_The Lawn.--Seats placed.--Rustic Music.--Dancers are discovered as
ready to perform._
_SOLOMON and PETER enter, and seat themselves._
_A Dance, in which the Dancers pay their reverence to SOLOMON and
PETER as they pass. At the end, SOLOMON and PETER strut off before
the Dancers._
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.
_The Skirts of the Park and Lodge, &c. as before. The STRANGER is
discovered on a seat, reading._
_Enter FRANCIS._
_Fra._ Sir, sir, dinner is ready.
_Stra._ I want no dinner.
_Fra._ I've got something good.
_Stra._ Eat it yourself.
_Fra._ You are not hungry?
_Stra._ No. [_Rises._
_Fra._ Nor I. The heat takes away all appetite.
_Stra._ Yes.
_Fra._ I'll put it by; perhaps at night--
_Stra._ Perhaps.
_Fra._ Dear sir, dare I speak?
_Stra._ Speak.
_Fra._ You have done a noble action.
_Stra._ What?
_Fra._ You have saved a fellow creature's life.
_Stra._ Peace.
_Fra._ Do you know who he was?
_Stra._ No.
_Fra._ The only son of Count Wintersen.
_Stra._ Immaterial.
_Fra._ A gentleman, by report, worthy and benevolent as yourself.
_Stra._ [_Angry._] Silence! Dare you flatter me?
_Fra._ As I look to Heaven for mercy, I speak from my heart. When I
observe how you are doing good around you, how you are making every
individual's wants your own, and are yet yourself unhappy, alas! my
heart bleeds for you.
_Stra._ I thank you, Francis. I can only thank you. Yet share this
consolation with me:--my sufferings are unmerited.
_Fra._ My poor master!
_Stra._ Have you forgotten what the old man said this morning? "There is
another and a better world!" Oh, 'twas true. Then let us hope with
fervency, and yet endure with patience!--What's here?
_Enter CHARLOTTE, from the Park gate._
_Char._ I presume, sir, you are the strange gentleman that drew my young
master out of the water?--[_The STRANGER reads._] Or [_To FRANCIS._] are
you he? [_FRANCIS makes a wry face._] Are the creatures both dumb?
[_Looks at them by turns._] Surely, old Solomon has fixed two statues
here, by way of ornament; for of any use there is no sign. [_Approaches
FRANCIS._] No, this is alive, and breathes; yes, and moves its eyes.
[_Bawls in his ear._] Good friend!
_Fra._ I'm not deaf.
_Char._ No, nor dumb, I perceive at last.--Is yon lifeless thing your
master?
_Fra._ That honest silent gentleman is my master.
_Char._ The same that drew the young Count out of the water?
_Fra._ The same.
_Char._ [_To the STRANGER._] Sir, my master and mistress, the Count and
Countess, present their respectful compliments, and request the honour
of your company at a family supper this evening.
_Stra._ I shall not come.
_Char._ But you'll scarce send such an uncivil answer as this. The Count
is overpowered with gratitude. You saved his son's life.
_Stra._ I did it willingly.
_Char._ And won't accept of, "I thank you," in return?
_Stra._ No.
_Char._ You really are cruel, sir, I must tell you. There are three of
us ladies at the Castle, and we are all dying with curiosity to know who
you are. [_Exit STRANGER._] The master is crabbed enough, however. Let
me try what I can make of the man. Pray, sir-- [_FRANCIS turns his back
to her._] --The beginning promises little enough. Friend, why won't you
look at me.
_Fra._ I like to look at green trees better than green eyes.
_Char._ Green eyes, you monster! Who told you, that my eyes were green?
Let me tell you there have been sonnets made on my eyes, before now.
_Fra._ Glad to hear it.
_Char._ To the point then at once. What is your master?
_Fra._ A man.
_Char._ I surmised as much. But what's his name?
_Fra._ The same as his father's.
_Char._ Not unlikely;--and his father was--
_Fra._ Married.
_Char._ To whom?
_Fra._ To a woman.
_Char._ [_Enraged._] I'll tell you what; who your master is I see I
shall not learn, and I don't care; but I know what you are.
_Fra._ Well, what am I?
_Char._ A bear! [_Exit._
_Fra._ Thank you! Now to see how habit and example corrupt one's
manners. I am naturally the civilest spoken fellow in the world to the
pretty prattling rogues; yet, following my master's humour, I've rudely
driven this wench away. I must have a peep at her though.
[_Looking towards the Park gate._
_Enter STRANGER._
_Stra._ Is that woman gone?
_Fra._ Yes.
_Stra._ Francis!
_Fra._ Sir.
_Stra._ We must be gone too.
_Fra._ But whither?
_Stra._ I don't care.
_Fra._ I'll attend you.
_Stra._ To any place?
_Fra._ To death.
_Stra._ Heav'n grant it--to me, at least! There is peace.
_Fra._ Peace is every where. Let the storm rage without, if the heart be
but at rest. Yet I think we are very well where we are: the situation is
inviting; and nature lavish of her beauties, and of her bounties too.
_Stra._ But I am not a wild beast, to be stared at, and sent for as a
show. Is it fit I should be?
_Fra._ Another of your interpretations! That a man, the life of whose
only son you have saved, should invite you to his house, seems to me not
very unnatural.
_Stra._ I will not be invited to any house.
_Fra._ For once, methinks, you might submit. You'll not be asked a
second time.
_Stra._ Proud wretches! They believe the most essential service is
requited, if one may but have the honour of sitting at their table. Let
us begone.
_Fra._ Yet hold, sir! This bustle will soon be over. Used to the town,
the Count and his party will soon be tired of simple nature, and you
will again be freed from observation.
_Stra._ Not from your's.
_Fra._ This is too much. Do I deserve your doubts?
_Stra._ Am I in the wrong?
_Fra._ You are indeed!
_Stra._ Francis, my servant, you are my only friend.
_Fra._ That title makes amends for all.
_Stra._ But look, Francis; there are uniforms and gay dresses in the
walk again. No, I must be gone. Here I'll stay no longer.
_Fra._ Well then, I'll tie up my bundle.
_Stra._ The sooner the better! They come this way. Now must I shut
myself in my hovel, and lose this fine breeze. Nay, if they be your
highbred class of all, they may have impudence enough to walk into my
chamber. Francis, I shall lock the door.
[_Goes into the Lodge, locks the door, and
fastens the shutters._
_Fra._ And I'll be your centinel.
_Stra._ Very well.
_Fra._ Now should these people be as inquisitive as their maid, I must
summon my whole stock of impertinence. But their questions and my
answers need little study. They can learn nothing of the Stranger from
me; for the best of all possible reasons--I know nothing myself.
_Enter BARON and COUNTESS._
_Countess._ There is a strange face. The servant probably.
_Bar._ Friend, can we speak to your master?
