirits?

Indeed my Lord you are miſtaken, I am only attentive.

O, is that all! — This very day I purpoſe to requeſt Lady Betty's intereſt with Miſs March⯑mont, for unhappily circumſtanc'd as ſhe is, with regard to fortune, ſhe poſſeſſes an uncommon ſhare of delicacy, and may poſſibly think herſelf [3]inſulted by the offer of a rejected heart; — Lady Betty in that caſe will ſave her the pain of a ſuppoſed diſreſpect, and me the mortification of a new repulſe. But I beg your pardon, Charles, I am forgetting the cauſe of friendſhip, and ſhall now ſtep up ſtairs to Colonel Rivers about your affair. — Ah Sidney you have no difficulties to obſtruct the completion of your wiſhes, and a few days muſt make you one of the happiſt men in England.

A few days make me one of the happieſt men in England, — a likely matter truly; little does he know how I paſſionately admire the very wo⯑man to whom he is immediately going with an offer of his perſon and fortune. — The marriage with Miſs Rivers I ſee is unavoidable, and I am almoſt pleaſed that I never obtained any encou⯑ragement from Miſs Marchmont, as I ſhould now be reduc'd to the painful alternative, either of giving up my own hopes, or of oppoſing the happineſs of ſuch a friend.

O here my dear girl is the ſweet ſwain in pro⯑pria perſona: — Only mind what a funeral ſermon⯑face the creature has, notwithſtanding the agree⯑able proſpects before him. — Well of all things in the world defend me I ſay from a ſober huſband!

You are extreamly welcome Mrs. Harley to divert yourſelf—

He ſpeaks too in as melancholy a tone as a paſſing bell: — Lord, lord, what can Colonel Rivers ſee in the wretch to think of him for a ſon-in-law. — Only look Miſs Marchmont at this love-exciting countenance; — Obſerve the Cu⯑pids that ambuſh in theſe eyes; — Theſe lips to be ſure are fraught with the honey of Hybla: — Go you lifeleſs devil you, — go try to get a little animation into this unfortunate face of yours.

Upon my word my face is very much oblig'd to you.

You are a mad creature, my dear, and yet I envy your ſpirits prodigiouſly.

And ſo you ought. — But for all that you and Lady Betty are unaccountably fond of thoſe half-ſoul'd fellows, who are as mechanically regular as ſo many pieces of clock-work, and never ſtrike above once an hour upon a new obſervation — who are ſo ſentimental, and ſo dull — ſo wiſe and ſo drowſy. — Why I thought Lady Betty had al⯑ready a ſufficient quantity of lead in her family without taking in this lump to increaſe the weight of it.

What can ſhe poſibly mean, Mr. Sidney.

'Tis impoſſible to gueſs madam. The lively widow will ſtill have her laugh without ſparing any body.

Why ſurely, my dear, you can't forget the coun⯑ter part of poor diſmal here, that elaborate piece of dignified dulneſs, Lady Betty's couſin Lord Hectic; who through downright fondneſs is con⯑tinually plaguing his poor wife, and rendering her the moſt miſerable woman in the world, from an extraordinary deſire of promoting her happi⯑neſs.

And is'nt there a great deal to ſay in exte⯑nuation of an error which proceeds from a prin⯑ciple of real affection?

Affection! ridiculous! but you ſhall have an inſtance of this wonderful affection: — T'other day I din'd at his houſe, and, though the wea⯑ther was intollerably warm, the table was laid in a cloſe room, with a fire large enough to roaſt an ox for a country corporation.

Well, and ſo —

In a great chair, near the fire ſide, ſat poor Lady Hectic, wrapp'd up in as many fur cloaks as would baſſle the ſeverity of a winter in Sibe⯑ria: —On my entrance I expreſs'd a proper con⯑cern for her illneſs, and aſk'd the nature of her complaint. — She told me ſhe complain'd of no⯑thing but the weight of her dreſs, and the in⯑tollerable heat of the apartment; adding, that ſhe had been caught in a little ſhower the pre⯑ceding [6]evening, which terriſied Lord Hectic out of his wits, and ſo for fear ſhe might run the chance of a ſlight cold, he expoſed her to the hazard of abſolute ſuffocation.

Upon my word, Miſs Marchmont, ſhe has a pretty manner of turning things.

Really I think ſo.

Well — unable to bear either the tyranny of this prepoſterous fondneſs any longer, or the intollerable heat of his room, I made my eſcape the moment the cloth was removed, and ſhan't be ſurpriſed if before the concluſion of the ſummer, he is brought before his peers for having murdered his poor lady out of downright affection.

A very uncommon death, Mrs. Harley, among people of quality.

Lord Winworth, Sir, deſires the favour of your company above: the perſon is come with the writings from the Temple—

I'll wait upon him immediately.

Ay pray do, you are the fitteſt company in the world for each other. — If Colonel Rivers was of my mind he'd turn you inſtantly adrift and liſten to the overtures of Sir Harry Newburg.

I really believe you have a fancy to me your⯑ſelf, you're ſo conſtantly abuſing me.

I, you odious creature!

Now you mention Sir Harry, my dear, is'nt it rather extraordinary for him to think about Miſs Rivers, when he knows of the engagements between her and Mr. Sidney — eſpecially as her father has ſuch an objection to the wildneſs of his character.

What you are ſtill at your ſober reflections I ſee, and are for ſcrutinizing into the morals of a lover.—The women truly would have a fine time of it if they were never to be married till they found men of unexceptionable characters.

Nay I don't want to leſſen Sir Harry's merit in the leaſt, — he has his good qualities as well as his faults — and is no way deſtitute of under⯑ſtanding — but ſtill his underſtanding is a faſhi⯑onable one, and pleads the knowledge of every thing right, to juſtify the practice of many things not ſtrictly warrantable.

Why I never heard any thing to his prejudice but ſome faſhionable liberties which he has taken with the ladies.

And in the name of wonder what wou'd you deſire to hear?

Come, come, Hortenſia, we women are unac⯑countable creatures, the greateſt number of us by much love a fellow for having a little modiſh wildneſs about him, and if we are ſuch fools as to be captivated with the vices of the men, we ought to be puniſhed for the depravity of our ſentiments.

I tell you ſiſter they can read the parchments very well without our aſſiſtance — and I have been ſo fatigu'd with looking over papers all the morning, that I am heartily ſick of your Indentures, witneſſing, your foraſmuch's, likewiſe's alſo's, moreover's and notwithſtanding's, and I muſt take a turn in the garden to recover myſelf.

Nay I only ſpoke becauſe I imagin'd our being preſent would be more agreeable to Lord Win⯑worth. — But I wonder Sir Harry does'nt come, he promiſed to be here by ten, and I want to ſee his couſin Cecil mightily.

What, Lady Betty, does Mr. Cecil come with him here this morning?

He does, my dear — he arrived at Sir Harry's laſt night, and I want to ſee if his late journey to France has any way improved the elegance of his appearance.

Well, I ſhall be glad to ſee him too; for, not⯑withſtanding his diſregard of dreſs, and freedom of manner — there is a ſomething right in him that pleaſes me prodigiouſly.

A ſomething right, Mrs. Harley! — he is one of the worthieſt creatures in the world.

O, Hortenſia, he ought to be a favourite of yours, for I don't know any body who poſſeſſes a higher place in his good opinion.

'Twou'd be odd, indeed, if he was'nt a fa⯑vourite of mine — he was my father's beſt friend; — gave him a conſiderable living you know, and, when he died, wou'd have provided very kindly for me, if your generoſity, Lady Betty, had'nt render'd his goodneſs wholly unneceſſary.

Pooh! Pooh! no more of this.

[...] wiſh there was a poſſibility of making him dreſs like a gentleman — But I am glad he comes [10]with Sir Harry; — for though they have a great regard for each other, they are continually wrang⯑ling, and form a contraſt which is often extremely diverting —

Sir Harry Newburg and Mr. Cecil, Madam.

O, here they are! Shew them in.

Now for it!

Huſh, they are here.

Ladies your moſt obedient. —

Ah, Girls! — give me a kiſs each of you in⯑ſtantly. — Lady Betty, I am heartily glad to ſee you: — I have a budget full of compliments for you, from ſeveral of your friends at Paris —

Did you meet any of them at Paris?

I did, — and, what was worſe, I met them in every town I paſſed through; — but the Engliſh are a great commercial nation, you know, and their fools like their broad cloths, are exported in large quantities to all parts of Europe.

What? and they found you a fool ſo much above the market price, that they have returned you upon the hands of your country? — Here, ladies, is a head for you, piping hot from Paris.

And here, ladies, is a head for you, like the Alps.

Like the Alps, ladies! How do you make that out?

Why it's always white, and always barren; 'tis conſtantly covered with ſnow, but never pro⯑duces any thing profitable.

O ſay no more upon that head, I beſeech you.

Indeed, Sir Harry, I think they're too hard for you.

Why, I think ſo too — eſpecially my friend Cecil, who, with that unfortunate ſhock of hair, has no great right to be conſidered as a ſtandard for dreſs in this country.

Ah, widow, there are many heads in this coun⯑try with much more extraordinary things upon them than my unfortunate ſhock of hair, as you call it: — what do you think of theſe wings, for inſtance, that cover the ears of my couſin Mer⯑cury?

Death! don't ſpoil my hair.

You ſee this fellow is ſo tortur'd upon the wheel of faſhion, that a ſingle touch immediately throws him into agonies; — now, my dreſs is as eaſy as it's ſimple, and five minutes —

With the help of your five fingers equips you at any time for the drawing-room, — ha! ha! ha!

And is'nt it better than being five hours under the paws of your hair-dreſſer?

But cuſtom, Mr. Cecil! —

Men of ſenſe have nothing to do with cuſtom, and 'tis more their buſineſs to ſet wiſe examples than to follow fooliſh ones.

But don't you think the world will be apt to laugh a little, Mr. Cecil?

I can't help the want of underſtanding among mankind.

The blockhead thinks there's nothing due to the general opinion of one's country.

And none but blockheads like you would mind the fooliſh opinions of any country.

Well! Mr. Cecil muſt take his own way, I think — ſo come along, ladies, — let us go into the ga [...]den, and ſend my brother to Sir Harry to ſettle the buſineſs about Theodora.

Theodora! — what a charming name for the romance of a circulating library. — I wonder, Lady Betty, your brother wou'd'nt call his girl Deborah, after her grandmother —?

Deborah! — O I ſhould hate ſuch an old fa⯑ſhioned name abominably —

And I hate this new faſhion of calling our children by pompous appellations. — By and by we ſhan't have a Ralph or a Roger, a Bridget or an Alice remaining in the kingdom. — The dregs of the people have adopted this unaccount⯑able cuſtom, and a fellow who keeps a little ale⯑houſe at the bottom of my avenue in the country, has no leſs than an Auguſtus-Frederick, a Scipio Africanus, and a Matilda-Wilhelmina-Leonora, in his family.

Upon my word, a very pretty ſtring of chriſ⯑tian names.

Well, Sir Harry, you and Mr. Cecil dine with us. — Come, ladies, let us go to the garden.

I poſitively won't go without Mr. Cecil, for I muſt have ſomebody to laugh at.

