Harriet. But why that angry look? Would you abandon us? In your friendship, and my husband’s love, is now my only hope.
Poly. What touching accents! I never before—’Twas with tones like these the serpent must have seduced my poor innocent boy. (Severely.) It is my duty, miss—my duty, madam, to remind you that the step you have taken is—(She looks abashed.)—Not that I would say anything to give you pain, but—tell me who you are, my dear.
Harriet. The daughter of Colonel Mowbray, who, dying five years ago, left me without fortune, without friends, without a protector. I sought an asylum in the neighbouring village, and soon afterwards became acquainted with Mr. Eustace. You know his worth, and can you wonder if—
Poly. Poor thing! Well, don’t weep, my dear; your cares will soon be at an end. Not but that so imprudent a step as a clandestine marriage deserves the severest—(As she appears affected, he relaxes in the severity of his manner.) Yet you were very young, and that almost excuses you. But how appease his father?
Harriet. I dread to meet him.
Poly. And I too, who must bear the responsibility of all this! But how did my Charles contrive to make your acquaintance? I watched him so closely, that—
Harriet. I believe, sir, he bribed the servants to conceal his absence from home; and whilst you thought he was in his own room, closely engaged in his studies, he used to—
Poly. The mischievous truant! I’ll trim him for this. I beg pardon; I forgot I was speaking to you of a husband.—Ah! I can imagine by what arts he won your affections. He has often delighted me. He solved some difficult problem in Euclid for you, perhaps—talked Latin to you, eh? or Greek?
Harriet. Greek, sir! he merely said he loved me.
Poly. Where could he have picked up that! I never taught it him. But I always said the dear boy was blessed with a natural genius. And so you have taken advantage of his father’s absence, to get married?