_Fra._ No.
_Bar._ Only for a few minutes.
_Fra._ He has locked himself in his room.
_Countess._ Tell him a lady waits for him.
_Fra._ Then he's sure not to come.
_Countess._ Does he hate our sex?
_Fra._ He hates the whole human race, but woman particularly.
_Countess._ And why?
_Fra._ He may perhaps have been deceived.
_Countess._ This is not very courteous.
_Fra._ My master is not over courteous: but when he sees a chance of
saving a fellow creature's life, he'll attempt it at the hazard of his
own.
_Bar._ You are right. Now hear the reason of our visit. The wife and
brother-in-law of the man, whose child your master has saved, wish to
acknowledge their obligations to him.
_Fra._ That he dislikes. He only wishes to live unnoticed.
_Countess._ He appears to be unfortunate.
_Fra._ Appears!
_Countess._ An affair of honour, perhaps, or some unhappy attachment may
have--
_Fra._ They may.
_Countess._ Be this as it may, I wish to know who he is.
_Fra._ So do I.
_Countess._ What! don't you know him yourself?
_Fra._ Oh! I know him well enough. I mean his real self--His heart--his
soul--his worth--his honour!--Perhaps you think one knows a man, when
one is acquainted with his name and person.
_Countess._ 'Tis well said, friend; you please me much. And now I should
like to know you. Who are you?
_Fra._ Your humble servant. [_Exit._
_Countess._ This is affectation! A desire to appear singular! Every one
wishes to make himself distinguished. One sails round the world; another
creeps into a hovel.
_Bar._ And the man apes his master!
_Countess._ Come, brother, let us seek the Count. He and Mrs. Haller
turned into the lawn-- [_Going._
_Bar._ Stay. First a word or two, sister. I am in love.
_Countess._ For the hundreth time.
_Bar._ For the first time in my life.
_Countess._ I wish you joy.
_Bar._ Till now you have evaded my inquiries. Who is she? I beseech you,
sister, be serious. There is a time for all things.
_Countess._ Bless us! Why you look as if you were going to raise a
spirit. Don't fix your eyes so earnestly. Well, if I am to be serious, I
obey. I do not know who Mrs. Haller is, as I have already told you; but
what I do know of her, shall not be concealed from you. It may now be
three years ago, when, one evening, about twilight, a lady was
announced, who wished to speak to me in private. Mrs. Haller appeared
with all that grace and modesty, which have enchanted you. Her features,
at that moment, bore keener marks of the sorrow and confusion which have
since settled into gentle melancholy. She threw herself at my feet; and
besought me to save a wretch who was on the brink of despair. She told
me she had heard much of my benevolence, and offered herself as a
servant to attend me. I endeavoured to dive into the cause of her
sufferings, but in vain. She concealed her secret; yet opened to me more
and more each day a heart, chosen by virtue as her temple, and an
understanding improved by the most refined attainments. She no longer
remained my servant, but became my friend; and, by her own desire, has
ever since resided here. [_Curtseying._] Brother, I have done.
_Bar._ Too little to satisfy my curiosity; yet enough to make me realise
my project. Sister, lend me your aid--I would marry her.
_Countess._ You!
_Bar._ I.
_Countess._ Baron Steinfort.
_Bar._ For shame! If I understand you!
_Countess._ Not so harsh, and not so hasty! Those great sentiments of
contempt of inequality in rank are very fine in a romance; but we happen
not to be inhabitants of an ideal world. How could you introduce her to
the circle we live in? You surely would not attempt to present her to--
_Bar._ Object as you will--my answer is--_I love._ Sister, you see a man
before you, who--
_Countess._ Who wants a wife.
_Bar._ No; who has deliberately poised advantage against disadvantage;
domestic ease and comfort against the false gaieties of fashion. I can
withdraw into the country. I need no honours to make my tenants happy;
and my heart will teach me to make their happiness my own. With such a
wife as this, children who resemble her, and fortune enough to spread
comfort around me, what would the soul of man have more?
_Countess._ This is all vastly fine. I admire your plan; only you seem
to have forgotten one trifling circumstance.
_Bar._ And that is--
_Countess._ Whether Mrs. Haller will have you or not.
_Bar._ There, sister, I just want your assistance.--[_Seizing her
hand._] Good Henrietta!
_Countess._ Well, here's my hand. I'll do all I can for you. St!--We had
near been overheard. They are coming. Be patient and obedient.
_Enter COUNT, and MRS. HALLER, leaning on his arm._
_Count._ Upon my word, Mrs. Haller, you are a nimble walker: I should be
sorry to run a race with you.
_Mrs. H._ Custom, my lord. You need only take the same walk every day
for a month.
_Count._ Yes; if I wanted to resemble my greyhounds.--But what said the
Stranger?
_Countess._ He gave Charlotte a flat refusal; and you see his door, and
even his shutters, are closed against us.
_Count._ What an unaccountable being! But it won't do. I must show my
gratitude one way or other. Steinfort, we will take the ladies home, and
then you shall try once again to see him. You can talk to these oddities
better than I can.
_Bar._ If you wish it, with all my heart.
_Count._ Thank you, thank you. Come, ladies: come Mrs. Haller.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_A close walk in the Garden._
_Enter COUNTESS, and MRS. HALLER._
_Countess._ Well, Mrs. Haller, how do you like the man that just now
left us?
_Mrs. H._ Who?
_Countess._ My brother.
_Mrs. H._ He deserves to be your brother.
_Countess._ [_Curtseying._] Your most obedient! That shall be written in
my pocket-book.
_Mrs. H._ Without flattery then, madam, he appears to be most amiable.
_Countess._ Good!--And a handsome man?
_Mrs. H._ [_With indifference._] Oh, yes.
_Countess._ "Oh, yes!" It sounded almost like, "Oh, no!" But I must tell
you, that he looks upon you to be a handsome woman [_MRS. HALLER
smiles._] You make no reply to this?
_Mrs. H._ What shall I reply? Derision never fell from your lips; and I
am little calculated to support it.
_Countess._ As little as you are calculated to be the cause of it. No; I
was in earnest.--Now?
_Mrs. H._ You confuse me!--But why should I play the prude? I will own
there was a time, when I thought myself handsome. 'Tis past. Alas! the
enchanting beauties of a female countenance arise from peace of
mind--The look, which captivates an honourable man, must be reflected
from a noble soul.
_Countess._ Then Heaven grant my bosom may ever hold as pure a heart, as
now those eyes bear witness lives in yours!
_Mrs. H._ [_With sudden wildness._] Oh! Heaven forbid!
_Countess._ [_Astonished._] How!
_Mrs. H._ [_Checking her tears._] Spare me! I am a wretch. The
sufferings of three years can give me no claim to your friendship--No,
not even to your compassion. Oh! spare me! [_Going._
_Countess._ Stay, Mrs. Haller. For the first time, I beg your
confidence.--My brother loves you.