And ſo muſt I, widow, therefore I won't loſe this opportunity of being in your company.

Ah, Colonel, I am heartily glad to ſee you. —

My dear Cecil, you are welcome home again.

There's my wiſe kinſman wants a word with you.

Colonel, your moſt obedient: — I am come upon the old buſineſs; —for unleſs I am allow'd to entertain hope of Miſs Rivers, I ſhall be the moſt miſerable of human beings.

Sir Harry, I have already told you by letter, and I now tell you perſonally, I cannot liſten to your propoſals.

No, Sir?

No, Sir, — I have promiſed my daughter to Mr. Sidney; — do you know that, Sir?

I do; — but what then? Engagements of this kind, you know —

So then, you do know I have promiſed her to Mr. Sidney?

I do; — but I alſo know that matters are not finally ſettled between Mr. Sidney and you, and I moreover know, that his fortune is by no means equal to mine, therefore —

Sir Harry, let me aſk you one queſtion before you make your conſequence.

A thouſand if you pleaſe, Sir.

Why then, Sir, let me aſk you, what you have ever obſerved in me or my conduct, that you de⯑ſire me ſo familiarly to break my word: — I thought, Sir, you conſidered me as a man of honour.

And ſo I do, Sir, a man of the niceſt honour.

And yet, Sir, you aſk me to violate the ſanctity of my word — and tell me indirectly that it is my intereſt to be a raſcal —

I really don't underſtand you, Colonel: — I thought, when I was talking to you I was talk⯑ing to a man who knew the world — and as you have not yet ſigned —

Why, this is mending matters with a witneſs! — And ſo you think becauſe I am not legally bound, I am under no neceſſity of keeping my word! — Sir Harry, laws were never made for men of honour; — they want no bond but the [16]rectitude of their own ſentiments, and laws are of no uſe but to bind the villains of ſociety.

Well! but my dear Colonel, if you have no regard for me, ſhew ſome little regard for your daughter.

Sir Harry, I ſhew the greateſt regard for my daughter by giving her to a man of honour; — and I muſt not be inſulted with any farther repetition of your propoſals.

Inſult you Colonel! — is the offer of my al⯑liance an inſult? — is my readineſs to make what ſettlements you think proper —

Sir Harry, I ſhould conſider the offer of a kingdom an inſult, if it was to be purchaſed by the violation of my word: — Beſides, though my daughter ſhall never go a beggar to the arms of her huſband, I wou'd rather ſee her happy than rich; and if ſhe has enough to provide handſome⯑ly for a young family, and ſomething to ſpare for the exigencies of a worthy friend, I ſhall think her as affluent as if ſhe was miſtreſs of Mexico.

Well, Colonel, I have done; — but I believe —

Well, Sir Harry, and as our conference is done, we will, if you pleaſe, retire to the ladies: — I ſhall be always glad of your acquaintance though I can't receive you as a ſon-in-law, — for a union of intereſt I look upon as a union of diſhonour, and conſider a marriage for money, at beſt, but a legal proſtitution.

ACT II.

LORD, Lord, my dear you're enough to drive one out of one's wits. — I tell you, again and again, he's as much yours as ever; and was I in your ſituation, he ſhou'd be my huſband to-morrow morning.

Dear Emmy you miſtake the matter ſtrangely. — Lord Winworth is no common man, nor wou'd he have continued his ſilence ſo long upon his favourite ſubject, if he had the leaſt inclination to renew his addreſſes. — His pride has juſtly taken the alarm at my inſenſibility, and he will not, I am ſatisfied, run the hazard of another refuſal.

Why then, in the name of wonder, if he was ſo dear to you, cou'd you prodigally trifle with your own happineſs, and repeatedly refuſe him?

I have repeatedly told you becauſe I was a fool, Emmy. — Till he withdrew his addreſſes I knew not how much I eſteemed him; my unhappineſs in my firſt marriage, you know, made me reſolve againſt another. — And you are alſo ſenſible I have frequently argued that a woman of real de⯑licacy ſhou'd never admit a ſecond impreſſion on her heart.

Yes, and I always thought you argued very fooliſhly. — I am ſure I ought to know, for I have been twice married; — and though I lov'd my firſt huſband very ſincerely, there was not a woman in England who cou'd have made the ſecond a better wife. — Nay, for that matter, if another was to offer himſelf to-morrow, I am not altogether certain that I ſhould refuſe liſtening —

You are a ſtrange creature.

And are'nt you a much ſtranger, in declining to follow your own inclinations, when you cou'd have conſulted them ſo highly, to the credit of your good ſenſe, and the ſatisfaction of your whole family. — But it is'nt yet too late; and if you will be adviſed by me every thing ſhall end as happily as you can wiſh.

Well, let me hear your advice.

Why this, then: — My Lord you know has requeſted that you wou'd indulge him with half an hour's private converſation ſome time this morning.

Well!

This is a liberty he has'nt taken theſe three months — and he muſt deſign ſomething by it; — now as he can deſign nothing but to renew his addreſſes, I wou'd adviſe you to take [19]him at the very firſt word, for fear your delicacy, if it has time to conſider, ſhou'd again ſhew you the ſtrange impropriety of ſecond marriages.

But ſuppoſe this ſhould not be his buſineſs with me?

Why then we'll go another way to work: — I, as a ſanguine friend of my Lord's, can give him a diſtant hint of matters, exacting at the ſame time a promiſe of the moſt inviolable ſecrecy; and aſſuring him you wou'd never forgive me, if you had the leaſt idea of my having acquainted him with ſo important a —

And ſo you wou'd have me —?

Why not? — This is the very ſtep I ſhou'd take myſelf, if I was in your ſituation.

May be ſo: — But it's a ſtep which I ſhall never take. — What! wou'd you have me loſt to all feeling? Wou'd you have me meanly make uſe of chambermaid artifices for a huſband?

I would only have you happy my dear: — And where the man of one's heart is at ſtake I don't think we ought to ſtand ſo rigidly upon trifles. —

Trifles, Emmy! do you call the laws of de⯑licacy trifles. — She that violates theſe —

Poh! poh! ſhe that violates: — What a work there is with you ſentimental folks. — Why, don't I tell you that my Lord ſhall never know any thing of your concern in the deſign?

But ſha'nt I know it myſelf, Emmy! — and how can I eſcape the juſtice of my own reflections!

Well, thank heav'n my ſentiments are not ſuf⯑ficiently refin'd to make me unhappy.

I can't change my ſentiments, my dear Emmy, — nor wou'd I, if I cou'd: — Of this, however, be certain, that unleſs I have Lord Winworth without courting him, I ſhall never have him at all. — But be ſilent to all the world upon this matter I conjure you: — Particularly to Miſs Marchmont; for ſhe has been ſo ſtrenuous an advocate for my Lord, that the concealment of it from her might give her ſome doubts of my friendſhip; and I ſhou'd be continually uneaſy for fear my reſerve ſhou'd be conſider'd as an indirect inſult upon her circumſtances.

Well, the devil take this delicacy; I don't know any thing it does beſides making people miſerable: — And yet ſome how, fooliſh as it is, one can't help liking it. — But yonder I ſee Sir Harry and Mr. Cecil.

Let us withdraw then my dear; they may de⯑tain us; and, 'till this interview is over, I ſhall [21]be in a continual agitation; yet I am ſtrangely apprehenſive of a diſappointment, Emmy — and if —

Lady Betty.

What do you ſay?

Do you ſtill think there is any thing extremely prepoſterous in ſecond marriages?

You are intolerably provoking. —

Well, did'nt I tell you the moment you opened this affair to me, that the Colonel was a man of too much ſenſe to give his daughter to a cox⯑comb?

But what if I ſhould tell you, that his daugh⯑ter ſhall be ſtill mine, and in ſpite of his teeth?

Prithee explain kinſman.

Why ſuppoſe Miſs Rivers ſhould have no very ſtrong objection to this unfortunate figure of mine?

Why even your vanity can't think that a young lady of her good ſenſe, can poſſibly be in love with you?

What, you think that no likely circumſtance I ſee?

I do really — Formerly indeed the women were fools enough to be caught by the frippery of externals, and ſo a fellow neither picked a pocket, nor put up with an affront, he was a dear toad — a ſweet creature — and a wicked devil; — nay the wicked devil, was quite an an⯑gel of a man — and like another Alexander, in proportion to the number of wretches which he made, he conſtantly increaſed the luſtre of his reputation — till at laſt, having conquered all his worlds, he ſat down with that celebrated ruffian, and wept becauſe he cou'd commit no farther outrages upon ſociety.

O my good moralizing couſin, you'll find your ſelf curſedly out in your politics; and I ſhall convince you in a few hours, that a handſome ſuit on the back of a ſprightly young fellow, will ſtill do more among the women, than all your ſentiment and ſlovenlineſs. —

What wou'd you perſuade me that Miſs Rivers will go off with you —?

You have hit the mark for once in your life, my ſweet temper'd mouther of morality — The dear Theodora —

The dear Theodora! and ſo Harry you ima⯑gine that by the common maxims of faſhionable [23]life, you may appear to be a friend to the Colo⯑nel at the very moment you are going to rob him of his daughter. — For ſhame kinſman — for ſhame — have ſome pride if you have no virtue — and dont ſmile in a man's face when you want to do him the greateſt of all injuries — dont Harry —

Cecil I ſcorn a baſe action as much as you or as much as any man — but I love Miſs Rivers honourably. — I aſk nothing from her father, and as her perſon is her own ſhe has a right to be⯑ſtow it where ſhe pleaſes.

I am anſwered — her perſon is her own — and ſhe has a right to be miſerable her own way. — I acknowledge it — and will not diſcover your ſecret to her father. —

Diſcover it to her father — why ſure you woud'nt think of it. — Take care Cecil — take care — I do indeed love you better than any man in the world — and I know you have a friendſhip, a cordial friendſhip for me — but the happineſs of my whole life is at ſtake, and muſt not be de⯑ſtroyed by any of your unaccountable peculiarities.

Harry — you know I wou'd at any time rather promote your happineſs than obſtruct it. — And you alſo know that if I die without children — you ſhall have a principal part of my fortune; — but damn it — I wiſh you had not uſed the maſk of friendſhip to ſteal this young Lady away from her relations — 'tis hard that their good nature [24]muſt be turned againſt their peace; — and hard, becauſe her whole family treat you with regard, that you ſhould offer them the greateſt inſult ima⯑ginable.

Dear Cecil, I am more to be pitied than con⯑demned in this tranſaction. — when I firſt endea⯑voured to make myſelf agreeable to Miſs Rivers, I imagined her family would readily countenance my addreſſes, and when I ſucceeded in that en⯑deavour, I had not time to declare myſelf in form, before her father entred into this engagement with Sidney. — The moment I heard it mention⯑ed, I wrote to him, offering him a carte blanche, and this morning a repetition of my offer was treated with contempt. — I have therefore been forc'd into the meaſure you diſapprove ſo much— but I hope my conduct, in the character of the ſon-in-law, will amply atone for any error in my behaviour as a friend.

