ACT I.
Scene I.--A room in an inn.
Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.
SIR WILLIAM.
My daughter, here? Here in this wretched inn?
WAITWELL.
No doubt, Mellefont has purposely selected the most wretched one in the town. The wicked always seek the darkness, because they are wicked. But what would it help them, could they even hide themselves from the whole world? Conscience after all is more powerful than the accusations of a world. Ah, you are weeping again, again, Sir!--Sir!
SIR WILLIAM.
Let me weep, my honest old servant! Or does she not, do you think, deserve my tears?
WAITWELL.
Alas! She deserves them, were they tears of blood.
SIR WILLIAM.
Well, let me weep!
WAITWELL.
The best, the loveliest, the most innocent child that ever lived beneath the sun, must thus be led astray! Oh, my Sara, my little Sara! I have watched thee grow; a hundred times have I carried thee as a child in these arms, have I admired thy smiles, thy lispings. From every childish look beamed forth the dawn of an intelligence, a kindliness, a----
SIR WILLIAM.
Oh, be silent! Does not the present rend my heart enough? Will you make my tortures more infernal still by recalling past happiness? Change your tone, if you will do me a service. Reproach me, make of my tenderness a crime, magnify my daughter's fault; fill me with abhorrence of her, if you can; stir up anew my revenge against her cursed seducer; say, that Sara never was virtuous, since she so lightly ceased to be so; say that she never loved me, since she clandestinely forsook me!
WAITWELL.
If I said that, I should utter a lie, a shameless, wicked lie. It might come to me again on my death-bed, and I, old wretch, would die in despair. No, little Sara has loved her father; and doubtless, doubtless she loves him yet. If you will only be convinced of this, I shall see her again in your arms this very day.
SIR WILLIAM.
Yes, Waitwell, of this alone I ask to be convinced. I cannot any longer live without her; she is the support of my age, and if she does not help to sweeten the sad remaining days of my life, who shall do it? If she loves me still, her error is forgotten. It was the error of a tender-hearted maiden, and her flight was the result of her remorse. Such errors are better than forced virtues. Yet I feel, Waitwell, I feel it, even were these errors real crimes, premeditated vices--even then I should forgive her. I would rather be loved by a wicked daughter, than by none at all.
WAITWELL.
Dry your tears, dear sir! I hear some one. It will be the landlord coming to welcome us.