_Mrs. H._ [_Starting, and gazing full in the face of the COUNTESS._] For
mirth, too much--for earnest, too mournful!
_Countess._ I revere that modest blush. Discover to me who you are. You
risk nothing. Pour all your griefs into a sister's bosom. Am I not kind?
and can I not be silent?
_Mrs. H._ Alas! But a frank reliance on a generous mind is the greatest
sacrifice to be offered by true repentance. This sacrifice I will offer.
[_Hesitating._] Did you never hear--Pardon me--Did you never hear--Oh!
how shocking is it to unmask a deception, which alone has recommended me
to your regard! But it must be so.--Madam--Fie, Adelaide! does pride
become you? Did you never hear of the Countess Waldbourg?
_Countess._ I think I did hear, at the neighbouring court, of such a
creature. She plunged an honourable husband into misery. She ran away
with a villain.
_Mrs. H._ She did indeed. [_Falls at the feet of the COUNTESS._] Do not
cast me from you.
_Countess._ For Heaven's sake! You are--
_Mrs. H._ I am that wretch.
_Countess._ [_Turning from her with horror._] Ha!--Begone! [_Going. Her
heart draws her back._] Yet, she is unfortunate: she is unfriended! Her
image is repentance--Her life the proof--She has wept her fault in her
three years agony. Be still awhile, remorseless prejudice, and let the
genuine feelings of my soul avow--they do not truly honour virtue, who
can insult the erring heart that would return to her sanctuary.
[_Looking with sorrow on her._] Rise, I beseech you, rise! My husband
and my brother may surprise us. I promise to be silent.
[_Raising her._
_Mrs. H._ Yes, you will be silent--But, oh! conscience! conscience! thou
never wilt be silent. [_Clasping her hands._] Do not cast me from you.
_Countess._ Never! Your lonely life, your silent anguish and contrition,
may at length atone your crime. And never shall you want an asylum,
where your penitence may lament your loss. Your crime was youth and
inexperience; your heart never was, never could be concerned in it.
_Mrs. H._ Oh! spare me! My conscience never martyrs me so horribly, as
when I catch my base thoughts in search of an excuse! No, nothing can
palliate my guilt; and the only just consolation left me, is, to acquit
the man I wronged, and own I erred without a cause of fair complaint.
_Countess._ And this is the mark of true repentance. Alas! my friend,
when superior sense, recommended too by superior charms of person,
assail a young, though wedded--
_Mrs. H._ Ah! not even that mean excuse is left me. In all that merits
admiration, respect, and love, he was far, far beneath my husband. But
to attempt to account for my strange infatuation--I cannot bear it. I
thought my husband's manner grew colder to me. 'Tis true I knew, that
his expenses, and his confidence in deceitful friends, had embarrassed
his means, and clouded his spirits; yet I thought he denied me pleasures
and amusements still within our reach. My vanity was mortified! My
confidence not courted. The serpent tongue of my seducer promised every
thing. But never could such arguments avail, till, assisted by forged
letters, and the treachery of a servant, whom I most confided in, he
fixed my belief that my lord was false, and that all the coldness I
complained of was disgust to me, and love for another; all his home
retrenchments but the means of satisfying a rival's luxury. Maddened
with this conviction, (conviction it was, for artifice was most
ingenious in its proof,) I left my children--father--husband--to
follow--a villain.
_Countess._ But, with such a heart, my friend could not remain long in
her delusion?
_Mrs. H._ Long enough to make sufficient penitence impossible. 'Tis true
that in a few weeks the delirium was at an end. Oh, what were my
sensations when the mist dispersed before my eyes? I called for my
husband, but in vain!--I listened for the prattle of my children, but in
vain!
_Countess._ [_Embracing her._] Here, here, on this bosom only shall your
future tears be shed; and may I, dear sufferer, make you again familiar
with hope!
_Mrs. H._ Oh! impossible!
_Countess._ Have you never heard of your children?
_Mrs. H._ Never.
_Countess._ We must endeavour to gain some account of them. We
must--Hold! my husband and my brother! Oh, my poor brother! I had quite
forgotten him. Quick, dear Mrs. Haller, wipe your eyes. Let us meet
them.
_Mrs. H._ Madam, I'll follow. Allow me a moment to compose
myself.--[_Exit COUNTESS._] I pause!--Oh! yes--to compose myself!
[_Ironically._] She little thinks it is but to gain one solitary moment
to vent my soul's remorse. Once the purpose of my unsettled mind was
self-destruction; Heaven knows how I have sued for hope and resignation.
I did trust my prayers were heard--Oh! spare me further trial! I feel, I
feel, my heart and brain can bear no more. [_Exit._
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.
_The Skirts of the Park, Lodge, &c. as before.--A Table, spread
with Fruits, &c._
_FRANCIS discovered placing the supper._
_Fra._ I know he loves to have his early supper in the fresh air; and,
while he sups, not that I believe any thing can amuse him, yet I will
try my little Savoyards' pretty voices. I have heard him speak as if he
had loved music. [_Music without._] Oh, here they are.
_Enter ANNETTE and CLAUDINE, playing on their guitars._
Ann. _To welcome mirth and harmless glee,_
_We rambling minstrels, blythe and free,_
_With song the laughing hours beguile,_
_And wear a never-fading smile:_
_Where'er we roam_
_We find a home,_
_And greeting, to reward our toil._
Clau. _No anxious griefs disturb our rest,_
_Nor busy cares annoy our breast;_
_Fearless we sink in soft repose,_
_While night her sable mantle throws._
_With grateful lay,_
_Hail rising day,_
_That rosy health and peace bestows._
_During the Duet, the STRANGER looks from the Lodge window, and at
the conclusion he comes out._
_Stra._ What mummery is this?
_Fra._ I hoped it might amuse you, sir.
_Stra._ Amuse _me_--fool!
_Fra._ Well then, I wished to amuse myself a little. I don't think my
recreations are so very numerous.
_Stra._ That's true, my poor fellow; indeed they are not. Let them go
on.--I'll listen.
_Fra._ But to please you, poor master, I fear it must be a sadder
strain. Annette, have you none but these cheerful songs?
_Ann._ O, plenty. If you are dolefully given we can be as sad as night.
I'll sing you an air Mrs. Haller taught me the first year she came to
the Castle.
_Fra._ Mrs. Haller! I should like to hear that.
