Handy, jun. No; love you more than ever.
Susan. Oh! Robert, this is the very crisis of my fate.——From this moment we meet with honour, or we meet no more. If we must part, perhaps, when you lead your happy bride to church, you may stumble over your Susan's grave. Well, be it so.
Handy, jun. Away with such sombre thoughts!
Susan. Tell me my doom—yet hold—you are wild, impetuous—you do not give your heart fair play—therefore promise me (perhaps 'tis the last favour I shall ask), that before you determine whether our love shall die or live with honour, you will remain here alone a few moments, and that you will give those moments to reflection.
Handy, jun. I do—I will.
Susan. With a throbbing heart I will wait at a little distance. May virtuous love and sacred honour direct his thoughts!
[Aside.—Exit.
Handy, jun. Yes, I will reflect, that I am the most fortunate fellow in England. She loves me still—what is the consequence?—that love will triumph—that she will be mine—mine without the degradation of marriage—love, pride, all gratified—how I shall be envied when I triumphantly pass the circles of fashion! One will cry, "Who is that angel?"—another, "Happy fellow!" then Susan will smile around—will she smile? oh yes—she will be all gaiety—mingle with the votaries of pleasure, and—what! Susan Ashfield the companion of licentious women!—Damnation!—no! I wrong her—she would not—she would rather shun society—she would be melancholy—melancholy! [Sighs, and looks at his watch.]—would the time were over!—Pshaw! I think of it too seriously—'Tis false—I do not.—Should her virtue yield to love, would not remorse affect her health? should I not behold that lovely form sicken and decay—perhaps die?—die! then what am I?—a villain, loaded with her parents' curses and my own.—Let me fly from the dreadful thought.—But how fly from it?—[Calmly.]—By placing before my imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments.—I make her my wife.—Ah! then she would smile on me—there's rapture in the thought;—instead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazoning beauty; instead of Susan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms—down her father's honest face runs a tear—but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this will be luxury! paradise!—Come, Susan!—come, my love, my soul—my wife.
Enter Susan—she at first hesitates—on hearing the word wife, she springs into his arms.
Susan. Is it possible?