SCENE I.

An apartment in Mr. ANDREWS's house.

Mrs. ANDREWS and MARIA.

Mrs. ANDREWS. I'm quite amaz'd at what you have related. [She
walks to and fro much agitated.]

MARIA. I must not now discover, how her husband
Receiv'd the tidings of a secret key:
She would not rest, until reveng'd of mine. [Aside.]

Mrs. ANDREWS. Can you now help me? I am much distress'd.

MARIA. You know I am devoted to your service.

Mrs. ANDREWS. So I have ever thought.—Heav'n! what a state!
Compell'd to sooth ev'n those my soul abhors. [Aside.]

MARIA. Madam, I'm griev'd to see your spirits sinking.
But hear me, and I think I can propose
A scheme by which it may be so contriv'd,
As to retort this charge on your fair character,
Cruel as false, respecting the lord Belmour,
On your base neighbour Wilson, the inventer,
With honour to yourself.

Mrs. ANDREWS. What, and he innocent?

MARIA. Hath he not wrong'd you?———beyond all redress?
Labour'd to blast your spotless fame for ever,
Whilst you are innocent?

Mrs. ANDREWS. Yet much to blame. [Aside.]

MARIA. Wherefore, your honour calls aloud for vengeance.

Mrs. ANDREWS. True; his harsh, cruel, groundless, information
Hath to my poor mind's peace been most injurious.

MARIA. It is the only means I can devise,
At once to wipe away this foul aspersion,
And all the other mischiefs that may follow.

Mrs. ANDREWS. But how, I pray? none bear more fair repute.

MARIA. Yet vers'd in gallantry.

Mrs. ANDREWS. So I have heard.

MARIA. That answers well; suppose then, in a letter,
You mention earnestly, his having made
Some overtures injurious to your honour,
And should he persevere, that you'll disclose
This breach of truth and friendship to your husband?
Then, let this letter, as it were by chance,
Fall in my master's way.—Consider this.

Mrs. ANDREWS. [Pauses] A most ingenious thought!—but to
pursue it—[Pauses again.]
Shall I at such dark villainy connive!—
Are there no means to 'scape the tongue of calumny,
But by imbibing her infectious breath,
And blasting innocence with sland'rous falsehood?
Chang'd howsoe'er I be, yet my soul shudders
Ev'n at the thought of an unjust revenge—
I ne'er could reconcile it to myself.

MARIA. Again I say, your own defence demands it.
It is the sole resource you have to save you.

Mrs. ANDREWS. I am myself the cause of all these miseries. [Aside.]
I see great difficulties in this matter.

MARIA. I, not any—do you but write this letter;
The rest be mine—but soft!—my master's voice—

Mrs. ANDREWS. What shall I do? I would not meet him now.

MARIA. You must not, till our purpose is effected.
Be not distress'd—I'll urge a fit excuse.
So, to your chamber, and prepare the letter,
No patience can submit to such indignities. [Goes off.]

Mrs. ANDREWS. I dread the very thoughts of this—and yet—
To rest beneath so vile an accusation—
It cannot—must not be—I should be false,
And to myself unjust—and then, revenge
Upon this slanderer—I'm much perplex'd. [Goes off.]

SCENE II.

Changes to another room in Mr. ANDREWS's house.

Enter Mr. ANDREWS, leaning on THOMAS and another person; CONSTANTIA
attending him.

THOMAS. This outward room is large, the air more free.

ANDREWS. Faint!—very faint!—support me to yon couch. [They seat
him on a couch.]
I hop'd at length heav'n's goodness had determin'd
To give my soul its so long wish'd-for peace.

CONSTANTIA. Of late, these fierce attacks give fresh alarm.
Preserve him, heav'n,—O sir! behold your daughter.—

ANDREWS. Tir'd nature hath got respite for a while,
Yet weaken'd much—my final rest is near.
[To the servants.] Withdraw awhile; but wait within a call.
Constantia! stay; come nearer to your father.
Give me your hand, I wish a private conference
On somewhat of much moment ere we part.