Ann. _I have a silent sorrow here,_
_A grief I'll ne'er impart;_
_It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,_
_But it consumes my heart;_
_This cherish'd woe, this lov'd despair,_
_My lot for ever be,_
_So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear_
_Be never known by thee!_
_And when pale characters of death_
_Shall mark this alter'd cheek,_
_When my poor wasted trembling breath_
_My life's last hope would speak;_
_I shall not raise my eyes to Heav'n,_
_Nor mercy ask for me,_
_My soul despairs to be forgiv'n,_
_Unpardon'd, love, by thee._
_Stra._ [_Surprised and moved._] Oh! I have heard that air before, but
'twas with other words. Francis, share our supper with your friends--I
need none. [_Enters the Lodge._
_Fra._ So I feared. Well, my pretty favourites, here are refreshments.
So, disturbed again. Now will this gentleman call for more music, and
make my master mad. Return when you observe this man is gone.--[_Exeunt
ANNETTE and CLAUDINE.--FRANCIS sits and eats._]--I was in hopes, that I
might at least eat my supper peaceably in the open air; but they follow
at our heels like blood-hounds.
_Enter BARON._
_Bar._ My good friend, I must speak to your master.
_Fra._ Can't serve you.
_Bar._ Why not?
_Fra._ It's forbidden.
_Bar._ [_Offers money._] There! announce me.
_Fra._ Want no money.
_Bar._ Well, only announce me then.
_Fra._ I will announce you, sir; but it won't avail! I shall be abused,
and you rejected. However, we can but try. [_Going._
_Bar._ I only ask half a minute. [_FRANCIS goes into the Lodge._] But
when he comes, how am I to treat him? I never encountered a misanthrope
before. I have heard of instructions as to conduct in society; but how I
am to behave towards a being who loathes the whole world, and his own
existence, I have never learned.
_Enter the STRANGER._
_Stra._ Now; what's your will?
_Bar._ I beg pardon, sir, for--[_Suddenly recognizing him._] Charles!
_Stra._ Steinfort! [_They embrace._
_Bar._ Is it really you, my dear friend?
_Stra._ It is.
_Bar._ Merciful Heavens! How you are altered!
_Stra._ The hand of misery lies heavy on me.--But how came you here?
What want you?
_Bar._ Strange! Here was I ruminating how to address this mysterious
recluse: he appears, and proves to be my old and dearest friend.
_Stra._ Then you were not in search of me, nor knew that I lived here?
_Bar._ As little as I know who lives on the summit of Caucasus. You this
morning saved the life of my brother-in-law's only son: a grateful
family wishes to behold you in its circle. You refused my sister's
messenger; therefore, to give more weight to the invitation, I was
deputed to be the bearer of it. And thus has fortune restored to me a
friend, whom my heart has so long missed, and whom my heart just now so
much requires.
_Stra._ Yes, I am your friend; your sincere friend. You are a true man;
an uncommon man. Towards you my heart is still the same. But if this
assurance be of any value to you--go--leave me--and return no more.
_Bar._ Stay! All that I see and hear of you is inexplicable. 'Tis you;
but these, alas! are not the features which once enchanted every female
bosom, beamed gaiety through all society, and won you friends before
your lips were opened! Why do you avert your face? Is the sight of a
friend become hateful? Or, do you fear, that I should read in your eye
what passes in your soul? Where is that open look of fire, which at once
penetrated into every heart, and revealed your own?
_Stra._ [_With asperity._] My look penetrate into every heart!--Ha! ha!
ha!
_Bar._ Oh, Heavens! Rather may I never hear you laugh than in such a
tone!--For Heaven's sake tell me, Charles! tell me, I conjure you, what
has happened to you?
_Stra._ Things that happen every day; occurrences heard of in every
street. Steinfort, if I am not to hate you, ask me not another question.
If I am to love you, leave me.
_Bar._ Oh, Charles! awake the faded ideas of past joys. Feel, that a
friend is near. Recollect the days we passed in Hungary, when we
wandered arm in arm upon the banks of the Danube, while nature opened
our hearts, and made us enamoured of benevolence and friendship. In
those blessed moments you gave me this seal as a pledge of your regard.
Do you remember it?
_Stra._ Yes.
_Bar._ Am I since that time become less worthy of your confidence?
_Stra._ No!
_Bar._ Charles! it grieves me that I am thus compelled to enforce my
rights upon you. Do you know this scar?
_Stra._ Comrade! Friend! It received and resisted the stroke aimed at
my life. I have not forgotten it. Alas! you knew not what a present you
then made me.
_Bar._ Speak then, I beseech you.
_Stra._ You cannot help me.
_Bar._ Then I can mourn with you.
_Stra._ That I hate. Besides, I cannot weep.
_Bar._ Then give me words instead of tears. Both relieve the heart.
_Stra._ Relieve the heart! My heart is like a close-shut sepulchre. Let
what is within it, moulder and decay.--Why, why open the wretched
charnel-house to spread a pestilence around?
_Bar._ How horrid are your looks! For shame! A man like you thus to
crouch beneath the chance of fortune!
_Stra._ Steinfort! I did think, that the opinion of all mankind was
alike indifferent to me; but I feel that it is not so. My friend, you
shall not quit me without learning how I have been robbed of every joy
which life afforded. Listen: much misery may be contained in a few
words. Attracted by my native country, I quitted you and the service.
What pleasing pictures did I draw of a life employed in improving
society, and diffusing happiness! I fixed on Cassel to be my abode. All
went on admirably. I found friends. At length, too, I found a wife; a
lovely, innocent creature, scarce sixteen years of age. Oh! how I loved
her! She bore me a son and a daughter. Both were endowed by nature with
the beauty of their mother. Ask me not how I loved my wife and children!
Yes, then, then I was really happy. [_Wiping his eyes._] Ha! a tear! I
could not have believed it. Welcome, old friends! 'Tis long since we
have known each other. Well, my story is nearly ended. One of my
friends, for whom I had become engaged, treacherously lost me more than
half my fortune. This hurt me. I was obliged to retrench my expenses.
Contentment needs but little. I forgave him. Another friend--a villain!
to whom I was attached heart and soul; whom I had assisted with my
means, and promoted by my interest, this fiend! seduced my wife, and
bore her from me. Tell me, sir, is this enough to justify my hatred of
mankind, and palliate my seclusion from the
world?--Kings--laws--tyranny--or guilt can but imprison me, or kill me.
But, O God! O God! Oh! what are chains or death compared to the tortures
of a deceived yet doting husband!
_Bar._ To lament the loss of a faithless wife is madness.
_Stra._ Call it what you please--say what you please--I love her still.
_Bar._ And where is she?
_Stra._ I know not, nor do I wish to know.
_Bar._ And your children?
_Stra._ I left them at a small town hard by.
_Bar._ But why did you not keep your children with you? They would have
amused you in many a dreary hour.
_Stra._ Amused me! Oh, yes! while their likeness to their mother would
every hour remind me of my past happiness! No. For three years I have
never seen them. I hate that any human creature should be near me, young
or old! Had not ridiculous habits made a servant necessary, I should
long since have discharged him; though he is not the worst among the
bad.
