Enter Tom Shuffleton.
Frank. Tom Shuffleton! you never arrived more apropos in your life.
Shuff. That's what the women always say to me. I've rumbled on the road, all night, Frank. My bones ache, my head's muzzy—and we'll drink two bottles of claret a-piece, after dinner, to enliven us.
Frank. You seem in spirits, Tom, I think, now.
Shuff. Yes;—I have had a windfall—Five hundred pounds.
Frank. A legacy?
Shuff. No.—The patient survives who was sick of his money. 'Tis a loan from a friend.
Frank. 'Twould be a pity, then, Tom, if the patient experienced improper treatment.
Shuff. Why, that's true:—but his case is so rare, that it isn't well understood, I believe. Curse me, my dear Frank, if the disease of lending is epidemic.
Frank. But the disease of trying to borrow, my dear Tom, I am afraid, is.
Shuff. Very prevalent, indeed, at the west end of the town.
Frank. And as dangerous, Tom, as the small-pox. They should inoculate for it.
Shuff. That wouldn't be a bad scheme; but I took it naturally. Psha! damn it, don't shake your head. Mine's but a mere façon de parler: just as we talk to one another about our coats:—we never say, "Who's your tailor?" We always ask, "Who suffers?" Your father tells me you are going to be married; I give you joy.
Frank. Joy! I have known nothing but torment, and misery, since this cursed marriage has been in agitation.
Shuff. Umph! Marriage was a weighty affair, formerly; so was a family coach;—but domestic duties, now, are like town chariots;—they must be made light, to be fashionable.
Frank. Oh, do not trifle. By acceding to this match, in obedience to my father, I leave to all the pangs of remorse, and disappointed love, a helpless, humble girl, and rend the fibres of a generous, but too credulous heart, by cancelling like a villain, the oaths with which I won it.
Shuff. I understand:—A snug thing in the country.—Your wife, they tell me, will have four thousand a year.
Frank. What has that to do with sentiment?
Shuff. I don't know what you may think; but, if a man said to me, plump, "Sir, I am very fond of four thousand a year;" I should say,—"Sir, I applaud your sentiment very highly."
Frank. But how does he act, who offers his hand to one woman, at the very moment his heart is engaged to another?
Shuff. He offers a great sacrifice.
Frank. And where is the reparation to the unfortunate he has deserted?
Shuff. An annuity.—A great many unfortunates sport a stylish carriage, up and down St. James's street, upon such a provision.
Frank. An annuity, flowing from the fortune, I suppose, of the woman I marry! is that delicate?
Shuff. 'Tis convenient. We liquidate debts of play, and usury, from the same resources.
Frank. And call a crowd of jews and gentlemen gamesters together, to be settled with, during the debtor's honeymoon!
Shuff. No, damn it, it wouldn't be fair to jumble the jews into the same room with our gaming acquaintance.
Frank. Why so?
Shuff. Because, twenty to one, the first half of the creditors would begin dunning the other.
Frank. Nay, far once in your life be serious. Read this, which has wrung my heart, and repose it, as a secret, in your own.
[Giving the Letter.
Shuff. [Glancing over it.] A pretty, little, crowquill kind of a hand.—"Happiness,—innocence,—trifling assistance—gentleman befriended me—unhappy Mary."—Yes, I see—[Returning it.]—She wants money, but has got a new friend.—The style's neat, but the subject isn't original.
Frank. Will you serve me at this crisis?
Shuff. Certainly.
Frank. I wish you to see my poor Mary in the course of the day. Will you talk to her?
Shuff. O yes—I'll talk to her. Where is she to be seen?
Frank. She writes, you see, that she has abruptly left her father—and I learn, by the messenger, that she is now in a miserable, retired house, on the neighbouring heath.—That mustn't deter you from going.
Shuff. Me? Oh, dear no—I'm used to it. I don't care how retired the house is.