Well well, we muſt make the beſt of a bad market, — her father has no right to force her inclinations; — 'tis equally cruel and unjuſt; there⯑fore you may depend upon my utmoſt endeavours not only to aſſiſt you in carrying her off, but in appeaſing all family reſentments. — For really, you are ſo often in the wrong, that one muſt ſtand by you a little when you are in the right, — ſo I ſhall be ready for you kinſman.

Why, Cecil, this is honeſt — this is really friendly — and you ſhall abuſe me a whole twelvemonth without my anſwering a ſyllable — [25]but for the preſent I muſt leave you — yonder I ſee Miſs Rivers — we have ſome little matters to talk of — you underſtand me — and now —

For a torrent of rapture and nonſenſe. — What egregious puppies does this unaccountable love make of young fellows: Nay, for that matter, what egregious puppies does it not make of old ones? — ecce ſignum. — 'Tis a comfort though, that no body knows I am a puppy in this reſpect but myſelf. — Here was I fancying that all the partiality I felt for poor Hortenſia Marchmont, proceeded from my friendſhip for her father — when upon an honeſt examination into my own heart — I find it principally ariſes from my regard for herſelf. — I was in hopes a change of objects would have driven the baggage out of my thoughts, — and I went to France; — but I am come home with a ſettled reſolution of aſking her to marry a ſlovenly raſcal of fifty, who is to be ſure a very likely ſwain for a young lady to fall in love with; — but who knows — the moſt ſenſible women have ſometimes ſtrange taſtes; — and yet it muſt be a very ſtrange taſte, that can poſſibly approve of my overtures. — I'll go cautiouſly to work however, — and ſolicit her as for a friend of my own age and fortune; — ſo that if ſhe refuſes me, which is probable enough — I ſhan't expoſe myſelf to her contempt. — What a ridiculous figure is an old fool ſighing at the feet of a young woman. — Zounds, I wonder how the grey-headed dotards have the impudence to aſk a blooming girl of twenty to throw herſelf away upon a moving mummy, or a walking ſkeleton.

You can't think, Emmy, how my ſpirits are agitated; — I wonder what my Lord can want with me?

Well, well, try and collect yourſelf a little — he is juſt coming up, — I muſt retire. — Courage, my dear creature, this once — and the day's our own, I warrant you.

Here he is! — Bleſs me, what a flutter I am in!

Your Ladyſhip's moſt obedient.

Won't your Lordſhip be ſeated? — He ſeems exceſſively confus'd.

I have taken the liberty, Madam — How ſhe awes me now I am alone with her!

My Lord!

I ſay, Madam, I have taken the liberty to —

I beg, my Lord, you won't conſider an apolo⯑gy in the leaſt —

Your Ladyſhip is extremely obliging — and yet I am fearful —

I hope your Lordſhip will conſider me as a friend, — and therefore lay aſide this unneceſſary ceremony.

I do conſider you, Madam, as a friend; — as an ineſtimable friend — and I am this moment come to ſolicit you upon a ſubject of the utmoſt importance to my happineſs.

Lord! what is he going to ſay?

Madam, —

I ſay, my Lord, that you cannot ſpeak to me on any ſubject of importance without engaging my greateſt attention.

You honour me too much, Madam.

Not in the leaſt, my Lord — for there is not a perſon in the world who wiſhes your happineſs with greater cordiality.

You eternally oblige me, Madam — and I can now take courage to tell you, that my happi⯑neſs, in a moſt material degree, depends upon your Ladyſhip.

On me, my Lord? — Bleſs me!

Yes, Madam, on your Ladyſhip.

Mrs. Harley was right, and I ſhall ſink with confuſion.

'Tis on this buſineſs, Madam, I have taken the liberty of requeſting the preſent interview, — and as I find your Ladyſhip ſo generouſly ready —

Why, my Lord, I muſt confeſs — I ſay, I muſt acknowledge, my Lord, — that if your hap⯑pineſs depends upon me — I ſhould not be very much pleas'd to ſee you miſerable.

Your Ladyſhip is benignity itſelf; — but as I want words to expreſs my ſenſe of this obligation — I ſhall proceed at once to my requeſt, nor treſpaſs upon your patience by an ineffectual com⯑pliment to your generoſity.

If you pleaſe, my Lord.

Then, Madam, my requeſt is, that I may have your conſent —

This is ſo ſudden, my Lord! — ſo unexpected!

Why, Madam, it is ſo; — yet, if I cou'd but engage your acquieſcence — I might ſtill think of a double union on the day which makes my couſin happy —

My Lord — I really don't know how to an⯑ſwer: — Does'nt your Lordſhip think this is ra⯑ther precipitating matters?

No man, Madam, can be too ſpeedy in pro⯑moting his happineſs: — If, therefore, I might preſume to hope for your concurrence — I woud'nr altogether —

My concurrence, my Lord! — ſince it is ſo eſſentially neceſſary to your peace I cannot refuſe any longer. — Your great merit will juſtify ſo im⯑mediate a compliance — and I ſhall ſtand excuſed of all. —

Then, Madam, I don't deſpair of the Lady's —

My Lord?

I know your Ladyſhip can eaſily prevail upon her to overlook an immaterial punctilio, and therefore —

The Lady, my Lord?

Yes, Madam, Miſs Marchmont; if ſhe finds my addreſſes ſupported by your Ladyſhip, will, in all probability, be eaſily induced to receive them, — and then, your Ladyſhip knows —

Miſs Marchmont! my Lord?

Yes, Madam, Miſs Marchmont. — Since your final diſapprobation of thoſe hopes which I was once preſumptuous enough to entertain of calling your Ladyſhip mine, the anguiſh of a rejected paſſion has render'd me inconceivably wretched, and I ſee no way of mitigating the ſeverity of my ſituation but in the eſteem of this amiable woman, who knows how tenderly I have been attached to you, and whoſe goodneſs will induce her, I am well convinced, to alleviate, as much as poſſible, the greatneſs of my diſappointment.

Your Lordſhip is undoubtedly right in your opi⯑nion — and I am infinitely concern'd to have been the involuntary cauſe of uneaſineſs to you; — but Miſs Marchmont, my Lord — ſhe will merit your utmoſt —

I know ſhe will, Madam — and it rejoices me to ſee you ſo highly pleas'd with my intention.

O, I am quite delighted with it!

I knew I ſhould pleaſe you by it. —

You can't imagine how you have pleas'd me!

How noble is this goodneſs! — Then, Madam, I may expect your Ladyſhip will be my advocate? — The injuſtice which fortune has done Miſs Marchmont's merit, obliges me to act with a double degree of circumſpection; — for, when virtue is unhappily plung'd into difficulties, 'tis entitled to an aditional ſhare of veneration.

How has my folly undone me!

I will not treſpaſs any longer upon your Lady⯑ſhip's leiſure, than juſt to obſerve, that though I have ſolicited your friendſhip on this occaſion, I muſt, nevertheleſs, beg you will not be too much my friend. — I know Miſs Marchmont would make any ſacrifice to oblige you; — and if her gratitude ſhould appear in the leaſt concerned, — This is a nice point, my dear Lady Betty, and I muſt not wound the peace of any perſon's boſom, to recover the tranquility of my own.

Well, my dear, is it all over?

It is all over indeed, Emmy.

But why that ſorrowful tone — and melancholly countenance? Muſt'nt I wiſh you joy?

O, I am the moſt miſerable woman in the world! — Would you believe it? — The buſi⯑neſs of this interview was to requeſt my intereſt in his favour with Miſs Marchmont.

With Miſs Marchmont! — Then there is not one atom of ſincere affection in the univerſe.

As to that, I have reaſon to think his ſenti⯑ments for me are as tender as ever.

He gives you a pretty proof of his tenderneſs, truly, when he aſks your aſſiſtance to marry ano⯑ther woman.

Had you but ſeen his confuſion, —

He might well be confuſed, when, after court⯑ing you theſe three years, he cou'd think of ano⯑ther, and that too at the very moment in which you were ready to oblige him.

There has been a ſort of fatality in the affair — and I am puniſh'd but too juſtly: — The wo⯑man that wants candour where ſhe is addreſs'd by a man of merit, wants a very eſſential virtue; and ſhe who can delight in the anxiety of a wor⯑thy mind, is little to be pitied when ſhe feels the ſharpeſt ſtings of anxiety in her own.

But what do you intend to do with regard to this extraordinary requeſt of Lord Winworth; — will you really ſuffer him to marry Miſs March mont?

Why what can I do? If it was improper for me, before I knew any thing of his deſign in re⯑gard to Miſs Marchmont, to inſinuate the leaſt deſire of hearing him again on the ſubject of his heart, 'tis doubly improper now, when I ſee he has turn'd his thoughts on another woman, and when this woman, beſides, is one of my moſt valuable friends.

Well, courage Lady Betty — we are'nt yet in a deſperate ſituation — Miſs Marchmont loves you — as herſelf — and woud'nt, I dare ſay, accept the firſt man in the world, if it gave you the leaſt uneaſineſs. — I'll go to her therefore this very moment — tell her at once how the caſe is — and my life for it, her obligations to you —

Stay, Emmy — I conjure you ſtay — and as you value my peace of mind be for ever ſilent on this ſubject. — Miſs Marchmont has no obliga⯑tions to me; — ſince our acquaintance I have been the only perſon obliged; ſhe has given me a power of ſerving the worthieſt young creature in the world, and ſo far has laid me under the greateſt obligation.

Why my dear —

But ſuppoſe I could be mean enough to think an apartment in my houſe, a place in my chariot, a ſeat at my table, and a little annuity in caſe of my deceaſe, were obligations, when I continu⯑ally enjoy ſuch a happineſs as her friendſhip and her company. — Do you think they are obliga⯑tions which ſhould make a woman of her fine [34]ſenſe, reject the moſt amiable man exiſting, eſpe⯑cially in her circumſtances, where he has the ad⯑ditional recommendation of an elevated rank and an affluent fortune: — This wou'd be ex⯑acting intereſt with a witneſs for trifles, and, inſtead of having any little merit to claim from my behaviour to her, I ſhou'd be the moſt in⯑exorable of all uſurers.

Well but ſuppoſe Miſs Marchmont ſhou'd not like my Lord?

Not like him — why will you ſuppoſe an im⯑poſſibility?

But let us ſuppoſe it for argument ſake.

Why I cannot ſay but it would pleaſe me above all things: — For ſtill, Emmy, I am a wo⯑man, and feel this unexpected misfortune with the keeneſt ſenſibility: — It kills me to think of his being another's, but if he muſt, I wou'd ra⯑ther ſee him her's than any woman's in the uni⯑verſe. — But I'll talk no more upon this ſubject, 'till I acquaint her with his propoſal; and yet, Emmy, how ſevere a trial muſt I go through.

Ay, and you moſt richly deſerve it.

ACT III.

IN cloſe converſation with Sir Harry this half hour, at the remoteſt part of the garden. — Why, what am I to think of all this. — Does'nt ſhe know I have refuſed him: — Does'nt ſhe know herſelf engaged to Sidney? — There's ſomething mean and pitiful in ſuſpicion: — But ſtill there is ſomething that alarms me in this affair; and who knows how far the happineſs of my child may be at ſtake. — Women, after all, are ſtrange things; — they have more ſenſe than we generally allow them — but they have alſo more vanity. — 'Tis'nt for want of underſtanding they err, — but through an inſatiable love of ſlattery. — They know very well when they are committing a fault, but deſtruction wears ſo bewitching a form, that they rebel againſt the ſenſe of their own conviction — and never trouble themſelves about conſequences till they are actully undone. — But here they come, — I don't like this liſtening: — Yet the meanneſs of the action muſt for once be juſtified by the neceſſity.