_Bar._ Such too often are the consequences of great alliances.
Therefore, Charles, I have resolved to take a wife from a lower rank of
life.
_Stra._ You marry!--Ha! ha! ha!
_Bar._ You shall see her. She is in the house where you are expected.
Come with me.
_Stra._ What! I mix again with the world!
_Bar._ To do a generous action without requiring thanks is noble and
praise-worthy. But so obstinately to avoid those thanks, as to make the
kindness a burden, is affectation.
_Stra._ Leave me! leave me! Every one tries to form a circle, of which
he may be the centre. As long as there remains a bird in these woods to
greet the rising sun with its melody, I shall court no other society.
_Bar._ Do as you please to-morrow; but give me your company this
evening.
_Stra._ [_Resolutely._] No!
_Bar._ Not though it were in your power, by this single visit, to secure
the happiness of your friend for life?
_Stra._ [_Starting._] Ha! then I must--But how?--
_Bar._ You shall sue in my behalf to Mrs. Haller--You have the talent of
persuasion.
_Stra._ I! my dear Steinfort!
_Bar._ The happiness or misery of your friend depends upon it. I'll
contrive that you shall speak to her alone. Will you?
_Stra._ I will; but upon one condition.
_Bar._ Name it.
_Stra._ That you allow me to be gone to-morrow, and not endeavour to
detain me.
_Bar._ Go! Whither?
_Stra._ No matter! Promise this, or I will not come.
_Bar._ Well, I do promise. Come.
_Stra._ I have directions to give my servant.
_Bar._ In half an hour then we shall expect you. Remember, you have
given your word.
_Stra._ I have. [_Exit BARON.--The STRANGER walks up and down,
thoughtful and melancholy._]--Francis!
_Enter FRANCIS._
_Fra._ Sir!
_Stra._ Why are you out of the way?
_Fran._ Sir, I came when I heard you call.
_Stra._ I shall leave this place to-morrow.
_Fra._ With all my heart.
_Stra._ Perhaps to go into another land.
_Fra._ With all my heart again.
_Stra._ Perhaps into another quarter of the globe.
_Fra._ With all my heart still. Into which quarter?
_Stra._ Wherever Heaven directs! Away! away! from Europe! From this
cultivated moral lazaret! Do you hear, Francis? To-morrow early.
_Fra._ Very well. [_Going._
_Stra._ Come here, come here first, I have an errand for you. Hire that
carriage in the village; drive to the town hard by; you may be back by
sun-set. I shall give you a letter to a widow who lives there. With her
you will find two children. They are mine.
_Fra._ [_Astonished._] Your children, sir!
_Stra._ Take them, and bring them hither.
_Fra._ Your children, sir!
_Stra._ Yes, mine! Is it so very inconceivable?
_Fra._ That I should have been three years in your service, and never
have heard them mentioned, is somewhat strange.
_Stra._ Pshaw!
_Fra._ You have been married then?
_Stra._ Go, and prepare for our journey.
_Fra._ That I can do in five minutes. [_Going._
_Stra._ I shall come and write the letter directly.
_Fra._ Very well, sir. [_Exit._
_Stra._ Yes, I'll take them with me. I'll accustom myself to the sight
of them. The innocents! they shall not be poisoned by the refinements of
society. Rather let them hunt their daily sustenance upon some desert
island with their bow and arrow; or creep, like torpid Hottentots, into
a corner, and stare at each other. Better to do nothing than to do evil.
Fool that I was, to be prevailed upon once more to exhibit myself among
these apes! What a ridiculous figure shall I be! and in the capacity of
a suitor too! Pshaw! he cannot be serious! 'Tis but a friendly artifice
to draw me from my solitude. Why did I promise him? Yes, my sufferings
have been many; and, to oblige a friend, why should I hesitate to add
another painful hour to the wretched calendar of my life! I'll go. I'll
go. [_Exit._
SCENE II.
_The Antichamber._
_Enter CHARLOTTE._
_Char._ No, indeed, my lady! If you chuse to bury yourself in the
country, I shall take my leave. I am not calculated for a country life.
And, to sum up all, when I think of this Mrs. Haller--
_Enter SOLOMON._
_Sol._ [_Overhearing her last words._] What of Mrs. Haller, my sweet
Miss?
_Char._ Why, Mr. Solomon, who is Mrs. Haller? You know every thing; you
hear every thing.
_Sol._ I have received no letters from any part of Europe on the
subject, Miss.
_Char._ But who is to blame? The Count and Countess. She dines with
them; and at this very moment is drinking tea with them. Is this proper?
_Sol._ By no means.
_Char._ Shouldn't a Count and a Countess, in all their actions, show a
certain degree of pride and pomposity?
_Sol._ To be sure! To be sure they should!
_Char._ No, I won't submit to it. I'll tell her ladyship, when I dress
her to-morrow, that either Mrs. Haller or I must quit the house.
_Sol._ [_Seeing the BARON._] St!
_Enter BARON._
_Bar._ Didn't I hear Mrs. Haller's name here?
_Sol._ [_Confused._] Why--yes--we--we--
_Bar._ Charlotte, tell my sister I wish to see her as soon as the
tea-table is removed.
_Char._ [_Aside to SOLOMON._] Either she or I go, that I'm determined.
[_Exit._
_Bar._ May I ask what it was you were saying?
_Sol._ Why, please your Honourable Lordship, we were talking here and
there--this and that--
_Bar._ I almost begin to suspect some secret.
_Sol._ Secret! Heaven forbid! Mercy on us! No! I should have had letters
on the subject if there had been a secret.
_Bar._ Well then, since it was no secret, I presume I may know your
conversation.
_Sol._ You do us great honour, my lord. Why, then, at first, we were
making a few common-place observations. Miss Charlotte remarked that we
had all our faults. I said, "Yes." Soon after I remarked that the best
persons in the world were not without their weaknesses. She said, "Yes."
_Bar._ If you referred to Mrs. Haller's faults and weaknesses, I am
desirous to hear more.
_Sol._ Sure enough, sir, Mrs. Haller is an excellent woman; but she's
not an angel for all that. I am an old faithful servant to his
Excellency the Count, and therefore it is my duty to speak, when any
thing is done disadvantageous to his interest.
_Bar._ Well!
_Sol._ For instance, now; his Excellency may think he has at least some
score of dozens of the old six-and-twenty hock. Mercy on us! there are
not ten dozen bottles left; and not a drop has gone down my throat, I'll
swear.
_Bar._ [_Smiling._] Mrs. Haller has not drank it, I suppose?
_Sol._ Not she herself, for she never drinks wine. But if any body be
ill in the village, any poor woman lying-in, away goes a bottle of the
six-and-twenty! Innumerable are the times that I've reproved her; but
she always answers me snappishly, that she will be responsible for it.