Frank. Come down to my father to breakfast. I will tell you afterwards all I wish you to execute.—Oh, Tom! this business has unhinged me for society. Rigid morality, after all, is the best coat of mail for the conscience.
Shuff. Our ancestors, who wore mail, admired it amazingly; but to mix in the gay world, with their rigid morality, would be as singular as stalking into a drawing-room in their armour:—for dissipation is now the fashionable habit, with which, like a brown coat, a man goes into company, to avoid being stared at.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
An Apartment in Job Thornberry's House.
Enter Job Thornberry, in a Night Gown, and Bur.
Bur. Don't take on so—don't you, now! pray, listen to reason.
Job. I won't.
Bur. Pray do!
Job. I won't. Reason bid me love my child, and help my friend:—what's the consequence? my friend has run one way, and broke up my trade; my daughter has run another, and broke my——No, she shall never have it to say she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief, she shan't know she made me.
Bur. Well, but, master—
Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop, when the fat church wardens starved you at the workhouse,—damn their want of feeling for it!—and you were thump'd about, a poor, unoffending, ragged-rump'd boy, as you were—I wonder you hav'n't run away from me too.
Bur. That's the first real unkind word you ever said to me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and never miss'd a morning.
Job. The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods: you won't have the trouble any longer.
Bur. Trouble! Lookye, old Job Thornberry—
Job. Well! What, you are going to be saucy to me, now I'm ruin'd?
Bur. Don't say one cutting thing after another.—You have been as noted, all round our town, for being a kind man, as being a blunt one.
Job. Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look at my ledger—they'll find it right. I began upon a little; I made that little great, by industry; I never cringed to a customer, to get him into my books, that I might hamper him with an overcharged bill, for long credit; I earn'd my fair profits; I paid my fair way; I break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend will be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap his hand on his heart, and say as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate.
Bur. 'Twas I kept your ledger, all the time.
Job. I know you did.
Bur. From the time you took me out of the workhouse.
Job. Psha! rot the workhouse!
Bur. You never mention'd it to me yourself till to-day.
Job. I said it in a hurry.
Bur. And I've always remember'd it at leisure. I don't want to brag, but I hope I've been found faithful. It's rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him your man of trust, for two and twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you, now you're in trouble.
Job. [Affected.] John—I beg your pardon.
[Stretching out his Hand.
Bur. [Taking his Hand.] Don't say a word more about it.
Job. I—
Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more!—Come, be a man! get on your things; and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods.
Job. I can't, John; I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron and brass in my shop.
Bur. Nay, consider what confusion!—pluck up a courage; do, now!
Job. Well, I'll try.
Bur. Aye, that's right: here's your clothes. [Taking them from the Back of a Chair.] They'll play the devil with all the pots and pans, if you aren't by.—Why, I warrant you'll do! Bless you, what should ail you?
Job. Ail me? do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me.
Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. [Going to help him on with his Clothes] This is the waistcoat young mistress work'd with her own hands, for your birth-day, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can.
Job. [Throwing it on the Floor violently.] I'd as lieve get into my coffin. She'll have me there soon. Psha! rot it! I'm going to snivel. Bur, go, and get me another.
Bur. Are you sure you won't put it on?
Job. No, I won't. [Bur pauses.] No, I tell you.—
[Exit Bur.
How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago!—I little thought what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my neighbours to celebrate the day;—there was Collop on one side of me, and his wife on the other; and my daughter Mary sat at the farther end;—smiling so sweetly;—like an artful, good for nothing——I shou'dn't like to throw away a waistcoat neither.—I may as well put it on.—Yes—it would be poor spite not to put it on. [Putting his Arms into it.]—She's breaking my heart; but, I'll wear it, I'll wear it. [Buttoning it as he speaks, and crying involuntarily.] It's my child's—She's undutiful,—ungrateful,—barbarous,—but she's my child,—and she'll never work me another.
Enter Bur.
Bur. Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I think it's damp.
