Chapter 3

AUGUSTA laying down a book, and wiping her eyes.

Mrs. DRAVE entering.

_Mrs. D._ At your books, and in tears again, Augusta?

_Augusta._ No, dear mother.

_Mrs. D._ Your eyes betray you. You must not be so melancholy. One impediment is remov'd--I have acquainted your father with your attachment.

_Augusta._ Good God! what have you done!

_Mrs. D._ What we ought to have done long long ago; he loves you so tenderly.

_Augusta._ But why should I not try to overcome this unhappy passion, knowing----

_Mrs. D._ Overcome? Can you do that? I know your heart too well. But be cheerful now--dream not of impediments that will never arise. Your father consents to whatever can tend to make you happy.

_Augusta._ What! my dear father will permit----

_Mrs. D._ He will proceed without precipitation; which is what I would advise you to do. If Lewis loves you sincerely, you may trust your father's heart.

_Augusta._ If? Oh, my dear mother, my doubts about _him_, occasion me continual uneasiness.--Could he deceive my affection----he seems of no fixed character.

_Mrs. D._ It must be owned he is unsteady.

_Augusta._ His way of life, indeed, displays such a character; but his heart is good.

_Mrs. D._ I believe it.

_Augusta._ He does a great deal of good in private.

_Mrs. D._ I know he does.

_Augusta._ And always with such a good will, without any ostentation.

_Mrs. D._ That is true.

_Augusta._ A _man_ cannot be so tender as we are; but he certainly has feeling.----I am sorry he is not upon good terms with his brother.

_Mrs. D._ There I absolve him. Who can bear his churlish temper?

_Augusta._ And yet how deeply he was concerned about his brother's last illness! how attentive to make him comfortable! He cannot be bad.

_Mrs. D._ Very possibly; but think, my Augusta, if he were----

_Augusta._ If he were not good towards me, then--I am very unhappy! I love him so much, even to his faults, for they arise from unsuspicious goodness of heart.

Enter COUNSELLOR FLEFFEL.

_Counsellor._ Good day to you, fair ladies; your most obedient servant.

_Mrs. D._ You honour us with your company sooner than we expected.

_Counsellor._ I was impatient, absolutely beside myself, upon my honour, till fashion allowed me to fly hither; I am always so happy in your charming company!

PHILIP BROOK entering.

_Philip._ Good morning to you, Madam [bows to Augusta.] Pray, is Mr. Drave at home? [To the Counsellor] Good morning, Sir.

_Mrs. D._ No, Sir, he is just gone out. [They converse together. The Counsellor talks to Augusta].

_Counsellor._ Miss Drave, we will have some sport.

_Augusta._ How so?

_Counsellor._ We'll make him look quite silly, by pretending to compliment him.

_Augusta._ I must decline taking any part, Sir.

_Counsellor_ [to Philip]. Mr. Brook, I have the honour to pay you my best compliments.

_Philip_ [turning quickly towards him]. On what account?

_Counsellor._ What account? Why--why--on having the happiness to see you.

_Philip._ Then, you must pay them to yourself.

_Counsellor._ But, as I have the honour to be upon terms of strict friendship with your----

_Philip._ Strict!

_Counsellor._ Very strict.

_Philip._ This is the first time I have heard of my brother's strictness.

_Counsellor._ But, Mr. Brook, you are seldom to be seen; why is this?

_Philip._ That I may not be seen too often.

_Counsellor._ But, you lock yourself up like a hermit; 'tis quite inconsistent with your age and station in life.

_Philip._ You think so?

_Counsellor._ It does not require much thinking, it is self-evident.

_Philip._ Indeed?

_Counsellor._ For instance--you live quite secluded from your friends.

_Philip_ [stepping back]. I distinguish between friends and acquaintance.

_Counsellor._ And you neglect the favour and protection of the great.

_Philip._ Do not flatter me to my face.

_Counsellor._ With your fortune, I wonder you do not buy an office and title.

_Philip._ Because----but your question answers itself.

_Counsellor._ How so?

_Philip._ Because they are to be bought.