_Bar._ So will I, Mr. Solomon.
_Sol._ Oh! with all my heart, your Honourable Lordship. It makes no
difference to me. I had the care of the cellar twenty years, and can
safely take my oath, that I never gave the poor a single drop in the
whole course of my trust.
_Bar._ How extraordinary is this woman!
_Sol._ Extraordinary! One can make nothing of her. To-day, the vicar's
wife is not good enough for her. To-morrow, you may see her sitting with
all the women of the village. To be sure she and I agree pretty well;
for, between me and your Honourable Lordship, she has cast an eye upon
my son Peter.
_Bar._ Has she?
_Sol._ Yes--Peter's no fool, I assure you. The schoolmaster is teaching
him to write. Would your Honourable Lordship please to see a specimen;
I'll go for his copy-book. He makes his pothooks capitally.
_Bar._ Another time, another time. Good bye for the present, Mr.
Solomon. [_SOLOMON bows, without attempting to go._] Good day, Mr.
Solomon.
_Sol._ [_Not understanding the hint._] Your Honourable Lordship's most
obedient servant.
_Bar._ Mr. Solomon I wish to be alone.
_Sol._ As your lordship commands. If the time should seem long in my
absence, and your lordship wishes to hear the newest news from the seat
of war, you need only send for old Solomon. I have letters from Leghorn,
Cape Horn, and every known part of the habitable globe. [_Exit._
_Bar._ Tedious old fool! Yet hold. Did he not speak in praise of Mrs.
Haller? Pardoned be his rage for news and politics.
_Enter COUNTESS._
Well, sister, have you spoken to her?
_Countess._ I have: and if you do not steer for another haven, you will
be doomed to drive upon the ocean for ever.
_Bar._ Is she married?
_Countess._ I don't know.
_Bar._ Is she of a good family?
_Countess._ I can't tell.
_Bar._ Does she dislike me?
_Countess._ Excuse my making a reply.
_Bar._ I thank you for your sisterly affection, and the explicitness of
your communications. Luckily, I placed little reliance on either; and
have found a friend, who will save your ladyship all further trouble.
_Countess._ A friend!
_Bar._ Yes. The Stranger who saved your son's life this morning proves
to be my intimate friend.
_Countess._ What's his name?
_Bar._ I don't know.
_Countess._ Is he of a good family?
_Bar._ I can't tell.
_Countess._ Will he come hither?
_Bar._ Excuse my making a reply.
_Countess._ Well, the retort is fair--but insufferable.
_Bar._ You can't object to the _Da Capo_ of your own composition,
_Enter COUNT and MRS. HALLER._
_Count._ Zounds! do you think I am Xenocrates; or like the poor sultan
with marble legs? There you leave me _tête-a-tête_ with Mrs. Haller, as
if my heart were a mere flint. So you prevailed, brother. The Stranger
will come then, it seems.
_Bar._ I expect him every minute.
_Count._ I'm glad to hear it. One companion more, however. In the
country we never can have too many.
_Bar._ This gentleman will not exactly be an addition to your circle,
for he leaves this place tomorrow.
_Count._ But he won't, I think. Now, Lady Wintersen, summon all your
charms. There is no art in conquering us poor devils; but this strange
man, who does not care a doit for you all together, is worth your
efforts. Try your skill. I shan't be jealous.
_Countess._ I allow the conquest to be worth the trouble. But what Mrs.
Haller has not been able to affect in three months, ought not to be
attempted by me.
_Mrs. H._ [_Jocosely._] Oh, yes, madam. He has given me no opportunity
of trying the force of my charms, for I have never once happened to see
him.
_Count._ Then he's a blockhead; and you an idler.
_Sol._ [_Without._] This way, sir! This way!
_Enter SOLOMON._
_Sol._ The Stranger begs leave to have the honour--
_Count._ Welcome! Welcome. [_Exit SOLOMON._
[_Turns to meet the STRANGER, whom he
conducts in by the hand._]
My dear sir--Lady Wintersen--Mrs. Haller--
[_MRS. HALLER, as soon as she sees the
STRANGER, shrieks, and swoons in the
arms of the BARON. The STRANGER casts a
look at her, and struck with
astonishment and horror, rushes out of
the room. The BARON and COUNTESS bear
MRS. HALLER off; COUNT following, in
great surprise._]
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.
_The Antichamber._
_Enter BARON._
_Bar._ Oh! deceitful hope! Thou phantom of future happiness! To thee
have I stretched out my arms, and thou hast vanished into air! Wretched
Steinfort! The mystery is solved. She is the wife of my friend! I cannot
myself be happy; but I may, perhaps, be able to reunite two lovely
souls, whom cruel fate has severed. Ha! they are here. I must propose it
instantly.
_Enter COUNTESS and MRS. HALLER._
_Countess._ Into the garden, my dear friend! Into the air!
_Mrs. H._ I am quite well. Do not alarm yourselves on my account.
_Bar._ Madam, pardon my intrusion; but to lose a moment may be fatal. He
means to quit the country to-morrow. We must devise means to reconcile
you to--the Stranger.
_Mrs. H._ How, my lord! You seem acquainted with my history?
_Bar._ I am. Walbourg has been my friend ever since we were boys. We
served together from the rank of cadet. We have been separated seven
years. Chance brought us this day together, and his heart was open to
me.
_Mrs. H._ Now do I feel what it is to be in the presence of an honest
man, when I dare not meet his eye. [_Hides her face._
_Bar._ If sincere repentance, if years without reproach, do not give us
a title to man's forgiveness, what must we expect hereafter? No, lovely
penitent! your contrition is complete. Error for a moment wrested from
slumbering virtue the dominion of your heart; but she awoke, and, with a
look, banished her enemy for ever. I know my friend. He has the firmness
of a man; but, with it, the gentlest feelings of your sex. I hasten to
him. With the fire of pure disinterested friendship will I enter on this
work; that, when I look back upon my past life, I may derive from this
good action consolation in disappointment, and even resignation in
despair. [_Going._
_Mrs. H._ Oh, stay! What would you do? No! never! My husband's honour is
sacred to me. I love him unutterably: but never, never can I be his wife
again; even if he were generous enough to pardon me.
_Bar._ Madam! Can you, Countess, be serious?
_Mrs H._ Not that title, I beseech you! I am not a child, who wishes to
avoid deserved punishment. What were my penitence, if I hoped advantage
from it beyond the consciousness of atonement for past offence?
_Countess._ But if your husband himself--?
_Mrs. H._ Oh! he will not! he cannot! And let him rest assured I never
would replace my honour at the expense of his.
_Bar._ He still loves you.
_Mrs. H._ Loves me! Then he must not--No--he must purify his heart from
a weakness which would degrade him!