Job. I was thinking so myself, Bur; and so——
Bur. Eh—what, you've got on the old one? Well, now, I declare, I'm glad of that. Here's your coat. [Putting it on him.]—'Sbobs! this waistcoat feels a little damp, about the top of the bosom.
Job. [Confused.] Never mind, Bur, never mind.—A little water has dropt on it; but it won't give me cold, I believe.
[A noise without.
Bur. Heigh! they are playing up old Harry below! I'll run, and see what's the matter. Make haste after me, do, now!
[Exit Bur.
Job. I don't care for the bankruptcy now. I can face my creditors, like an honest man; and I can crawl to my grave, afterwards, as poor as a church-mouse. What does it signify? Job Thornberry has no reason now to wish himself worth a groat:—the old ironmonger and brazier has nobody to board his money for now! I was only saving for my daughter; and she has run away from her doating, foolish father,—and struck down my heart—flat—flat.—
Enter Peregrine.
Well, who are you?
Pereg. A friend.
Job. Then, I'm sorry to see you. I have just been ruin'd by a friend; and never wish to have another friend again, as long as I live.—No, nor any ungrateful, undutiful—Poh!—I don't recollect your face.
Pereg. Climate, and years, have been at work on it. While Europeans are scorching under an Indian sun, Time is doubly busy in fanning their features with his wings. But, do you remember no trace of me?
Job. No, I tell you. If you have any thing to say, say it. I have something to settle below with my daughter—I mean, with the people in the shop;—they are impatient; and the morning has half run away, before she knew I should be up—I mean, before I have had time to get on my coat and waistcoat, she gave me—I mean—I mean, if you have any business, tell it, at once.
Pereg. I will tell it at once. You seem agitated. The harpies, whom I pass'd in your shop, inform'd me of your sudden misfortune, but do not despair yet.
Job. Aye, I'm going to be a bankrupt—but that don't signify. Go on: it isn't that;—they'll find all fair;—but, go on.
Pereg. I will. 'Tis just thirty years ago, since I left England.
Job. That's a little after the time I set up in the hardware business.
Pereg. About that time, a lad of fifteen years entered your shop: he had the appearance of a gentleman's son; and told you he had heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry's goodness to persons in distress.
Job. I believe he told a lie there.
Pereg. Not in that instance, though he did in another.
Job. I remember him. He was a fine, bluff, boy!
Pereg. He had lost his parents, he said; and, destitute of friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood.
Job. Yes, yes; he did. I remember it.
Pereg. You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand. They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to better advantage than in relieving a helpless orphan;—and, giving him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good spirits, and prosperity. He left you with a promise, that, if fortune ever smil'd upon him, you should, one day, hear news of Peregrine.
Job. Ah, poor fellow! poor Peregrine! he was a pretty boy. I should like to hear news of him, I own.
Pereg. I am that Peregrine.
Job. Eh? what—you are—? No: let me look at you again. Are you the pretty boy, that———bless us, how you are alter'd!
Pereg. I have endur'd many hardships since I saw you; many turns of fortune;—but I deceived you (it was the cunning of a truant lad) when I told you I had lost my parents. From a romantic folly, the growth of boyish brains, I had fix'd my fancy on being a sailor, and had run away from my father.
Job. [With great Emotion.] Run away from your father! If I had known that, I'd have horse-whipp'd you, within an inch of your life!
Pereg. Had you known it, you had done right, perhaps.
Job. Right? Ah! you don't know what it is for a child to run away from a father! Rot me, if I wou'dn't have sent you back to him, tied, neck and heels, in the basket of the stage coach.
Pereg. I have had my compunctions;—have express'd them by letter to my father: but I fear my penitence had no effect.
Job. Served you right.
Pereg. Having no answers from him, he died, I fear, without forgiving me.
[Sighing.
Job. [Starting.] What! died! without forgiving his child!—Come, that's too much. I cou'dn't have done that, neither.—But, go on: I hope you've been prosperous. But you shou'dn't—you shou'dn't have quitted your father.