Indeed, Sir Harry, you upbraid me very unjuſtly. — I feel the refuſal which my father has given you ſeverely. — Nevertheleſs I muſt not conſent to you propoſal. — An elopement wou'd, I am ſure, [36]break his heart, — and as he is wholly ignorant of my partiality for you. — I cannot accuſe him of unkindneſs.

So! ſo! ſo! ſo!

Why then, my dear Miſs Rivers, woud'nt you give me leave to mention the prepoſſeſſion with which you honour me to the old Gentleman?

The old gentleman —

Becauſe I was in hopes my father would have liſten'd to your application, without putting me to the painful neceſſity of acknowledging my ſentiments in your favour; and becauſe I fear'd that unleſs the application was approved, on ac⯑count of it's intrinſic generoſity, there was no⯑thing which cou'd poſſibly work upon the firmneſs of his temper.

Well ſaid daughter!

The firmneſs of your father's temper, madam! — The obſtinacy you ſhou'd ſay! — Sir Harry, as I live and breathe, there is'nt ſo obſtinate, ſo perverſe, and ſo peeviſh an old devil in all England.

Thank you, Mrs. Sally.

Sally, I inſiſt that when you ſpeak of my father, you always ſpeak of him with reſpect. — 'Tis'nt your knowledge of ſecrets which ſhall juſti⯑fy theſe freedoms; — for I wou'd rather every [37]thing was diſcovered this minute than hear him mention'd with ſo impudent a ſimiliarity by his ſervants.

Well Madam, I beg pardon; — but you know the Colonel, where he once determines is never to be alter'd; — ſo that call this ſteadineſs of temper by what name you pleaſe — 'tis likely to make you miſerable, unleſs you embrace the preſent opportunity, and go off, like a woman of ſpirit, with the object of your affections.

What a damn'd jade it is!

Indeed, my dear Miſs Rivers, Sally adviſes you like a true friend; — and I am ſatisfied your own good ſenſe muſt ſecretly argue on her ſide the queſtion. — The only alternative you have is to fly and be happy — or ſtay and be miſerable: — You have yourſelf acknowledg'd my ever adorable. —

O, damn your adorables!

I ſay, Madam, you have yourſelf acknow⯑ledg'd that there is no hope whatſoever of work⯑ing upon the Colonel's tenderneſs by acquainting him with our mutual affection: — On the contra⯑ry 'tis likely that had he the leaſt ſuſpicion of my being honour'd with your regard, he wou'd drag you inſtantly to his favourite Sidney, who is ſo utterly inſenſible of your merit, — and who, if he has a paſſion for any body, is, I am confident, devoted to Miſs Marchmont.

Why what a lye has the raſcal trump'd up here againſt poor Sidney?

Dear Sir Harry, what wou'd you have me do?

There! — Her dear Sir Harry!

My ever adorable Miſs Rivers —

No, ſhe can't ſtand theſe ever adorables.

This exceſs of filial affection is extremely amiable: — but it ought by no means to render you forgetful of what is due to yourſelf. — Con⯑ſider, Madam, if you have been treated with tenderneſs, you have repaid that tenderneſs with duty, and have ſo far diſcharged this mighty obligation!

A pretty method of ſettling accounts truly!

Don't, my dear Sir Harry, ſpeak in this neg⯑ligent manner of my father.

Kind creature!

From what I have urg'd you muſt ſee, Madam, that though you are ſo ready to ſacrifice your peace for your father, he ſets a greater value upon a trifing promiſe than upon your happineſs: — [39]Judge, therefore, whether his repoſe ſhould be dearer to you, than your own; and judge too whether to prevent the breach of his word, you ſhou'd vow eternal tenderneſs to a man you muſt eternally deteſt, and violate even your veracity to kill the object of your love?

Good heav'n, what ſhall I do?

Do — Madam — go off to be ſure.

I'll wring that huſſey's head off.

On my knees, Madam, let me beg you will conſult your own happineſs, and, in your own, the happineſs of your father.

Ay, now he kneels, 'tis all over.

The Colonel, Madam, has great ſenſibility, and the conſciouſneſs that he himſelf has been the cauſe of your unhappineſs will ſill him with endleſs regret: — Whereas, by eſcaping with me, the caſe will be utterly otherwiſe. — When he ſees we are inſeparably united, and hears with how unabating an aſſiduity I labour to merit the bleſſing of your hand, a little time will neceſſarily make us friends; and I have great hopes that before the end of three months we ſhall be the favourites of the whole family.

You'll be curſedly miſtaken though. —

But ſpeak, my dear Miſs Rivers — ſpeak and pronounce my fate.

Sir Harry you have convinced me. —

Ay, I knew he wou'd. —

And provided you here give me a ſolemn aſſu⯑rance, that the moment we are married, you will employ every poſſible method of effecting a recon⯑ciliation —

You conſent to go off with me the firſt oppor⯑tunity — a thouſand thanks, my Angel for this ge⯑nerous condeſcenſion, — and when —

There is no occaſion for profeſſions, Sir Harry, — I rely implicitly on your tenderneſs and your honour. —

Dear Madam, you have tranſported your poor Sally by this noble reſolution.

I dare ſay ſhe has — but I may chance to cool your tranſport in a horſe-pond. —

I am obliged to you, Sally, for the part you take in my affairs, and I purpoſe that you ſhall be the companion of my flight.

Shall I, Madam! — you are too good — and I am ſure I ſhoud'nt like to live in my old maſter's houſe, when you are out of the family.

Don't be uneaſy on that account.

Suffer me now, my dear Miſs Rivers, ſince you have been thus generouſly kind, to inform you that a coach and ſix will be ready punctually at twelve, at the ſide of the little paddock at the back of Lady Betty's garden. — There's a cloſe walk, you know from the garden to the place, and I'll meet you at the ſpot to conduct you to the coach.

Well, I am ſtrangely apprehenſive, — but I'll be there. — However, 'tis now high time for us to ſeparate, — my father's eyes are generally every where — and I am impatient ſince it is determin⯑ed — till our deſign is executed.

O, I don't in the leaſt doubt it. —

'Till twelve then farewell my charmer. —

You do what you will with me. —

You do what you will with me! Why what a fool, what an idiot was I — ever to ſuppoſe I had a daughter. — From the moment of her birth — to this curſed hour, I have labour'd, I have toil'd for happineſs, and now, when I fancy'd myſelf ſure of her tend'reſt affection, ſhe caſts me off for ever. — By and by, — I ſhall have this fellow at my feet, entreating my forgiveneſs, and the world will think me an unfeeling monſter, if I don't give him my eſtate as a reward for having blaſted my deareſt expectations. — The world [42]will think it ſtrange that I ſhou'd not promote his felicity, becauſe he has utterly deſtroyed mine; and my dutiful daughter will be ſurprized if the tender ties of nature are not ſtrictly regarded in my conduct, though ſhe has violated the moſt ſacred of them all in her own. — Death and hell! who wou'd be a father? — There is yet one way left, — and, if that fails, — why, I never had a daughter. —

Nay, now Sir I muſt tax you with unkind⯑neſs, — know ſomething that may poſſibly be of conſequence to my welfare, — and yet decline to tell me! — Is this conſiſtent with the uſual friend⯑ſhip which I have met with from Mr. Cecil?

Look'ye, Hortenſia, 'tis becauſe I ſet a very great value on your eſteem that I find this unwill⯑ingneſs to explain myſelf.

Indeed, Sir, you grow every moment more and more myſterious. —

Well then, Hortenſia, if I thought you woud'nt be offended — I —

I am ſure, Sir, you will never ſay any thing to give me a reaſonable cauſe of offence. — I know your kindneſs for me too well, Sir. —

Where is the need of Sirring me at every word? — I deſire you will lay aſide this ceremony, and [43]treat me with the ſame freedom you do every body elſe, — theſe Sirs are ſo cold, and ſo diſtant. —

Indeed Sir, I can't ſo eaſily lay aſide my reſpect as you imagine, for I have long conſidered you as a father.

As a father! — but that's a light in which I don't want to be conſider'd. — As a father in⯑deed, — O ſhe's likely to think me a proper huſ⯑band for her, I can ſee that already.

Why not Sir? — your years, — your friendſhip for my father, and your partiality for me, ſuffi⯑ciently juſtify the propriety of my epithet. —

My years! — Yes, I thought my years would be an invincible obſtacle.

But pray Sir, — to the buſineſs upon which you wanted to ſpeak with me: — You don't con⯑ſider I am all this time upon the rack of my ſex's curioſity. —

Why then, Hortenſia, — I will proceed to the buſineſs — and aſk you, in one word, — if you have any diſinclination to be married?

This is proceeding to buſineſs indeed Sir, — but ha — ha — ha! pray who have you deſigned me as a huſband?

Why what do you think of a man about my age?

Of your age Sir?

Yes, of my age. —

Why, Sir, what wou'd you adviſe me to think of him?

That is'nt the queſtion, for all your arch ſig⯑nificance of manner, Madam.

O I am ſure you wou'd never recommend him to me as a huſband Sir.

— So! — and why not pray?

Becauſe I am ſure you have too great a regard for me.

She gives me rare encouragement.

— But do you imagine it impoſſible for ſuch a huſband to love you very tenderly?

No — Sir, — But do you imagine it poſſible for me to love him very tenderly. — You ſee I have caught your own frankneſs Sir, — and an⯑ſwer with as much eaſe as you queſtion me.

How lucky it was that I did not open myſelf directly to her. — O! I ſhould have been moſt purely contemptible.

But pray, Sir, — have you, in reality, any meaning by theſe queſtions? — Is there actually any body who has ſpoken to you on my account?

Hortenſia, there is a fellow, a very fooliſh fel⯑low, for whom I have ſome value, that entertains the ſincereſt affection for you.

Then, indeed, Sir, I am very unhappy, — for I cannot encourage the addreſſes of any body.

No?

O, Sir! I had but two friends in the world, — yourſelf and Lady Betty, — and I am, with juſtice apprehenſive that neither will conſider me long with any degree of regard, — Lady Betty has a propoſal from Lord Winworth of the ſame nature with yours, in which I fear ſhe will ſtrongly in⯑tereſt herſelf, — and I muſt be under the painful neceſſity of diſobliging you both, from an utter impoſſibility of liſtening to either of your recom⯑mendations.

I tell you, Hortenſia, not to alarm yourſelf.

Dear Sir, I have always conſidered you with reverence, and it would make me inconceivably wretched if you imagin'd I was actuated upon this occaſion by any ridiculous ſingularity of ſenti⯑ment. — I wou'd do much to pleaſe you, — and I ſcarcely know what I ſhould refuſe to Lady Betty's [46]requeſt; — but, Sir, though it diſtreſſes me ex⯑ceedingly to diſcover it, — I muſt tell you I have not a heart to diſpoſe of.