_Bar._ Incomparable woman! I go to my friend--perhaps, for the last
time! Have you not one word to send him?
_Mrs. H._ Yes, I have two requests to make. Often when, in excess of
grief, I have despaired of every consolation, I have thought I should be
easier if I might behold my husband once again, acknowledge my injustice
to him, and take a gentle leave of him for ever. This, therefore, is my
first request--a conversation for a few short minutes, if he does not
quite abhor the sight of me. My second request is--Oh--not to see, but
to hear some account of my poor children.
_Bar._ If humanity and friendship can avail, he will not for a moment
delay your wishes.
_Countess._ Heaven be with you.
_Mrs. H._ And my prayers. [_Exit BARON._
_Countess._ Come, my friend, come into the air, till he returns with
hope and consolation.
_Mrs. H._ Oh, my heart! How art thou afflicted! My husband! My little
ones! Past joys and future fears--Oh, dearest madam, there are moments
in which we live years! Moments, which steal the roses from the cheek
of health, and plough deep furrows in the brow of youth.
_Countess._ Banish these sad reflections. Come, let us walk. The sun
will set soon; let nature's beauties dissipate anxiety.
_Mrs. H._ Alas! Yes, the setting sun is a proper scene for me.
_Countess._ Never forget a morning will succeed. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_The skirts of the Park, Lodge, &c. as before._
_Enter BARON._
_Bar._ On earth there is but one such pair. They shall not be parted.
Yet what I have undertaken is not so easy as I at first hoped. What can
I answer when he asks me, whether I would persuade him to renounce his
character, and become the derision of society? For he is right: a
faithless wife is a dishonour! and to forgive her, is to share her
shame. What though Adelaide may be an exception; a young deluded girl,
who has so long and so sincerely repented, yet what cares an unfeeling
world for this? The world! he has quitted it. 'Tis evident he loves her
still; and upon this assurance builds my sanguine heart the hope of a
happy termination to an honest enterprise.
_Enter FRANCIS with two Children, WILLIAM and AMELIA._
_Fra._ Come along, my pretty ones--come.
_Will._ Is it far to home?
_Fra._ No, we shall be there directly, now.
_Bar._ Hold! Whose children are these?
_Fra._ My master's.
_Will._ Is that my father?
_Bar._ It darts like lightning through my brain. A word with you. I know
you love your master. Strange things have happened here. Your master has
found his wife again.
_Fra._ Indeed! Glad to hear it.
_Bar._ Mrs. Haller--
_Fra._ Is she his wife? Still more glad to hear it.
_Bar._ But he is determined to go from her.
_Fra._ Oh!
_Bar._ We must try to prevent it.
_Fra._ Surely.
_Bar._ The unexpected appearance of the children may perhaps assist us.
_Fra._ How so?
_Bar._ Hide yourself with them in that hut. Before a quarter of an hour
is passed you shall know more.
_Fra._ But--
_Bar._ No more questions, I entreat you. Time is precious.
_Fra._ Well, well: questions are not much in my way. Come, children.
_Will._ Why, I thought you told me I should see my father.
_Fra._ So you shall, my dear. Come, moppets.
[_Goes into the Hut with the Children._
_Bar._ Excellent! I promise myself much from this little artifice. If
the mild look of the mother fails, the innocent smiles of these his own
children will surely find the way to his heart. [_Taps at the Lodge
door, the STRANGER comes out._] Charles, I wish you joy.
_Stra._ Of what?
_Bar._ You have found her again.
_Stra._ Show a bankrupt the treasure which he once possessed, and then
congratulate him on the amount!
_Bar._ Why not, if it be in your power to retrieve the whole?
_Stra._ I understand you: you are a negociator from my wife. It won't
avail.
_Bar._ Learn to know your wife better. Yes, I am a messenger from her;
but without power to treat. She, who loves you unutterably, who without
you never can be happy, renounces your forgiveness; because, as she
thinks, your honour is incompatible with such a weakness.
_Stra._ Pshaw! I am not to be caught.
_Bar._ Charles! consider well--
_Stra._ Steinfort, let me explain all this. I have lived here four
months. Adelaide knew it.
_Bar._ Knew it! She never saw you till to-day.
_Stra._ That you may make fools believe. Hear further: she knows too,
that I am not a common sort of man; that my heart is not to be attacked
in the usual way. She, therefore, framed a deep concerted plan. She
played a charitable part; but in such a way, that it always reached my
ears. She played a pious, modest, reserved part, in order to excite my
curiosity. And at last, to-day she plays the prude. She refuses my
forgiveness, in hopes by this generous device, to extort it from my
compassion.
_Bar._ Charles! I have listened to you with astonishment. This is a
weakness only to be pardoned in a man who has so often been deceived by
the world. Your wife has expressly and stedfastly declared, that she
will not accept your forgiveness, even if you yourself were weak enough
to offer it.
_Stra._ What then has brought you hither?
_Bar._ More than one reason. First, I am come in my own name, as your
friend and comrade, to conjure you solemnly not to spurn this creature
from you; for, by my soul, you will not find her equal.
_Stra._ Give yourself no further trouble.
_Bar._ Be candid, Charles. You love her still.
_Stra._ Alas! yes.
_Bar._ Her sincere repentance has long since obliterated her crime.
_Stra._ Sir! a wife, once induced to forfeit her honour, must be capable
of a second crime.
_Bar._ Not so, Charles. Ask your heart what portion of the blame may be
your own.
_Stra._ Mine!
_Bar._ Yours. Who told you to marry a thoughtless inexperienced girl?
One scarce expects established principles at five-and-twenty in a man,
yet you require them in a girl of sixteen! But of this no more. She has
erred; she has repented; and, during three years, her conduct has been
so far above reproach, that even the piercing eye of calumny has not
discovered a speck upon this radiant orb.
_Stra._ Now, were I to believe all this--and I confess that I would
willingly believe it--yet can she never again be mine. [_With extreme
asperity._] Oh! what a feast would it be for the painted dolls and
vermin of the world, when I appeared among them with my runaway wife
upon my arm! What mocking, whispering, pointing!--Never! Never! Never!
_Bar._ Enough! As a friend I have done my duty: I now appear as
Adelaide's ambassador. She requests one moment's conversation. She
wishes once again to see you, and never more! You cannot deny her this,
this only, this last, request.
_Stra._ Oh! I understand this too: she thinks my firmness will be melted
by her tears: she is mistaken. She may come.
_Bar._ She will come, to make you feel how much you mistake her. I go
for her.
_Stra._ Another word.
_Bar._ Another word!
_Stra._ Give her this paper, and these jewels. They belong to her.