Pereg. I acknowledge it;—yet, I have seen prosperity; though I traversed many countries, on my outset, in pain and poverty. Chance, at length, raised me a friend in India; by whose interest, and my own industry, I amass'd considerable wealth, in the Factory at Calcutta.
Job. And have just landed it, I suppose, in England.
Pereg. I landed one hundred pounds, last night, in my purse, as I swam from the Indiaman, which was splitting on a rock, half a league from the neighbouring shore. As for the rest of my property—bills, bonds, cash, jewels—the whole amount of my toil and application, are, by this time, I doubt not, gone to the bottom; and Peregrine is returned, after thirty years, to pay his debt to you, almost as poor as he left you.
Job. I won't touch a penny of your hundred pounds—not a penny.
Pereg. I do not desire you: I only desire you to take your own.
Job. My own?
Pereg. Yes; I plunged with this box, last night, into the waves. You see, it has your name on it.
Job. "Job Thornberry," sure enough. And what's in it?
Pereg. The harvest of a kind man's charity!—the produce of your bounty to one, whom you thought an orphan. I have traded, these twenty years, on ten guineas (which, from the first, I had set apart as yours), till they have become ten thousand: take it; it could not, I find, come more opportunely. Your honest heart gratified itself in administering to my need; and I experience that burst of pleasure, a grateful man enjoys, in relieving my reliever.
[Giving him the Box.
Job. [Squeezes Peregrine's Hand, returns the Box, and seems almost unable to utter.] Take it again.
Pereg. Why do you reject it?
Job. I'll tell you, as soon as I'm able. T'other day, I lent a friend——Pshaw, rot it! I'm an old fool! [Wiping his Eyes.]—I lent a friend, t'other day, the whole profits of my trade, to save him from sinking. He walk'd off with them, and made me a bankrupt. Don't you think he is a rascal?
Pereg. Decidedly so.
Job. And what should I be, if I took all you have saved in the world, and left you to shift for yourself?
Pereg. But the case is different. This money is, in fact, your own. I am inur'd to hardships; better able to bear them, and am younger than you. Perhaps, too, I still have prospects of——
Job. I won't take it. I'm as thankful to you, as if I left you to starve: but I won't take it.
Pereg. Remember, too, you have claims upon you, which I have not. My guide, as I came hither, said, you had married in my absence: 'tis true, he told me you were now a widower; but, it seems, you have a daughter to provide for.
Job. I have no daughter to provide for now!
Pereg. Then he misinform'd me.
Job. No, he didn't. I had one last night; but she's gone.
Pereg. Gone!
Job. Yes; gone to sea, for what I know, as you did. Run away from a good father, as you did.—This is a morning to remember;—my daughter has run out, and the bailiffs have run in;—I shan't soon forget the day of the month.
Pereg. This morning, did you say?
Job. Aye, before day-break;—a hard-hearted, base——
Pereg. And could she leave you, during the derangement of your affairs?
Job. She did'nt know what was going to happen, poor soul! I wish she had now. I don't think my Mary would have left her old father in the midst of his misfortunes.
Pereg. [Aside.] Mary! it must be she! What is the amount of the demands upon you?
Job. Six thousand. But I don't mind that: the goods can nearly cover it—let 'em take 'em—damn the gridirons and warming-pans!—I could begin again—but, now, my Mary's gone, I hav'n't the heart; but I shall hit upon something.
Pereg. Let me make a proposal to you, my old friend. Permit me to settle with the officers, and to clear all demands upon you. Make it a debt, if you please. I will have a hold, if it must be so, on your future profits in trade; but do this, and I promise to restore your daughter to you.
Job. What? bring back my child! Do you know where she is? Is she safe? Is she far off? Is——
Pereg. Will you receive the money?
Job. Yes, yes; on those terms—on those conditions. But where is Mary?