CONSTANTIA. You make your daughter happy; for of late,
I've thought, you did not see me with that pleasure
To which I had been us'd; I, therefore fear'd,
You some distress had met, or that Constantia,
Had witlessly, (when some ill fate presided,)
The best of parents and of friends offended.

ANDREWS. You never did; it is against your nature.
You've ever been affectionate as dutiful;
But the postponing thus a second time
(And on lord Weston's side) the purpos'd wedding,
Which all must say, our station weigh'd with his,
Besides his princely qualities of mind,
Would highly honour us, disturbs me much:
Yet, wou'd I hope, th' affections of your heart
Are not so fix'd upon this noble youth,
you cou'd not wean them thence, shou'd it be fit.

CONSTANTIA. What is't I hear! undone! be still, my heart! [Aside.]
Hath not a letter, sir, disclos'd the cause?

ANDREWS. Such letter I receiv'd, yet it is said,
His uncle, the lord Belmour, hath of late,
Spoken of this, to which he once consented,
In terms of discontent; which, if as told,
I would to the alliance of an emperour,
Prefer the badge of want.

CONSTANTIA. [She kneels] O most indulgent!
Ever-honour'd sir! let not a thought for me
Distress your tenderness. Heav'n be my judge!
That did my faithful heart approve him more
(If possible) than I have truly told you,
And that its choice was not with your assent,
My task should be, to tear it thence for ever.
And, but I know lord Weston has a soul,
Possess'd of every virtue heav'n bestows,
I wou'd far rather wed in mine own rank,
Where truth and happiness are oft'ner found,
Than midst the glaring grandeur of the great.

ANDREWS. Come to thy father's arms, thou sweet resemblance
Of the perfections of your much-lov'd mother;
A loss each day felt more—yet, my Constantia,
What tho' your charms and virtue shou'd surpass
All that e'er center'd in a virgin frame,
To be the choice of this exalted youth
Causes a thousand fears in my fond heart.

CONSTANTIA. O sir! how you alarm me! heav'n! what fears?

ANDREWS. Constantia singled out, preferr'd to numbers
Of the first rank, who would exult to win him,
Will rouse up ev'ry baneful blast of envy,
Perfections such as thine ne'er 'scape malignity.

CONSTANTIA. The example of that honour to her sex,
My dear lost mother, with the wholesome lessons
Instill'd by you, will so direct my steps,
I may those blasts escape your fondness fears.

ANDREWS. Yet, should this change in your condition happen,
This also treasure in your mind; that man,
As in his frame, so is his spirit rough;
Whilst your more tender sex was form'd by heav'n,
To sooth those cares, which from his state still flow,
With winning grace, and smooth life's rugged paths.
That she who best submits will surest reign;
In youth be idolized, in age revered.
But when perverse contention marks her conduct,
And passion's transitory joys are pall'd,
The past offence will to the mind recur,
And all that once had charm'd be quite forgot.

CONSTANTIA. Good heav'n! of two such parents make me worthy.

Enter MARIA.

ANDREWS. Some message from my wife—withdraw awhile.

CONSTANTIA. [As she goes off] Alas! I fear some deep distress
affects him.

ANDREWS. Where is your mistress?

MARIA. In her chamber, sir.

ANDREWS. Go tell her I am here, and wish to see her.

MARIA. Good sir! she has been greatly indispos'd:
But somewhat eas'd, was in a friendly slumber,
Till rous'd at hearing that some sudden ailment
Had just now seiz'd you, she dispatch'd me hither,
And most impatient waits for my return
With tidings of your health, to her so precious.

ANDREWS. This woman is so hackney'd in all baseness,
That even truth from her would be disgrac'd. [Aside.]
Had her condition far exceeded all
Your seeming tender fears; or did I hear
The peal of her death bell, I shou'd not wonder.
Was she not up all night? Was ever seen
Such rapid havock as this life of riot
Spreads o'er her bloom, which ev'ry art abash'd,
Now vainly practis'd to repair