[_Presenting them._
_Bar._ That you may do yourself. [_Exit._
_Stra._ The last anxious moment of my life draws near. I shall see her
once again; I shall see her, on whom my soul doats. Is this the language
of an injured husband? What is this principle which we call honour? Is
it a feeling of the heart, or a quibble in the brain? I must be
resolute: it cannot now be otherwise. Let me speak solemnly, yet mildly;
and beware that nothing of reproach escape my lips. Yes, her penitence
is real. She shall not be obliged to live in mean dependence: she shall
be mistress of herself, she shall-- [_Looks round and shudders._] Ha!
they come. Awake, insulted pride! Protect me, injured honour!
_Enter MRS. HALLER, COUNTESS, and BARON._
_Mrs. H._ [_Advances slowly, and in a tremour. COUNTESS attempts to
support her._] Leave me now, I beseech you. [_Approaches the STRANGER,
who, with averted countenance, and in extreme agitation, awaits her
address._] My lord!
_Stra._ [_With gentle tremulous utterance, and face still turned away._]
What would you with me, Adelaide?
_Mrs. H._ [_Much agitated._] No--for Heaven's sake! I was not prepared
for this--Adelaide!--No, no. For Heaven's sake!--Harsh tones alone are
suited to a culprit's ear.
_Stra._ [_Endeavouring to give his voice firmness._] Well, madam!
_Mrs. H._ Oh! if you will ease my heart, if you will spare and pity me,
use reproaches.
_Stra._ Reproaches! Here they are; here on my sallow cheek--here in my
hollow eye--here in my faded form. These reproaches I could not spare
you.
_Mrs. H._ Were I a hardened sinner, this forbearance would be charity:
but I am a suffering penitent, and it overpowers me. Alas! then I must
be the herald of my own shame. For, where shall I find peace, till I
have eased my soul by my confession?
_Stra._ No confession, madam. I release you from every humiliation. I
perceive you feel, that we must part for ever.
_Mrs. H._ I know it. Nor come I here to supplicate your pardon; nor has
my heart contained a ray of hope that you would grant it. All I dare ask
is, that you will not curse my memory.
_Stra._ [_Moved._] No, I do not curse you. I shall never curse you.
_Mrs. H._ [_Agitated._] From the conviction that I am unworthy of your
name, I have, during three years abandoned it. But this is not enough;
you must have that redress which will enable you to chuse
another--another wife; in whose chaste arms, may Heaven protect your
hours in bliss! This paper will be necessary for the purpose: it
contains a written acknowledgement of my guilt.
[_Offers it, trembling._
_Stra._ [_Tearing it._] Perish the record, for ever.--No, Adelaide, you
only have possessed my heart; and, I am not ashamed to own it, you alone
will reign there for ever.--Your own sensations of virtue, your resolute
honour, forbid you to profit by my weakness; and even if--Now, by
Heaven, this is beneath a man! But--never--never will another fill
Adelaide's place here.
_Mrs. H._ [_Trembling._] Then nothing now remains but that one sad,
hard, just word--farewell!
_Stra._ Stay a moment. For some months we have, without knowing it,
lived near each other. I have learnt much good of you. You have a heart
open to the wants of your fellow creatures. I am happy that it is so.
You shall not be without the power of gratifying your benevolence. I
know you have a spirit that must shrink from a state of obligation. This
paper, to which the whole remnant of my fortune is pledged, secures you
independence, Adelaide: and let the only recommendation of the gift be,
that it will administer to you the means of indulging in charity, the
divine propensity of your nature.
_Mrs. H._ Never! To the labour of my hands alone will I owe my
sustenance. A morsel of bread, moistened with the tear of penitence,
will suffice my wishes, and exceed my merits. It would be an additional
reproach, to think that I served myself, or even others, from the bounty
of the man whom I had so deeply injured.
_Stra._ Take it, madam; take it.
_Mrs. H._ I have deserved this. But I throw myself upon your generosity.
Have compassion on me!
_Stra._ [_Aside._] Villain! of what a woman hast thou robbed me!--
[_Puts up the paper._] Well, madam, I respect your sentiments, and
withdraw my request; but on condition, that if you ever should be in
want of any thing, I may be the first and only person in the world, to
whom you will make application.
_Mrs. H._ I promise it, my lord.
_Stra._ And now I may, at least, desire you to take back what is your
own--your jewels. [_Gives her the casket._
_Mrs. H._ [_Opens it in violent agitation, and her tears burst upon
it._] How well do I recollect the sweet evening when you gave me these!
That evening, my father joined our hands; and joyfully I pronounced the
oath of eternal fidelity.--It is broken. This locket, you gave me on my
birthday--That was a happy day! We had a country feast--How cheerful we
all were!--This bracelet, I received after my William was born! No! take
them--take them--I cannot keep these, unless you wish, that the sight of
them should be an incessant reproach to my almost broken heart.
[_Gives them back._
_Stra._ [_Aside._] I must go. My soul and pride will hold no longer.
[_Turning towards her._] Farewell!--
_Mrs. H._ Oh! but one minute more! An answer to but one more
question,--Feel for a mother's heart!--Are my children still alive?
_Stra._ Yes, they are alive.
_Mrs. H._ And well?
_Stra._ Yes, they are well.
_Mrs. H._ Heaven be praised! William must be much grown?
_Stra._ I believe so.
_Mrs. H._ What! have you not seen them!--And little Amelia, is she still
your favourite? [_The STRANGER, who is in violent agitation throughout
this scene, remains in silent contention between honour and affection._]
Oh! let me behold them once again!--let me once more kiss the features
of their father in his babes, and I will kneel to you, and part with
them for ever. [_She kneels--he raises her._
_Stra._ Willingly, Adelaide! This very night. I expect the children
every minute. They have been brought up near this spot. I have already
sent my servant for them. He might, ere this time, have returned. I
pledge my word to send them to the Castle as soon as they arrive. There,
if you please, they may remain 'till daybreak to-morrow: then they must
go with me.
[_The COUNTESS and BARON, who at a little
distance have listened to the whole
conversation with the warmest sympathy,
exchange signals. BARON goes into the
Hut, and soon returns with FRANCIS and
the CHILDREN. He gives the GIRL to the
COUNTESS, who places herself behind the
STRANGER. He himself walks with the BOY
behind MRS. HALLER._
_Mrs. H._ In this world, then--We have no more to say---- [_Seizing his
hand._] Forget a wretch, who never will forget you.--And when my
penance shall have broken my heart,--when we again meet, in a better
world----
_Stra._ There, Adelaide, you may be mine again.
_Mrs. H._}
} Oh! Oh! [_Parting._
_Stra._ }
[_But, as they are going, she encounters
the BOY, and he the GIRL._
_Children._ Dear father! Dear mother!
[_They press the CHILDREN in their arms
with speechless affection; then tear
themselves away--gaze at each
other--spread their arms, and rush into
an embrace. The CHILDREN run, and cling
round their Parents. The curtain falls._