_Counsellor_ [with an affected laugh].--A fine reason; an excellent one, indeed! Plain Mr. Brook! it sounds very well [laughing]. Don't you think so, ladies? plain Mr. Brook!

_Philip._ Yet, in one respect I find that a bought office may be very useful.

_Counsellor_ [laughing]. See, ladies, he yields--he submits.

_Philip._ A bought office may be of use to a fool, who has no other means of recommending himself.

_Counsellor_ [at a loss]. That is indeed true, very true----

_Philip._ And a title--you will certainly agree--is often an excellent protection for a knave. Excuse me, Sir!----This dry conversation-- [Going.

_Counsellor_ [detaining him]. Bravo, bravo, Mr. Ecclesiasticus!

_Philip._ Are you acquainted with his book?

_Counsellor._ Certainly.

_Philip._ And read it?

_Counsellor._ Oh, often, very often [laughing]; and I fancy I hear him now.

_Philip._ Yet, you have forgotten one of his best sayings.

_Counsellor._ Which?

_Philip._ A wife man smiles--a fool, a fool, Mr. Counsellor, laughs aloud. [Exit.

_Counsellor._ It is a pity he is gone; the best part of the jest was to come.

_Mrs. D._ But the laugh was not entirely on your side.

_Counsellor._ Why, I kept my best things to the last--but we will certainly christen him Mr. Ecclesiasticus [laughs]. When I tell his brother, he will enjoy it heartily.

Enter Mr. DRAVE.

_Mr. D._ Good morning, Sir!

_Counsellor._ Your most obedient, my dear Mr. Drave: I am happy to see you in health; I was much afflicted by your late indisposition.

_Mr. D._ I am obliged to you. [To Mrs. D.] Will you be so good as to go down awhile with Augusta?

_Mrs. D._ [aside to Mr. D.] But keep your temper. [Exeunt Mrs. D. and Augusta.

_Counsellor_ [is going after them]. Give me leave, Sir.

_Mr. D._ I will thank you for a few minutes conversation.

_Counsellor._ With all my heart. What do you wish?

_Mr. D._ Sir, you have honoured my family with your visits.

_Counsellor._ Pray, Sir--too kind--the pleasure of your company----

_Mr. D._ It is time to come to an explanation: therefore, Sir--without farther preface, my daughter, I think, is the object of your visits?

_Counsellor._ She is, Sir.

_Mr. D._ You wish, doubtless, to marry her?

_Counsellor._ Yes--yes--if--to be sure, for my part--I----

_Mr. D._ [earnestly]. You certainly can mean nothing else. You will permit me to say, that my daughter cannot comply with your wishes; and therefore, as marriage is out of the question,--[mildly] I must entreat you, Sir, for the sake of her reputation, to forbear your visits for the future.

_Counsellor._ How? I am astonished! Mr. Drave--

_Mr. D._ Forgive me, Sir! regard for Augusta forced me to this unpleasant conversation.

_Counsellor._ But what objection can you have? If a marriage cannot take place, must I for that reason avoid your house?

_Mr. D._ I fear my daughter might forget the duties of a wife, in listening to the flatteries of a lover.

_Counsellor._ Vain excuses, Mr. Drave; mere pretexts to palliate your hatred.

_Mr. D._ I have no hatred against you, Sir.

_Counsellor._ Oh, but I see very clearly you have: but I warrant you----

_Mr. D._ You are not to my mind--you see I do not attempt to conceal it.

_Counsellor._ Well, of my passion for Miss Drave I will speak no more--but I am now obliged in honour to frequent your house.

_Mr. D._ Say you were tired of our company; I give you my word never to contradict you.

_Counsellor._ It would be much to the credit of your house, and your daughter.

_Mr. D._ [smiling]. I know what I venture.

_Counsellor._ You are insupportable--but take warning; remember, Sir, to whom you speak!

_Mr. D._ [earnestly]. I remember but too well!

_Counsellor._ You may repent, Sir--you may repent very soon!

_Mr. D._ God forbid!

_Counsellor._ Sir, I give you one hour's time to atone for this insolence, or I can shew you----

_Mr. D._ [angrily]. And I, Sir, give you one minute to leave my house! or--[recollecting himself, and taking a key out of his socket, which he lays upon a chair] here is the key; when you leave the room, be so good as to lock the door. [Going.