How's this?

At the ſame time, I muſt however, tell you, that my affections are ſo plac'd as to make it wholly impoſſible for me ever to change my ſituation. — This acknowledgment of a prepoſſeſſion, Sir, may be inconſiſtent with the nice reſerve which is proper for my ſex, — but it is neceſſary to juſtify me in a caſe where my gratitude might be reaſonably ſuſ⯑pected, and when I recollect to whom it is made, I hope it will be doubly entitled to an excuſe.

Your candour, Hortenſia, needs no apology, — but as you have truſted me thus far with your ſecret, — may'nt I know why you can have no proſpect of being united to the object of your affections?

Becauſe, Sir, he is engaged to a moſt deſerv⯑ing young lady, and will be married to her in a few days: — In ſhort, Mr. Sidney is the Man for whom I entertain this ſecret partiality: — You ſee, therefore, that my partiality is hopeleſs, — but you ſee, at the ſame time, how utterly im⯑proper it would be for me to give a lifeleſs hand to another while he is entirely maſter of my af⯑fections. — It would be a meanneſs of which I think myſelf incapable, and I ſhould be quite un⯑worthy the honour of any deſerving hand, if, cir⯑cumſtanc'd in this manner, I could baſely ſtoop to accept it.

You intereſt me ſtrangely in your ſtory, Hor⯑tenſia: — But has Sidney any idea? —

None in the leaſt. — Before the match with Miſs Rivers was in agitation he made addreſſes to me, though privately; and, I muſt own, his ten⯑derneſs, join'd to his good qualities, ſoon gave me impreſſions in his favour. — But, Sir, I was a poor orphan, wholly dependant upon the generoſity of others, and he was a younger brother of a fa⯑mily, great in his birth, but contracted in his circumſtances. — What cou'd I do? — It was not in my power to make his fortune, — and I had too much pride, or too much affection, to think of deſtroying it.

You are a good girl, — a very good girl; — but ſurely if Lady Betty knows any thing of this matter there can be no danger of her recommend⯑ing Lord Winworth ſo earneſtly to your atten⯑tion. —

There, Sir, is my principle misfortune. — Lady Betty is, of all perſons, the leaſt proper to be made acquainted with it. — Her heart is in the marriage between Miſs Rivers and Mr. Sidney; and, had ſhe the leaſt idea of my ſenti⯑timents for him, or of his inclination for me, I am poſitive it would immediately fruſtrate the match. — On this account, Sir, I have carefully con⯑cealed the ſecret of my wiſhes, — and, on this account, I muſt ſtill continue to conceal it. — My heart ſhall break before it ſhall be worthleſs; [48]— and I ſhould deteſt myſelf for ever if I was ca⯑pable of eſtabliſhing my own peace at the expence of my benefactreſs's firſt wiſh, and the deſire of her whole family.

Zounds, what can be the matter with my eyes! —

My life was mark'd out early by calamity, — and the firſt light I beheld was purchas'd with the loſs of a mother. — The grave ſnatched away the beſt of fathers juſt as I came to know the value of ſuch a bleſſing; — and had'nt it been for the exalted goodneſs of others, I, who once expe⯑rienc'd the unſpeakable pleaſure of relieving the neceſſitous, had myſelf, perhaps, felt the imme⯑diate want of bread; — and ſhall I ungratefully ſting the boſom which has thus benevolently cheriſhed me? — Shall I baſely wound the peace of thoſe who have reſcu'd me from deſpair, — and ſtab at their tranquility in the very moment they honour me with protection? — O, Mr. Cecil! they deſerve every ſacrifice which I can make. — May the benignant hand of Providence ſhower endleſs happineſs upon their heads, and may the ſweets of a ſtill-encreaſing felicity be their portion, whatever becomes of me!

Hortenſia, — I can't ſtay with you. — My eyes are exceedingly painful of late; — what the devil can be the matter with them? — But, let me tell you before I go, that you ſhall be happy after all; — that you ſhall, I promiſe you; — but I ſee Lady Betty coming this way — and I cannot en⯑ter into explanations, — yet, do you hear, — [49]don't ſuppoſe I am angry with you for refuſing my friend, — don't ſuppoſe ſuch a thing, I charge you; — for he has too much pride to force him⯑ſelf upon any woman, and too much humanity to make any woman miſerable. — He is beſides a very fooliſh fellow, and it does'nt ſignify —

Well, my dear Hortenſia, I am come again to aſk you what you think of Lord Winworth. — We were interrupted before, — and I want, as ſoon as poſſible, for the reaſon I hinted, to know your real opinion of him.

You have long known my real opinion of him, Lady Betty. — You know I always thought him a very amiable man.

Do you think him an amiable man?

The whole world thinks as I do in this reſpect,— yet, —

Ay, ſhe loves him, 'tis plain; and there is no hope after this declaration —

— His Lord⯑ſhip merits your good opinion, I aſſure you Miſs Marchmont.

Yes, I ſee by this ceremony that ſhe is offended at my coolneſs to the propoſal.

I have hinted to you, Miſs Marchmont, that my Lord requeſted I would exert my little intereſt with you in his favour.

The little intereſt your Ladyſhip has with me, — the little intereſt.

Don't be diſpleaſed with me, my dear Horten⯑ſia, — I know my intereſt with you is conſiderable. —I know you love me.

I would ſacrifice my life for you, Lady Betty: For what had that life been without your gene⯑roſity — ?

If you love me, Hortenſia, never mention any thing of this nature.

You are too good. —

But to my Lord Winworth. — He has earneſtly requeſted I would become his advocate with you. — He has entirely got the better of his former attachments, and there can be no doubt of his making you an excellent huſband.

His Lordſhip does me infinite honour, — never⯑theleſs —

Nevertheleſs, what my dear?

I ſay, notwithſtanding, I think myſelf highly honour'd by his ſentiments in my favour; — 'tis utterly impoſſible for me to return his affection.

Impoſſible for you to return his affection!

I knew what an intereſt ſhe wou'd take in this affair.

And do you really ſay you can't give him a fa⯑vourable anſwer? — How fortunate!

I do, my dear Lady Betty,—I can honour, I can reverence him, — but I cannot feel that tenderneſs for his perſon which I imagine to be neceſſary both for his happineſs and my own.

Upon my word, my dear, you are extremely difficult in your choice, and if Lord Winworth is not capable of inſpiring you with tenderneſs — I don't know who is likely to ſucceed; for, in my opinion, there is not a man in England poſſeſ⯑ſed of more perſonal accompliſhments.

And yet, great as theſe accompliſhments are, my dear Lady Betty, they never excited your ten⯑neſs. —

Why, all this is very true, my dear, — but, though I felt no tenderneſs, — yet I — to be ſure, I — that is — I ſay, nevertheleſs. — This is be⯑yond my hopes.

She's diſtreſs'd that I decline the propoſal. — Her friendſhip for us both is generouſly warm. — and ſhe imagines I am equally inſenſible to his merit, and my own intereſt.

Well, my dear, I ſee your emotion — and I heartily beg your pardon for ſaying ſo much. — I ſhould be inexpreſſibly concern'd if I thought you made any ſacrifice on this occaſion to me. — My Lord, to be ſure, poſſeſſes a very high place in my eſteem, — but —

Dear Lady Betty, what can I do? — I ſee you are offended with me, — and yet —

I offended with you, my dear! — far from it; I commend your reſolution extremely, ſince my Lord is not a man to your taſte. — Offended with you! why ſhould I take the liberty to be offended with you? — A preſumption of that nature —

Indeed, Lady Betty, this affair makes me very unhappy.

Indeed, my dear, you talk very ſtrangely; — ſo far from being ſorry that you have refus'd my Lord — I am pleas'd, — infinitely pleas'd, — that is, ſince he was not agreeable to you. — Be ſatisfied your acceptance of him would have given me no pleaſure in the world, — I aſſure you it wou'd'nt, — on the contrary, as matters are ſituated, I wou'd'nt for the world have you give him the ſmalleſt encouragement.

I ſee ſhe's greatly diſappointed at my refuſal of an offer ſo highly to my advantage, — I ſee, moreover, ſhe's griev'd that his Lordſhip ſhould [53]meet with a ſecond repulſe, and from a quarter too, where the generoſity of his propoſal might be reaſonably expected to promiſe it ſucceſs. — How ſurpriz'd ſhe ſeem'd when I told her he cou'd'nt make an impreſſion on my heart, and how eagerly ſhe endeavour'd to convince me that ſhe was pleas'd with my conduct; not conſidering that this very eagerneſs was a manifeſt proof of her diſſatisfaction. — She is more intereſted in this affair than I even thought ſhe would be, — and I ſhould be completely miſerable if ſhe cou'd ſuſpect me of ingratitude. — As ſhe was ſo zealous for the match I was certainly to blame in declining it — 'Tis not yet, however, too late. — She has been a thouſand parents to me, — and I will not regard my own wiſhes, when they are any way oppoſite to her inclinations. — Poor Mr. Cecil! — Make me happy after all! — How? — Impoſſible! — for I was born to nothing but misfortune. —

ACT IV.

THUS far, my dear Emmy, there is a gleam of hope. — She determined, poſi⯑tively determined, againſt my Lord: — And even ſuſpected ſo little of my partiality for him, that ſhe appeared under the greateſt anxiety leſt I ſhould be offended with her refuſing him: — And yet, ſhall I own my folly to you?

Pray do, my dear; — you'll ſcarcely believe it, — but I have follies of my own ſometimes.

Why you quite ſurprize me!

'Tis very true for all that. — But to your buſineſs.

Why then, greatly as I dreaded her appro⯑bation of the propoſal, — I was ſecretly hurt at her inſenſibility to the perſonal attractions of his Lordſhip.

I don't doubt, it my dear. — We think all the world ſhould love what we are in love with ourſelves.

Your are right. — And though I was happy to find her reſolution ſo agreeable to my wiſhes, my pride was not a little piqu'd to find it poſſible for her to refuſe a man upon whom I had ſo ardently plac'd my own affection. — The ſurprize which I felt on this account threw a warmth into my expreſſions, and made the generous girl appre⯑henſive that I was offended with her.

Well, this is a ſtrange world we live in. — That a woman without a ſhilling ſhou'd refuſe an Earl with a fine perſon, and a great eſtate is the moſt ſurprizing affair I ever heard of. — Perhaps, Lady Betty, my Lord may take it in his head to go round the family: — If he ſhould, my turn is next, and I aſſure you, he ſhall meet with a very different reception.

Then you wou'd'nt be cruel, Emmy!

Why no! — Not very cruel. — I might give myſelf a few airs at firſt. — I might bluſh a little, and look down. — Wonder what he cou'd find in me to attract his attention: — Then pulling up my head, with a toſs of diſdain, — deſire him, if ever he ſpoke to me on that ſubject again, —

Well!

To have a licence in his pocket, — that's all. — I would make ſure work of it at once, and leave it to your elevated minds to deal in delicate abſur⯑dities. — But I have a little anecdote for you, [56]which proves beyond a doubt that you are as much as ever in poſſeſſion of Lord Winworth's affection.

What is it, my dear Emmy?

