The Nephews: A Play, in Five Acts. Part 5

_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 pa.s.sion 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._ G.o.d 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 G.o.d! 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 pa.s.sions.

_Mr. D._ What you call pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sist? 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 n.o.blest 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 fort.i.tude. 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].