_Counsellor._ Nay! I go, Sir! I go--but by heavens, Sir, you shall pay for this. [Exit.

Mrs. DRAVE enters hastily.

_Mrs. D._ Good God! Drave, what have you done? the Counsellor flew down stairs in such a fury----

_Mr. D._ A fool! I kept my temper long enough.

_Mrs. D._ [in a tone of reproach]. This is one of your usual passions.

_Mr. D._ What you call passion in me, is too often necessary to correct the faults you fall into through supineness.

_Mrs. D._ How? what is my fault here?

_Mr. D._ Between ourselves, my dear, was not thy maternal pride too much flattered, by seeing a crowd of lovers about your daughter? Had you taken less pleasure in their idle flattery, you would have saved us a great deal of trouble about her.

_Mrs. D._ And what is the matter now? The girl----

_Mr. D._ Loves one; why then the rest? Why, by high flown compliments, excite her pride? why, by unmeaning sentiments, corrupt her heart? Speak yourself; is that my fault or yours?

_Mrs. D._ But let me tell you----

_Mr. D._ Your caprices always cross our best plans; and when all is entangled and lost, who is to assist? who can?--The husband, the father--happy if you still allow him to do that.

_Mrs. D._ You speak, as if every thing were lost.

_Mr. D._ Lost enough.--How often have I spoken against the affected sensibility inculcated by what are called sentimental novels! I provided good books, but in vain. You were proud of her refined feelings; delighted with her ecstatic sensibility. I advised, warned, entreated; but was not heard.

_Mrs. D._ Nature has given her a susceptible heart--will you call its emotions weakness? then--

_Mr. D._ I distinguish, very well. Nature has given her a generous heart, sensible to the miseries of mankind.--It was enough; but not for _you_; and so you have suffered the noblest feelings of an excellent disposition to be perverted by the overstrained and effeminate sensibility of frivolous affectation.

_Mrs. D._ [hastily]. Here you are mistaken--

_Mr. D._ [much affected]. From me her heart is entirely alienated----

_Mrs. D._ [sits down]. Oh! you tear my heart with these reproaches!

_Mr. D._ [taking her hand]. Forgive me, my dear! I am deeply afflicted, I know no more how to speak to her.--Her heart bleeds; advice is unwelcome. With sufficient grounds for real unhappiness, she increases it by imaginary misfortunes. It was my first care to shew her the world as it is; to dispose her mind to bear her part with fortitude. But she dreams of a world, that does not exist; of a husband, as he never will, never _dare_ be----What comfort can she bring to a husband in his misfortunes? What a mother can she be to her children, who meets affliction with tears instead of courage, and who regards the common pleasures of life as scarcely worthy of a smile?

_Mrs. D._ What shall I answer? I see too well I cannot satisfy you.

_Mr. D._ No! you cannot.--I see her fade and wither in the bloom of youth; I see her pining after an imaginary happiness, which she cannot attain.--I see myself, her father, once her best friend, avoided, shunned, distrusted. When she shall have wept till she can weep no more, when her grief shall be terminated in untimely death--oh! then, when I mourn over the grave of my only child, what consolation can you give me in my despair?

(Pause----Enter AUGUSTA.)

_Mr. D._ Come to my arms, Augusta. We have a long account to settle together [they embrace]: closer! as you used to do! from the bottom of your heart: so [he kisses her, and gently lets her go].

_Augusta._ Oh! my father!

_Mr. D._ You have behaved to me, Augusta, as if I were a stranger. God knows, it is not my fault. Whether awake, or in my dreams, I never cease to bless you.

_Augusta_ [with a downcast look]. My dearest father, can you forgive me?

_Mr. D._ You love. Heaven crown your love with happiness! It is not for that I blame you: love is involuntary.

_Augusta._ But I did not open my heart to you.

_Mr. D._ Yes, there you hurt me severely.

_Augusta._ I love nobody as I do yourself and my mother. Speak, dear mother; how often did the confession of my attachment tremble upon my lips!