Why about an hour ago, my woman, it ſeems, and Arnold, my Lord's man, had a little con⯑verſation on this unexpected propoſal to Miſs Marchmont; in which Arnold ſaid, — ‘Never tell me of your Miſs Marchmonts, Mrs. Nelſon; — between ourſelves — but let it go no farther — Lady Betty is ſtill the woman, and a ſweet crea⯑ture ſhe is, that's the truth on't, but a little fantaſtical, and doesn't know her own mind —’

I'll aſſure you! — Why Mr. Arnold is a wit.

Well, but hear him out: — ‘Mrs. Nelſon, I know as much of my Lord's mind as any body; let him mary whom he pleaſes, he'll never be rightly happy but with her Ladyſhip; and I'd give a hundred guineas, with all my ſoul, that it cou'd be a match.’ — Theſe Nel⯑ſon tells me were his very words. — Arnold is an intelligent fellow, and much in the confidence of his maſter.

Indeed I always thought my Lord happy in ſo excellent a ſervant. — This intelligence is worth a world, my dear Emmy —

I have been looking for your Ladyſhip.

Have you any thing particular, my dear Hor⯑tenſia? — But why that gloom upon your fea⯑tures? — What gives you uneaſineſs, my ſweet girl? Speak, and make me happy by ſaying it is in my power to oblige you.

'Tis in your power, my dear Lady Betty, to oblige me highly — by forgiving the ungrateful diſregard which I juſt now ſhew'd to your recom⯑mendation of Lord Winworth.

Now will I be hang'd if ſhe does not undo every thing by a freſh ſtroke of delicacy.

My dear!

And by informing his Lordſhip that I am ready to pay a proper obedience to your commands.

O the devil take this elevation of ſentiment!

A proper obedience to my commands my dear! I really don't underſtand you.

I ſee how generouſly you are concerned, for fear I ſhou'd, upon this occaſion, offer violence to my inclination: — But, Lady Betty, I ſhou'd be infinitely more diſtreſs'd by the ſmalleſt act of ingratitude to you, than by any other misfor⯑tune. — I am therefore ready, in obedience to your wiſhes, to accept of his Lordſhip, and if I can't make him a fond wife, I will, at leaſt, make him a dutiful one.

Now her delicacy is willing to be miſerable.

How cou'd you ever imagine, my dear Horten⯑ſia, that your rejection of Lord Winworth cou'd poſſibly give me the ſmalleſt offence? — I have a great regard for his Lordſhip 'tis true, but I have a great regard for you alſo; and wou'd by no means wiſh to ſee his happineſs promoted at your ex⯑pence; — think of him therefore no more, and be aſſur'd you oblige me in an infinitely higher degree by refuſing than accepting him.

The more I ſee your Ladyſhip's tenderneſs and delicacy, the more I ſee it neceſſary to give an affirmative to Lord Winworth's propoſal. — Your generoſity muſt not get the better of my gratitude.

Did ever two fools plague one another ſo hear⯑tily with their delicacy and ſentiment? —

Dear Lady Betty, why don't you deal candidly with her? —

Her happineſs makes it neceſſary now, and I will.

Ay, there's ſome ſenſe in this. —

Your uncommon generoſity, my dear Horten⯑ſia, has led you into an error —

Not in the leaſt, Lady Betty.

Still, Hortenſia, you are running into very great miſtakes. — My eſteem for Lord Winworth, let me now tell you —

Ladies, your moſt obedient! — As I enter'd, Lady Betty, I heard you pronounce my name: — May I preſume to aſk, if you were talking to Miſs Marchmont on the buſineſs I took the liber⯑ty of communicating to you this morning?

Ay, now it's all over I ſee.

Why, to be candid, my Lord, I have men⯑tioned your propoſal —

Well, my dear Miſs Marchmont, and may I flatter myſelf that Lady Betty's interpoſition will induce you to be propitious to my hopes? — The heart now offer'd to you, Madam, is a grateful one, and will retain an eternal ſenſe of your good⯑neſs. — Speak, therefore, my dear Miſs March⯑mont, and kindly ſay you condeſcend to accept it.

So—here will be a comfortable piece of work.— I'll e'en retire and leave them to the conſequences of their ridiculous delicacy.

I know not what to ſay, my Lord, — you have honoured me, greatly honoured me — but Lady Betty will acquaint you with my determination.—

I acquaint him my dear—ſurely you are yourſelf the moſt proper to—I ſhall run diſtracted—

Indeed madam I can't ſpeak to his lordſhip on this ſubject.

And I aſſure you, Hortenſia, 'tis a ſubject upon which I do not chuſe to enter.

If you had a kind anſwer from Miſs March⯑mont, Lady Betty, I am ſure you would enter upon it readily: — But I ſee her reply very clear⯑ly in your reluctance to acquaint me with it.—

Why Madam will you force me to —

And why Hortenſia? — What am I going to ſay? —

Don't, my dear Ladies, ſuffer me to diſtreſs you any longer, — to your friendſhip, Madam, I am as much indebted

as if I had been ſucceſsful, — and I ſincerely wiſh Miſs Marchmont that happineſs with a more deſerving man, which I find it impoſſible for her to confer on me.

Now I have ſome hope.—

My Lord I entreat your ſtay. —

Don't call his Lordſhip back my dear, it will have an odd appearance.

He is come back. — And I muſt tell him what your unwillingneſs to influence my inclinations, makes you decline.

Your commands Madam.—

Now I am undone again!

I am in ſuch a ſituation my Lord that I can ſcarcely proceed — Lady Betty is cruelly kind to me — but as I know her wiſhes —

My wiſhes, Miſs Marchmont! — indeed my dear there is ſuch a miſtake.—

There is no miſtaking your Ladyſhip's good⯑neſs, you are fearful to direct my reſolution, and I ſhould be unkind to diſtreſs your friendſhip any longer.

You do diſtreſs me indeed Miſs Marchmont.

I am all expectation, Madam! —

I am compell'd by gratitude to both, and from affection to my dear Lady Betty, to break through the common forms impos'd on our ſex, and to declare that I have no will but her Ladyſhip's.

This is ſo provoking.

Ten thouſand thanks for this condeſcending goodneſs, Madam — a goodneſs which is additi⯑onally dear to me, as the reſult of your determi⯑nation is pronounc'd by your own lips.

Well, Lady Betty, I hope I have anſwer'd your wiſhes now.

You cannot conceive how ſenſibly I am touch'd with your behaviour my dear.

You feel too much for me Lady Betty. —

Why I do feel ſomething my dear — this un⯑expected event has fill'd my heart — and I am a little agitated. — But come, my dear, let us now go to the company.

How generouſly, Madam, do you intereſt your⯑ſelf for my welfare!

And for the welfare of all her friends:

Your Lordſhip is too good.—

But the buſineſs of her life is to promote the happineſs of others, and ſhe is conſtantly rewarded in the exerciſe of her own benignity.

You can't imagine how I am rewarded upon the preſent occaſion I aſſure your Lordſhip.

Dear Madam don't terrify yourſelf with ſuch gloomy reflections.

O, Sally, you can't conceive my diſtreſs in this critical ſituation. — An elopement even from a tyrannical father, has ſomething in it which muſt ſhock a delicate mind. — But when a woman flies from the protection of a parent, who merits the utmoſt return of her affection, ſhe muſt be inſen⯑ſible indeed, if ſhe does not feel the ſincereſt re⯑gret: — If he ſhoud'nt forgive me! —

Dear Madam he muſt forgive you — are'nt you his child. —

And therefore I ſhoud'nt diſoblige him. — I am half diſtracted, — and I almoſt repent the promiſe I gave Sir Harry — when I conſider how much my character may be leſſened by this ſtep, and recollect how it is likely to affect my unfor⯑tunate father. —

But I wonder where Sir Harry can be all this time. —

I wiſh he was come. —

Courage, Madam — I hear him coming.

It muſt be he, let's run and meet him. —

My father!

Yes, Theodora — your poor, abandoned, miſer⯑able father.

Oh! Sir! —

Little, Theodora, did I imagine I ſhou'd ever have cauſe to lament the hour of your birth, and leſs did I imagine when you arrived at an age to be perfectly acquainted with your duty, you wou'd throwevery ſentiment of duty off. — In what, my dear, has your unhappy father been culpable, that you cannot bear his ſociety any longer? — What has he done to forfeit either your eſteem, or your affection? — From the moment of your birth to this unfortunate hour, he has laboured to promote your happineſs. — But how has his ſolicitude on that account been rewarded? You now fly from theſe arms which have cheriſhed you with ſo much tenderneſs, when gratitude, generoſity and na⯑ture, ſhould have twin'd me round your heart. —

Dear Sir!

Look back, infatuated child, upon my whole conduct ſince your approach to maturity: Hav'n't I contracted my own enjoyments on purpoſe to enlarge yours, and watched your very looks to anticipate your inclinations? Have I ever, with the obſtinacy of other fathers, been partial in favour of any man to whom you made the ſlighteſt objection. — Or have I ever ſhewn [65]the leaſt deſign of forcing your wiſhes to my own humour or caprice? On the contrary has'nt the engagement I have enter'd into been carried on [...] ſeemingly with your own approbation. — And hav'n't you always appeared reconciled at leaſt to a marriage with Mr. Sidney?

I am ſo aſham'd of myſelf!

How then, Theodora, have I merited a treat⯑ment of this nature? You have underſtanding, my dear, though you want filial affection, and my arguments muſt have weight with your reaſon, however my tranquility may be the object of your contempt.—I lov'd you, Theodora, with the warm⯑eſt degree of paternal tenderneſs, and flatter'd myſelf the proofs I every day gave of that tender⯑neſs, had made my peace of mind a matter of ſome importance to my child. — But, alas! a pal⯑try compliment from a coxcomb undoes the whole labour of my life; and the daughter whom I looked upon as the ſupport of my declining years, betrays me in the unſuſpecting hour of ſecurity, and rewards with her perſon, the aſſaſſin who ſtabs me to the heart. —

Hear me dear Sir, hear me —

I do not come here, Theodora, to ſtop your flight, or put the ſmalleſt impediment in the way of your wiſhes. — Your perſon is your own, and I ſcorn to detain even my daughter by force, where ſhe is not bound to me by inclination. — Since therefore neither duty nor diſcretion, a regard for my peace, nor a ſolicitude for your own wel⯑fare, [66]are able to detain you, — go to this man, who has taught you to obliterate the ſentiments of nature, and gain'd a ready way to your heart, by expreſſing a contempt for your father. — Go to him boldly, my child, and laugh at the pangs which tear this unhappy boſom. — Be uniform⯑ly culpable, nor add the baſeneſs of a deſpica⯑ble ſlight to the unpardonable want of a filial affection.

I am the moſt miſerable creature in the world.—

One thing more, Theodora, — and then fare⯑well for ever. — Though you come here to throw off the affection of a child, I will not quit this place, before I diſcharge the duty of a parent, even to a romantic extravagance, and provide for your welfare, while you plunge me into the moſt poignant of all diſtreſs. — In the doating hours of paternal blandiſhment, I have often promiſed you a fortune of twenty thouſand pounds, when⯑ever you chang'd your ſituation. — This promiſe was indeed made when I thought you incapable either of ingratitude, or diſſimulation, — and when I fancied your perſon wou'd be given, where there was ſome reaſonable proſpect of your hap⯑pineſs. — But ſtill it was a promiſe, and ſhall be faithfully diſcharged. — Here then in this pocket⯑book are notes for that ſum.

