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.

[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.