_Mr. D._ And why not avow it?

_Augusta._ I never had a favourable opportunity.

_Mr. D._ [hastily]. That is the effect of those unhappy books again----

_Mrs. D._ Be gentle, my dear Drave.

_Mr. D._ [composed]. You were not always thus: formerly, you thought me worthy of your confidence.

_Augusta._ I will behave so again.

_Mr. D._ Do I wait for favourable opportunities to love you? Oh, no! in things the most indifferent, I ask myself, will it give pleasure to my Augusta? I close my eyes with prayers for the happiness of my child; and my first thoughts, when I rise, are on the means of gratifying her wishes; while she, for whose sake only I live, waits for opportunities to be good and sincere!

_Augusta_ [leaning on her mother]. Oh! my mother!

_Mrs. D._ Cease, I intreat you!

_Mr. D._ Why turn to your mother? come to this wounded bosom. [She embraces him]. Think no more of what is past; only treat me with sincerity. Believe me, in all your books you will not find a father whose affection for his daughter equals mine.

_Augusta._ Oh! were I dead! then no suspicion of ingratitude could tear my heart.

_Mr. D._ No, Augusta! not dead--then I could forgive no more. [He presses her affectionately to his heart]. Now my child is restored to me. What happiness can equal mine? Here I hold the only hope of my life, in my arms.

_Mrs. D._ Am not I her mother?

_Mr. D._ Forgive me. What would life be to me, without you? forgive me [takes her hand and kisses it]----Now I will seek your fugitive lover: God grant I may find him worthy of my Augusta! [Exit Drave.

_Mrs. D._ I wish, Augusta, your future husband may have the heart of your father. He is, indeed, sometimes passionate; and in every family, differences will arise; but they have always ended in rendering us more attached to each other.

Enter PHILIP BROOK.

_Philip._ Madam--

_Mrs. D._ Mr. Brook--we----pardon me--why should I deny it?--we were engaged in a conversation--which----

_Philip._ Which I interrupted? I will, therefore, with your permission, take my leave.

_Mrs. D._ Stay, Sir!--We are, indeed, unable to continue--my heart is too full----

_Philip._ Have you had any disappointment, any sorrows I dare not partake?

_Mrs. D._ Neither, Sir.

_Philip._ But you have wept. I will stay: every mourner has a claim upon me; and when I see your tears, Augusta----

_Augusta._ Mr. Brook, the tears you see are tears of joy, shed by a happy daughter, for the tenderness of a father.

_Philip._ Tears of joy? It is long, my dear Madam, since I have been witness to such. Peace be on him for whom they flow! He will never want an epitaph.

_Mrs. D._ Do not mention that: you keep us in our melancholy train of thinking.

_Philip._ Melancholy? I am always cheerful in your company. But Miss Augusta then had a cloud over her eyes.

_Augusta._ Do _you_ reproach me _that_?

_Philip._ I do, and justly. All who are acquainted with you, love and esteem you. You are young and amiable; why then mourn?

_Mrs. D._ Pardon me, Sir, if I repeat my daughter's words; you should be the last to utter such a reproach.

_Philip._ Why so?

_Mrs. D._ Can you ask?

_Philip._ Yes, Madam; for I cannot believe that you have the same opinion of my character, that is generally entertained.

_Mrs. D._ Mr. Brook!

_Philip._ You make no answer. Your opinion is either too favourable, or the contrary.

_Mrs. D._ Be assured, we esteem you as a man.

_Philip._ I wished not for a polite turn, but for the true judgment of your heart.

_Mrs. D._ [at a loss]. If, perhaps, our ideas may be in some respects different----

_Philip._ Well?

_Mrs. D._ But, my dear Sir! we have just been conversing on a subject so opposite to this! and this moment----

_Philip._ I beg you to bestow upon me. I am unable to give an account of myself, at every moment, and to every body; but now, and to you, I feel myself bound to do it.

_Mrs. D._ But, am I prepared for a cold enquiry?

_Philip._ It is not a cold enquiry I ask [with warmth]. Let your generous friendly mind, [to Augusta] let your pure soul, Augusta, be the judge.