— Take it — but never ſee me more. — Baniſh my name eter⯑nally from your remembrance;—and when a little time ſhall remove me from a world, which your conduct has rendered inſupportable, boaſt an additional title, my dear, to your huſband's re⯑gard, by having ſhorten'd the life of your mi⯑ſerable father. —

What, Madam, is he gone?

How could I be ſuch a monſter — ſuch an unnatural monſter as ever to think of leaving him. — But come, Sally, let us go into the houſe.—

Go into the houſe, Madam! — Why are'nt we to go off with Sir Harry? —

This inſenſible creature has been my confident too! — O I ſhall eternally deteſt myſelf. —

I beg a thouſand pardons, my dear Miſs Rivers, for detaining you. — An unforeſeen accident prevented me from being punctual, — but the carriage is now ready, and a few hours will whirl us to the ſummit of felicity. — My couſin Cecil is kindly here to aſſiſt us — and —

Sir Harry, I can never forſake my father. —

Madam!

By ſome accident he diſcovered our deſign, and came to this ſpot, while I was trembling with expectation of your appearance. —

Well, my dear creature? —

Here, in a melancholy but reſolute voice, he expatiated on the infamy of my intended ſlight, and mentioned my want of affection for him in terms that pierc'd my very ſoul: — Having done this, he took an abrupt leave, and, ſcorning to detain me by force, forſook me to the courſe of my own inclinations.

Well, my angel, and ſince he has left you to follow your own inclinations, you will not, ſurely, heſitate to —

Sir Harry, unlooſe my hand; — the univerſe wou'd'nt bribe me now to go off with you. — O, Sir Harry! if you regarded your own peace you wou'd ceaſe this importunity; — for is it poſſible that a woman can make a valuable wife, who has prov'd an unnatural daughter?

But conſider your own happineſs, my dear Miſs Rivers —

My own happineſs, Sir Harry! — What a wretch muſt the woman be, who can dream of happineſs while ſhe wounds the boſom of a father!

What a noble girl! — I ſhall love her myſelf for her ſenſe and her goodneſs.

She won't conſent, I know, Sir Harry, — ſo, if the coach is at hand, it will be the beſt way to carry her off directly.

Then, my dear Miſs Rivers, there is no hope.—

Sir Harry, I muſt not hear you. — This parting is a kind of death —

Part, Madam! — by all that's gracious we muſt not part. — My whole ſoul is unalterably fix'd upon you, — and ſince — neither tender⯑neſs for yourſelf, nor affection for me, perſuade you to the only meaſure which can promote our mu⯑tual felicity, you muſt forgive the deſpair that forces you from hence, and commits a momenta⯑ry diſreſpect to avoid a laſting unhappineſs.

Hear me, Sir Harry — I conjure you hear me!

Let me but remove you from this place, Madam, and I'll hear every thing. — Cecil, aſſiſt me.

O, Mr. Cecil, I rely upon your honour to ſave and protect me!

And it ſhall, Madam. — For ſhame kinſman, unhand the Lady!

Unhand her, what do you mean Cecil?

What do I mean, I mean to protect the Lady. — What ſhould a man of honour mean?

Dear Mr. Cecil don't let him follow me

I'll give her warning this moment, that's the ſhort and the long of it.

Mr. Cecil, this is no time for triſling, — Did'nt you come here to aſſiſt me in carrying the Lady off?

With her own inclinations, kinſman; — but as they are now on the other ſide of the queſtion, ſo am I too. — You muſt not follow her Sir Harry —

Zounds! but I will!

Zounds! but you ſhan't. — Look'ye, Harry, I came here to aſſiſt the purpoſes of a man of honour, not to abet the violence of a ruſſian; — your friends of the world, your faſhionable friends, may, if they pleaſe, ſupport one another's vices, but I am a friend only to the virtues of a man; and where I ſincerely eſteem him, I always endea⯑vour to make him honeſt in ſpite of his teeth.

An injury like this! —

Harry! — Harry! — don't advance: — I am not to be terrified, you know, from the ſupport of what is juſt; — and, though you may think it very brave to ſight in the defence of a bad action, it will do but little credit either to your underſtanding or your humanity.

Dear Cecil, there's no anſwering that. — Your Juſtice and your generoſity overpower me; — [71]You have reſtored me to myſelf. — It was mean, it was unmanly, it was infamous to think of uſing force. — But I was diſtracted; — nay, I am diſ⯑tracted now, and muſt entirely rely upon your aſſiſtance to recover her.

As far as I can act with honeſty, Harry, you may depend upon me; — but let me have no more violence, I beg of you.

Don't mention it, Cecil, — I am heartily aſham'd —

And I am heartily glad of it. —

Pray let us go to my houſe and conſult a little. — What a contemptible figure do I make! —

Why, pretty well, I think; but to be leſs ſo, put up your ſword, Harry —

She never can forgive me.

If ſhe does, ſhe will ſcarcely deſerve to be forgiven herſelf.

Don't, Cecil; 'tis ungenerous to be ſo hard upon me. — I own my faults, and you ſhould encourage me, for every coxcomb has not ſo much modeſty.

Why, ſo I will, Harry; for modeſty, I ſee, as yet, ſits upon you but very aukwardly.

ACT V.

I AM deeply ſenſible of Miſs Rivers's very great merit, Sir; — but —

But what, Sir, —

Hear me with temper, I beſeech you, Colonel.

Hear you with temper: — I don't know whe⯑ther I ſhall be able to hear you with temper; — but go on, Sir. —

Miſs Rivers, independent of her very affluent fortune, Colonel, has beauty and merit which would make her alliance a very great honour to the firſt family in the kingdom — But, notwith⯑ſtanding my admiration of her beauty, and my reverence for her merit, I find it utterly impoſſible to proſit either by her goodneſs, or your generoſity.

How is all this, Sir! do you decline a mar⯑riage with my daughter?

A marriage with Miſs Rivers, Sir, was once the object of my higheſt ambition, and, had I been honoured with her hand, I ſhould have ſtudied to ſhew my ſenſibility of a bleſſing ſo invaluble; — but, at that time, I did not ſup⯑poſe [73]my happineſs to be incompatible with her's. — I am now convinced that is ſo, and it becomes me much better to give up my own hopes, than to offer the ſmalleſt violence to her inclinations.

Death and hell, Sir! — what do you mean by this behaviour? — Shall I prefer your alliance to any man's in England? — Shall my daughter even expreſs a readineſs to marry you? — and ſhall you, after this, inſolently tell me you don't chooſe to accept her? —

Dear Colonel, you totally miſconceive my mo⯑tive, — and, I am ſure, upon reflexion, you will rather approve than condemn it — A man of common humanity, Sir, in a treaty of marriage, ſhould conſult the lady's wiſhes as well as his own, and, if he can't make her happy, he will ſcorn to make her miſerable.

Scorn to make her miſerable! — why the fel⯑low's mad, I believe — Does'nt the girl abſolute⯑ly conſent to have you? — Would you have her drag you to the altar by force? — Would you have her fall at your feet, and beg of you, with tears, to pity one of the fineſt women, with one of the beſt fortunes, in England?

Your vehemence, Sir, prevents you from con⯑ſidering this matter in a proper light. — Miſs Rivers is ſufficiently unhappy in loſing the man of her heart, but her diſtreſs muſt be greatly ag⯑gravated, if, in the moment ſhe is moſt keenly ſenſible of this loſs, ſhe is compelled to marry an⯑other. — Beſides, Colonel, I muſt have my ſeel⯑ings [74]too. — There is ſomething ſhocking in a union with a woman whoſe affections we know to be alienated; and 'tis difficult to ſay which is moſt entitled to contempt, he that ſtoops to accept of a pre-engaged mind, or he that puts up with a proſtituted perſon.

Mighty well, Sir, — mighty well; but let me tell you, Mr. Sidney, — that under this ſpecious appearance of generoſity I can eaſily ſee your your motive for this refuſal of my daughter, — let me tell you I can eaſily ſee your motive, Sir, — and, let me tell you, that the perſon who is in poſſeſſion of your affections ſhall no longer find an aſylum in this houſe.

Colonel, if I had not been always accuſtomed to reſpect you, — and if I did not even conſi⯑der this inſult as a kind of compliment, I don't know how I ſhould put up with it: as to your inſinuation, you muſt be more explicit before I can underſtand you.

Miſs Marchmont, — Sir. — Do you underſtand me now, Sir? If Miſs Marchmont had not been in the caſe my daughter had not received this in⯑ſult. — Sir Harry was right; and had not I been ridiculouſly beſotted with your hypocritical plau⯑ſibility I might have ſeen it ſooner, but your cou⯑ſin ſhall know of your behaviour, and then, Sir, you ſhall anſwer me as a man.

Miſs Marchmont, Colonel, is greatly above this illiberal reflexion; as for myſelf, I ſhall be always ready to juſtify an action which I know to [75]be right, though I ſhould be ſorry ever to meet you but in the character of a friend.

Well! — well! — well! — but it doesn't ſig⯑nify, — it doesn't ſignify, — it doesn't ſignify. — I won't put myſelf in a paſſion about it. I won't put myſelf in a paſſion about it. I'll tear the fel⯑low piece-meal. — Zounds! I don't know what I'll do.

Why this is better and better.

What a violent paſſion he's in.

This is the very thing I could wiſh — 'twill ad⯑vance a principal part of our project rarely — well is'nt Sidney a noble young fellow, and does'nt he richly deſerve the regard which my poor little girl entertains for him?

Why really I think he does — but how ſecret⯑ly my Lady Sentimental carried matters — O I always ſaid that your grave, reflecting, moralizing damſels — were a thouſand times more ſuſcept⯑ible of tender impreſſions than thoſe lively open hearted girls who talk away at random, and ſeem ready to run off with every man that happens to fall into their company.

I don't know, widow, but there may be ſome truth in this, you ſee at leaſt I have ſuch a good opinion of a madcap, that you are the firſt per⯑ſon I have made acquainted with the ſecret.

Well and hav'nt I returned the compliment by letting you into my deſign about Lady Betty and Lord Winworth?

What a ridiculous buſtle is there here about de⯑licacy and ſtuff—your people of refin'd ſentiments are the moſt troubleſome creatures in the world to deal with, and their friends muſt even commit a violence upon their nicety before they can con⯑deſcend to ſtudy their own happineſs: — But have you done as we concerted?

Yes, I have pretended to Lady Betty that my Lord deſires to ſpeak with her privately on buſi⯑neſs of the utmoſt importance; and I have told his Lordſhip that ſhe wants to ſee him, to diſcloſe a ſecret that muſt intirely break off the intended marriage with Miſs Marchmont.

What an aukward figure they muſt make, each imagining that the other has deſired the inter⯑view — and expecting every moment to be told ſomething of conſequence — but you have not given either the leaſt hint of Hortenſia's ſecret inclination for Sidney?

How could you poſſibly ſuppoſe ſuch a thing?