Pereg. Patience. I must not tell you yet; but, in four-and-twenty hours, I pledge myself to bring her back to you.
Job. What, here? to her father's house? and safe? Oh, 'sbud! when I see her safe, what a thundering passion I'll be in with her! But you are not deceiving me? You know, the first time you came into my shop, what a bouncer you told me, when you were a boy.
Pereg. Believe me, I would not trifle with you now. Come, come down to your shop, that we may rid it of its present visitants.
Job. I believe you dropt from the clouds, all on a sudden, to comfort an old, broken-hearted brazier.
Pereg. I rejoice, my honest friend, that I arrived at so critical a juncture; and, if the hand of Providence be in it, 'tis because Heaven ordains, that benevolent actions, like yours, sooner or later, must ever meet their recompense.
[Exeunt.
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.
Sir Simon Rochdale's Library.
Enter Sir Simon Rochdale and the Earl of Fitz Balaam.
Sir Simon. Believe me, my lord, the man I wish'd most to meet in my library this morning, was the Earl of Fitz Balaam.
Lord Fitz. Thank you, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Your arrival, a day before your promise, gives us such convenient leisure to talk over the arrangements, relative to the marriage of Lady Caroline Braymore, your lordship's daughter, with my son.
Lord Fitz. True, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Then, while Lady Caroline is at her toilet, we'll dash into business at once; for I know your lordship is a man of few words. They tell me, my lord, you have sat in the Upper House, and said nothing but aye and no, there, for these thirty years.
Lord Fitz. I spoke, for more than a minute, in the year of the influenza.
Sir Simon. Bless me! the epidemic, perhaps, raging among the members, at the moment.
Lord Fitz. Yes;—they cough'd so loud, I left off in the middle.
Sir Simon. And you never attempted again.
Lord Fitz. I hate to talk much, Sir Simon;—'tis my way; though several don't like it.
Sir Simon. I do. I consider it as a mark of your lordship's discretion. The less you say, my lord, in my mind, the wiser you are; and I have often thought it a pity, that some noble orators hav'n't follow'd your lordship's example.—But, here are the writings. [Sitting down with Lord Fitz Balaam, and taking them from the Table.] We must wave ceremony now, my lord; for all this pile of parchment is built on the independent four thousand a year of your daughter, Lady Caroline, on one hand, and your lordship's incumbrances, on the other.
Lord Fitz. I have saddles on my property, Sir Simon.
Sir. Simon. Which saddles, your lordship's property being uncommonly small, look something like sixteen stone upon a poney. The Fitz Balaam estate, for an earl, is deplorably narrow.
Lord Fitz. Yet, it has given security for a large debt.
Sir Simon. Large, indeed! I can't think how you have contriv'd it. 'Tis the Archbishop of Brobdignag, squeez'd into Tom Thumb's pantaloons.
Lord Fitz. Mine is the oldest estate in England, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. If we may judge of age by decay, my lord, it must be very ancient, indeed!—But this goes to something in the shape of supplies. [Untying the Papers.] "Covenant between Augustus Julius Braymore, Earl of Fitz Balaam, of Cullender Castle, in the county of Cumberland, and Simon Rochdale, Baronet, of Hollyhock House, in the county of Cornwall."——By the by, my lord, considering what an expense attends that castle, which is at your own disposal, and that, if the auctioneer don't soon knock it down, the weather will, I wonder what has prevented your lordship's bringing it to the hammer.
Lord Fitz. The dignity of my ancestors. I have blood in my family, Sir Simon——
[Proudly.
Sir Simon. A deal of excellent blood, my lord; but from the butler down to the house-dog, curse me if ever I saw so little flesh in a family before—But by this covenant——
Lord Fitz. You clear off the largest mortgage.
Sir Simon. Right;—for which purpose, on the day of the young folks' marriage——
Lord Fitz. You must pay me forty thousand pounds.