_Augusta._ Dear Sir!

_Philip._ Well--Fashion, ceremony, all that we will lay aside. Have some parts of my behaviour here been such as you cannot approve?--it was by chance only. Nay, there was no one whom I could please, by behaving otherwise.

_Mrs. D._ We will pass that; though such behaviour takes from the pleasures of society.

_Philip_ [with warmth]. I have high ideas of the pleasures of society.

_Mrs. D._ And yet you do not contribute your share?

_Philip_ [with agitation]. Ah! there, indeed--

_Mrs. D._ You take delight in misanthropical retirement.

_Philip._ Oh, if you knew my feelings! my good will for mankind, as God knows it--I--it is hard to need a defence in this particular--But, I can calmly and truly say, I love mankind. But, if my compassion for their unhappy fate has been ridiculed, and if this abuse of my dearest feelings has made me reserved, does it follow that I am a misanthrope?

_Mrs. D._ Mr. Brook!

_Philip._ If my ideas of good company are too refined, too just, too high, to be satisfied in the slandering circles of coquettes, dunces, and gamblers, am I to be called unsociable?

_Augusta_ [quickly]. Oh, no, my good friend.

_Philip._ If, in any profession, for which my talents might qualify me, the best wishes of my heart would be checked by interested connections--my enthusiasm for suffering mankind, opposed by uncharitable selfishness--can you blame me for remaining as I am?

_Augusta._ Certainly not.

_Philip._ And now, my ardent zeal for human happiness being mistaken, the best designs of my heart condemned and overthrown by prejudice and self-conceit; perceiving that the most admired and virtuous outsides were too often only masks for hypocrisy--that impure avarice stalked abroad under the name of philanthrophy--perceiving this, I drew back, and forgot a flattering dream, of successful attention to the welfare of all the unfortunate wanderers upon earth.--Yet soon--in one serious hour, I hope to discharge the debt of a citizen to my native land--in one hour; yes, only one--but the deed will mark it.--Till that hour, I shall proceed in silence; endeavour, if possible, to be calm; and seek my comfort in friendship and a good conscience. The sneers of the superficial, the senseless judgments of a seduced multitude, shall not rob me of a moment's tranquillity.

_Mrs. D._ Forgive me, Sir! I mistook your character.

_Augusta._ I feel the truth of your remarks. May domestic happiness afford you the reward which you are refused by the world!

_Philip._ Do you wish me that, Augusta?

_Augusta._ Yes, my noble friend! I esteem you, and have still more reason to wish it heartily.

_Philip_ [joyfully]. You have?--[pause]. My desires lie in a narrow compass. My fortune allows me to assist others; I have a friend, with whom I share my joys and my sorrows; and now, all is heightened by the emotions of love.

_Mrs. D._ You love?

_Philip._ Yes.

_Augusta._ And happily?

_Philip._ I know not yet.--My love may increase, but can never diminish--[he approaches Augusta]--Augusta, I love you.

_Augusta._ How?

_Mrs. D._ My daughter?

_Philip._ Make me happy: 'tis in your power.

_Augusta._ Oh! good heaven! 'tis too much!

_Philip_ [hastily, but tenderly taking her hand]. Speak! I am serious, in high emotion--be gentle, Augusta.

_Augusta_ [leaning on her mother; without withdrawing her hand]. Oh! mother!

_Mrs. D._ What shall I say?

_Augusta_ [forcibly]. I love--your brother!

_Philip_ [deeply moved]. In vain! he--[looking at Augusta] while here--[lets go her hand] Be happy! [going.]

_Mrs. D._ Brook! for God's sake!

_Augusta._ My noble suffering friend, why on me----

_Philip._ Let me go!--

_Augusta._ Leave me not without hopes, that all the affection of a brother, of a sister, may content you.

_Philip._ I can no more----

_Augusta._ Do not leave me, till you know how much I value----

_Philip._ Upon you I had placed my hopes. You would have endeared life to me again.--The dream is fled.--Well--I will hide my sufferings in retirement, and wait with patience for the hour which shall end all my afflictions.

[Exeunt omnes.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

_ACT III._