Well, well, to your part of the buſineſs then, while I find out the Colonel and try what I can do with him for my rattle-pated Sir Harry.

O never doubt my aſſiduity in an affair of this nature.

What can he want with me I wonder?—Speak with me again in private, and upon buſineſs of the utmoſt importance! he has ſpoken ſufficient⯑ly to me already upon his buſineſs of importance to make me miſerable for ever. — But the fault is my own, and I have nobody to blame but my⯑ſelf. — Bleſs me here he is.

Madam your moſt devoted, I come in obedi⯑ence to your commands to —

My commands my Lord?

Yes, Madam, your meſſage has alarm'd me prodigiouſly — and you cannot wonder if I am a little impatient for an explanation.

Impatient for an explanation, my Lord.

Yes, Madam, the affair is of the neareſt con⯑cern to my happineſs, and the ſooner you honour me with —

Honour you, with what my Lord?

My dear Lady Betty this reſerve is unkind, eſpecially as you know how uneaſy I muſt be till I hear from yourſelf—

Really my Lord I am quite aſtoniſhed — un⯑eaſy till you hear from myſelf — impatient for an explanation — I beg your Lordſhip will tell me what is the meaning of all this?

Surely, Madam, you cannot ſo ſuddenly change your kind intentions —

My kind intentions, my Lord!

I would not, Madam, be too preſuming, but, as I know your Ladyſhip's goodneſs, I flatter my⯑ſelf that —

Your Lordſhip is all a myſtery—I beg you will ſpeak out — for upon my word I don't under⯑ſtand theſe half ſentences. —

Why, Madam, Mrs. Harley has told me.

What has ſhe told you, my Lord?

She has told me of the ſecret, Madam, which you have to diſcloſe, that muſt entirely break off my marriage with Miſs Marchmont.

Has ſhe then betrayed my weakneſs? —

Madam, I hope you won't think your generous intentions in my favour a weakneſs, for be aſſur'd that the ſtudy of my whole life —

I did not think that Mrs. Harley could be ca⯑pable of ſuch an action; — but ſince ſhe has told you of the only circumſtance which I ever wiſh'd to be conceal'd, I cannot deny my partiality for your Lordſhip.

Madam —

This ſecret was truſted with her, and her alone; but though ſhe has ungenerouſly diſcover'd it, her end will ſtill be diſappointed. I acknowledge that I prize your Lordſhip above all the world; — but even to obtain you I will not be guilty of a baſeneſs, nor promote my own happineſs by any act of injuſtice to Miſs Marchmont.

I am the moſt unfortunate man in the world; — and does your Ladyſhip really honour me with any degree of a tender partiality?

This queſtion is needleſs, my Lord, after what Mrs. Harley has acquainted you with.

Mrs. Harley, Madam, has not acquainted me with particulars of any nature —

No!

No. — And happy as this diſcovery would have made me at any other time, it now diſtreſſes me be⯑yond expreſſion, ſince the engagements I have juſt enter'd into with Miſs Marchmont put it wholly out of my power to receive any benefit from the knowledge of your ſentiments. — O, Lady Betty, had you been generouſly candid when I ſolicited the bleſſing of your hand, how much had I been indebted to your goodneſs; but now, think what my ſituation is, when, in the moment I am ſenſible of your regard, I muſt give you up for ever.

Pray, Mr. Cecil, what is the meaning of this whimſical behaviour?

The nature of this conduct, Mrs. Harley, bears too ſtrong a reſemblance to a late diſingenuity, for me to wonder at.

What diſingenuity, my dear?

Why, pray, Madam, what ſecret had I to diſcloſe to his Lordſhip?

The ſecret which you have diſclos'd, my dear,—

I beg, my Lord, that we may'nt interrupt your heroics, ‘when, in the moment you are ſenſible [81]of her regard, — you muſt give her up for ever.’ — A very moving ſpeech, Mrs. Harley, —I am ſure it almoſt makes me cry to repeat it.

Mr. Cecil, liſtening is —

What are we going to have a quarrel? —

O, yes! your lover is a mere nobody without a little bloodſhed, two or three duels give a won⯑derful addition to his character.

Why, what is the meaning of all this?

You ſhall know in a moment, Madam, — ſo walk in, good people, — walk in, and ſee the moſt ſurpriſing pair of true lovers, who have too much ſenſe to be wiſe, and too much delicacy to be happy.

Walk in, — walk in.

O, Emmy! is this behaving like a friend?

Yes, and like a true friend, as you ſhall ſee preſently. —

My Lord, I give you joy, joy heartily. — We have been poſted for ſome time under the direc⯑tion of Marſhal Cecil, and General Harley, in the next room, who have acquainted us with every [82]thing; and I feel the ſincereſt ſatisfaction to think the perplexities of to-day have ſo fortunate a con⯑cluſion.

The perplexities of to-day are not yet con⯑cluded, Colonel.

O, Lady Betty, why wou'dn't you truſt me with your ſecret? I have been the innocent cauſe of great uneaſineſs to you, and yet my conduct en⯑tirely proceeded from the greatneſs of my affection.

I know it, my dear, — I know it well; — but were you to give up Lord Winworth this mo⯑ment — be aſſured that I wou'dn't accept of any ſacrifice made at the expence of your happineſs.

At the Expence of her happineſs! — O, is that all? — Come here maſter Soberſides [to Sidney] and come here, Madam Gravity [to Miſs March⯑mont] come here, I ſay, — I ſuppoſe, my Lord, I ſuppoſe, Lady Betty, that you already know from what very manly motives—Sidney, here, has declined the marriage with Miſs Rivers?

I do, and though I lament the impoſſibility of a relation to the Colonel's family, I cannot but ad⯑mire his behaviour on that occaſion.

And I think it extremely generous.

Come, Cecil, ſtand by a little, you ſhan't have the whole management of this diſcovery.

Did you ever ſee ſuch a woman!

Well, my Lord and Lady Betty, ſince we have agreed thus far, you muſt know that Mr. Sidney's behaviour has produced more good conſequences than you can imagine. — In the firſt place it has enabled Colonel Rivers, without a breach of his word, —

To give his daughter to my fooliſh kinſman.

You wont hold your tongue.

And, in the next place, it has enabled Mr. Sidney —

To marry Miſs Marchmont.

Ay, ſhe will have the laſt word. — For it ſeems that between theſe two turtles there has long ſub⯑ſiſted —

A very tender affection, —

The devil's in her tongue, — ſhe has the ſpeed of me.

What an unexpected felicity?

I am all amazement!

Well, well, my dear ſiſter,—no wondering about it, — at a more convenient time you ſhall know particulars; for the preſent let me tell you, that now I am cool, and that matters have been pro⯑perly [84]explain'd to me, I am not only ſatisfied but charm'd with Mr. Sidney's behaviour, though it has prevented the firſt wiſh of my heart; and I hope that his Lordſhip and you, by conſent⯑ing to his marriage with Miſs Marchmont, will im⯑mediately remove every impediment in the way of your own happineſs.

If my own happineſs was not to be promoted by ſuch a ſtep, I ſhould inſtantly give my conſent; — and therefore, my dear Miſs Marchmont, if I have Lady Betty's approbation, and your own con⯑currence, I here beſtow this hand upon as deſerv⯑ing a young man as any in the univerſe. — This is the only attonement I can make for the uneaſi⯑neſs I have given you, and if your happineſs is any way proportion'd to your merit, I need not wiſh you a greater ſhare of felicity.

What ſhall I ſay, my Lord?

Say nothing, Charles, for if you only knew how exquiſite a ſatisfaction I receive on this occaſion, you would rather envy my feelings than think yourſelf under an obligation; — and now, my dear Lady Betty, if I might preſume —

That I may not be cenſur'd any longer, I here declare my hand your Lordſhip's whenever you think proper to demand it; for I am now con⯑vinc'd the greateſt proof which a woman can give of her own worth, is to entertain an affection for a man of honour and underſtanding.

This goodneſs, Madam, is too great for ac⯑knowledgment.

And now, my dear Theodora, let me con⯑gratulate with you: I rejoice that your inclinations are conſulted in the moſt important circumſtance of your life, and I am ſure Sir Harry will not be wanting in gratitude for the partiality which you have ſhewn in his favour.

Dear Madam, you oblige me infinitely.

And as for me, Lady Betty, it is ſo much my inclination to deſerve the partiality with which Miſs Rivers has honour'd me, as well as to repay the goodneſs of her family, that I ſhall have little merit in my gratitude to either; I have been wild, I have been inconſiderate, but I hope I never was deſpicable; and I flatter myſelf I ſhan't be wanting in acknowledgment only to thoſe, who have laid me under the greateſt of all obligations.

Sir Harry, ſay no more: — My girl's repen⯑tance has been ſo noble, your Couſin Cecil's be⯑haviour has been ſo generous, and I believe you, after all, to be a man of ſuch principle; — that next to Sidney I don't know who I ſhou'd prefer to you for a ſon-in-law. — But you muſt think a little for the future, and remember that it is a poor excuſe for playing the fool, to be poſſeſſed of a good underſtanding.

Well, there ſeems but one thing remaining undone: — I juſt now took the liberty of exer⯑ciſing a father's right over Miſs Marchmont, by diſpoſing of her hand, 'tis now neceſſary for me—

Hold, my Lord — I gueſs what you are about, but you ſhan't monopolize generoſity I aſſure you: — I have a right to ſhew my friendſhip as well as your Lordſhip; ſo, after your kinſman's marriage, whatever you have a mind to do for him ſhall be equalled, on my part, for Miſs Marchmont; guinea for guinea, as far as you will, and let's ſee who tires firſt in going through with it.

A noble challange, and I accept it.

No, there's no bearing this —

Speak to them, Mr. Sidney, for I cannot —

I wiſh I had words to declare my ſenſe of this goodneſs.

I did'nt look upon myſelf as a very pitiful fellow; but I am ſtrangely ſunk in my own opi⯑nion ſince I have been a witneſs of this tranſaction.

Why what the devil is there in all this to won⯑der at? People of fortune often throw away thouſands at the hazard table to make themſelves miſerable, and nobody ever accuſes them of ge⯑neroſity.

Mr. Cecil is perfectly right, and he is the beſt manager of a fortune who is moſt attentive to the wants of the deſerving.

Why now all is as it ſhou'd be — all is as it ſhou'd be — this is the triumph of good ſenſe over delicacy. — I could cry for downright joy: — I wonder what ails me — this is all my doing!

No, — part of it is mine, — and I think it ex⯑tremely happy for your people of refin'd ſenti⯑ments to have friends with a little common under⯑ſtanding.

Siſter, I always thought you a woman of ſenſe.—

Yes, ſhe has been a long time intimate with me you know.

Well ſaid, ſauce-box.

If this ſtory was to be repreſented on the ſtage the poet would think it his duty to puniſh me for life, becauſe I was once culpable.

That wou'd be very wrong. The ſtage ſhou'd be a ſchool of morality; and the nobleſt of all leſſons is the forgiveneſs of injuries.

True, my Lord. — But the principal moral to be drawn from the tranſactions of to-day is, that thoſe who generouſly labour for the happineſs of others, will, ſooner or later, arrive at happineſs themſelves.