Sir Simon. Right, again. Your lordship says little; but 'tis terribly plump to the point, indeed, my lord. Here is the covenant;—and, now, will your lordship look over the marriage articles?
Lord Fitz. My attorney will be here to-morrow, Sir Simon. I prefer reading by deputy.
[Both rise.
Sir Simon. Many people of rank read in the same way, my lord. And your lordship will receive the forty thousand pounds, I am to pay you, by deputy also, I suppose.
Lord Fitz. I seldom swear, Sir Simon; but, damn me if I will.
Sir Simon. I believe you are right. Yet there are but two reasons for not trusting an attorney with your money:—one is, when you don't know him very well; and the other is, when you do.—And now, since the marriage is concluded, as I may say, in the families, may I take the liberty to ask, my lord, what sort of a wife my son Frank may expect in Lady Caroline? Frank is rather of a grave, domestic turn: Lady Caroline, it seems, has passed the three last winters in London. Did her ladyship enter into all the spirit of the first circles?
Lord Fitz. She was as gay as a lark, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. Was she like the lark in her hours, my lord?
Lord Fitz. A great deal more like the owl, Sir Simon.
Sir Simon. I thought so. Frank's mornings in London will begin where her ladyship's nights finish. But his case won't be very singular. Many couples make the marriage bed a kind of cold matrimonial well; and the two family buckets dip into it alternately.
Enter Lady Caroline Braymore.
Lady Car. Do I interrupt business?
Sir Simon. Not in the least. Pray, Lady Caroline, come in. His lordship and I have just concluded.
Lord Fitz. And I must go and walk my three miles, this morning.
Sir Simon. Must you, my lord?
Lord Fitz. My physician prescribed it, when I told him I was apt to be dull, after dinner.
Sir Simon. I would attend your lordship;—but since Lady Caroline favours me with—
Lady Car. No, no—don't mind me. I assure you, I had much rather you would go.
Sir Simon. Had you?—hum!—but the petticoats have their new school of good breeding, too, they tell me. [Aside.] Well, we are gone—we have been glancing over the writings, Lady Caroline, that form the basis of my son's happiness:—though his lordship isn't much inclined to read.
Lady Car. But I am.—I came here to study very deeply, before dinner.
Sir Simon. What, would your ladyship, then, wish to—
[Showing the Writings.
Lady Car. To read that? My dear Sir Simon! all that Hebrew, upon parchment as thick as a board!—I came to see if you had any of the last novels in your book room.
Sir Simon. The last novels!—most of the female new school are ghost bitten, they tell me. [Aside.] There's Fielding's Works; and you'll find Tom Jones, you know.
Lady Car. Psha! that's such a hack!
Sir Simon. A hack, Lady Caroline, that the knowing ones have warranted sound.
Lady Car. But what do you think of those that have had such a run lately?
Sir Simon. Why, I think most of them have run too much, and want firing.
[Exeunt Sir Simon, and Lord Fitz Balaam.
Lady Car. I shall die of ennui, in this moping manor house!—Shall I read to-day?—no, I'll walk.—No, I'll——Yes, I'll read first, and walk afterwards. [Rings the Bell, and takes a Book.]—Pope.—Come, as there are no novels, this may be tolerable. This is the most triste house I ever saw!
[Sits down and reads.
Where heavenly-pensive—"
Enter Robert.
Rob. Did you ring, my lady?
Lady Car. ——"Contemplation dwells—" Sir? Oh, yes;—I should like to walk. Is it damp under foot, sir?—"And ever musing—"
Rob. There has been a good deal of rain to-day my lady.
Lady Car. "Melancholy reigns—"
Rob. My lady—
Lady Car. Pray, sir, look out, and bring me word if it is clean or dirty.
Rob. Yes, my lady.
[Exit.
Lady Car. This settling a marriage is a strange business!—"What means this tumult in a vestal's veins?—"
Shuff. [Without.] Bid the groom lead the horse into the avenue, and I'll come to him.
