Rens. (without, violently.) Christine! Christine! Carl. Blessed Saint Diggory! Look! he's coming nownow - (rallying.) I feel all my courage (relapsing, turns.) going. Enter RENSLAUS, R. Renslaus. Christine, I say! Christine! So I've found you at last. But I did n't (low to her) expect to find you here with him. What, Christine! can it be you have secrets from me? By the great cannon! if I thought so I'd(Aside.) Hang it! I forgot I'm only a husband on trial. Forgive me, Christine, and as a pledge of peace-come, kiss and be friends. (Approaching to kiss her, sees the letter in her bosom, and starts.) Zounds! what letter's that? Carl. (shuddering.) O, dear! O, dear! Chris. Yes, I've just received it; and as I've no concealments from you, there, (holding out the letter,) read it! Rens. (taking it.) A love-letter! Carl. He'll guess it's I, and then my game's up. O, dear! O, dear! Chris. Now go and ask him; this is the happy moment. (Pushing him forward.) Carl. (aside, trembling.) Ay, mighty happy! Rens. (aside, his eyes riveted on the letter.) Can it be? What! (Looks at him.) That booby! can he be the cousin she was pining after? (Turns again to the letter.) Confound it! there's real love here! (Christine pushes Carlitz forward.) Carl. (stammering.) M-M-Mr. S-S-Soldier. Rens. of me? Carl. M-Mr. Soldier, I don't know how to get about it-to-tell you—or rather, Mr. Soldier, to ask you Rens. Let's have it at once. (Listening with his back turned toward him.) Carl. Well, then, Mr. Renslaus, it's no fault of mine, you know-so, you know, you won't get in a passion, Mr. Soldier; but it strikes me-I-I-I love your wife. Rens. (coldly.) I know you do. ask you Carl. Then-then Mr. Soldier - I only wanted to -if it's all one to you-no, that's not what I I mean it can't be all one to you - I know that very well; but for all that, if you would be so good as to allow that in return, your wife mean Carl. M-m-might- love me! Rens. (starting round, with a violent gesture.) Ha! Carl. (dropping on his knees.) A little-only a littleno more. (Rens. turns away.) Why-why-bless my soul, he don't fly into a rage! Rens. (very loud, and without turning.) Come here! (Carlitz totters across to him.) And who was it that bade you ask me? Carl. (c.) Hey! (Aside to Christine.) Must I tell? She said it depended on you; and without your leave there was no way. Rens. (R. to himself.) Right! That's well-that's very well! (Crosses to c.) So, (faltering,) Christine, 't is you. Chris. Yes, 't is I. But remember, you have the right to refuse. My promise has been given-my word is sacred; and whatever you may command, I obey without a murmur. Rens. Without a murmur! No, Christine, you are too tender for the school of anguish; but an old soldier is used to hard rubs, and knows how to suffer and be silent. (To Carlitz.) You ask leave to love Christine: do you promise to make her happy! Carl. (aside.) What an odd question for a husband! (Aloud.) Well, Mr. Soldier, I'll promise to do the best I can. Rens. Still, you have nothing and Christine is rich. Carl. Rich; ay, so she is! I never thought of that. Rens. Then take this pocket-book; go, offer it to Christine't is yours. And now, Carlitz, now you may marry her. (Agitated, crosses to R. corner.) Carl. Marry your wife! Rens. She is not my wife; that treasure Heaven never meant for me. But of this, at least, I'm master; and in making it the source of happiness to the virtuous, I pay the noblest tribute to his memory who gave it. I only ask, in return, that you never let the poor soldier leave your door unsuccored; but tell him, as he departs rejoicing on his way, "Take this for the sake of poor Renslaus." My duty calls. (Clasping their hands.) Farewell! God bless you! God you both! bless SCENE. A kitchen in Farmer Content's house. Supper table set: on one side is seated the Farmer, Ellen and George on the other, Mrs. Content at the head. Farmer. (L.) Well, wife, once again- thanks to the bounty of that Providence to which we are so much indebted! we are seated around our family board with appetites sharpened by honest labor. It is given us to partake; and with grateful hearts, thinking of those, who, being poor, have not the means of satisfying their hunger; of the sick who pine in their dreary chambers, let us now thankfully attack the viands which your skill has made so tempting. *A year is supposed to elapse between each Act. Ellen. (R.) Dear father, you are so happy always that it seems impossible for you to be otherwise. Tell us, father, how is it that you are so? Far. I will tell you. I would have George listen, too; for if possible, I would have him overcome the desire he has to become a resident of the metropolis, rather than remain upon the farm. George. (R.) I confess, father, that I am tired of the country; it is so dull. Far. My son, years ago, I was a youth like you; but unlike you, I had no happy home,- no mother, father or sister to take an interest in my welfare. I had no friend, save the hope of youth, nothing to trust to, save a will that scorned all opposition. Lacking in education,- then we knew not, as the children of this generation know, the blessings of a system of instruction favoring equally the wealthy and proud, the poor and humble,-I worked. There was ahead of me a star whose light lured me on to struggle, and I did struggle. I have ever been a hard-working man; but I have also been a happy man. To the labor of these hands am I indebted for the comforts that now, in my age, surround me. To be an honest, independent farmer, was my desire; and the summit. of my ambition being attained, why should I not be happy? You, George, know what comforts surround the industrious farmer; you know that his pursuit is an honorable one; and yet, on this evening, you leave us to tempt the dangers of a sphere of life with which you are entirely unacquianted. George. What you say is true, father; but a farmer's life is too much of an every-day affair. I want something exciting. Far. Well, George, I have said upon the subject all that I think necessary. If you are determined to forsake the parental roof in the vague hope of acquiring riches, you must e'en take your own course. But remember the honor of the name you bear. No stains rest on that your father proudly |