Lady Car. Company in the house?—some Cornish squire, I suppose.
[Resumes her reading.
Enter Tom Shuffleton, speaking while entering, John following.
Lady Car. [Still reading, and seated with her Back to Shuffleton.]——"Soon as thy letters, trembling, I unclose——"
John. What horse will you have saddled, sir?
Shuff. Slyboots.
[Exit John.
Lady Car. ——"That well known name awakens all my woes—"
Shuff. Lady Caroline Braymore!
Lady Car. Mr. Shuffleton! Lard! what can bring you into Cornwall?
Shuff. Sympathy:—which has generally brought me near your ladyship, in London at least, for these three winters.
Lady Car. Psha! but seriously?
Shuff. I was summoned by friendship. I am consulted on all essential points, in this family;—and Frank Rochdale is going to be married.
Lady Car. Then, you know to whom?
Shuff. No;—not thinking that an essential point, I forgot to ask. He kneels at the pedestal of a rich shrine, and I didn't inquire about the statue. But, dear Lady Caroline, what has brought you into Cornwall?
Lady Car. Me? I'm the statue.
Shuff. You!
Lady Car. Yes; I've walk'd off my pedestal, to be worshipp'd at the Land's End.
Shuff. You to be married to Frank Rochdale! O, Lady Caroline! what then is to become of me?
Lady Car. Oh, Mr. Shuffleton! not thinking that an essential point, I forgot to ask.
Shuff. Psha! now you're laughing at me! but upon my soul, I shall turn traitor; take advantage of the confidence reposed in me, by my friend, and endeavour to supplant him.
Lady Car. What do you think the world would call such duplicity of conduct?
Enter Robert.
Rob. Very dirty, indeed, my lady.
[Exit.
Shuff. That infernal footman has been listening!—I'll kick him round his master's park.
Lady Car. 'Tis lucky, then, you are booted; for, you hear, he says it is very dirty there.
Shuff. Was that the meaning of——Pooh!—but, you see, the—the surprise—the—the agitation has made me ridiculous.
Lady Car. I see something has made you ridiculous; but you never told me what it was before.
Shuff. Lady Caroline; this is a crisis, that—my attentions,—that is, the——In short, the world, you know, my dear Lady Caroline, has given me to you.
Lady Car. Why, what a shabby world it is!
Shuff. How so?
Lady Car. To make me a present of something, it sets no value on itself.
Shuff. I flattered myself I might not be altogether invaluable to your ladyship.
Lady Car. To me! Now, I can't conceive any use I could make of you. No, positively, you are neither useful nor ornamental.
Shuff. Yet, you were never at an opera, without me at your elbow;—never in Kensington Gardens, that my horse—the crop, by the bye, given me by Lord Collarbone,—wasn't constantly in leading at the gate:—hav'n't you danc'd with me at every ball?—And hav'nt I, unkind, forgetful, Lady Caroline, even cut the Newmarket meetings, when you were in London?
Lady Car. Bless me!—these charges are brought in like a bill. "To attending your ladyship at such a time; to dancing down twenty couple with your ladyship, at another,"—and, pray, to what do they all amount?
Shuff. The fullest declaration.
Lady Car. Lard, Mr. Shuffleton! why, it has, to be sure, looked a—a—a little foolish—but you—you never spoke any thing to——that is—to justify such a——
Shuff. That's as much as to say, speak now. [Aside.]—To be plain, Lady Caroline, my friend does not know your value. He has an excellent heart—but that heart is—[Coughs.] damn the word, it's so out of fashion, it chokes me! [Aside.] is irrevocably given to another.—But mine—by this sweet hand, I swear——
[Kneeling and kissing her Hand.
Enter John.
Well, sir?—
[Rising hastily.
John. Slyboots, sir, has been down on his knees;—and the groom says he can't go out.
Shuff. Let him saddle another.
John. What horse, sir, will you——
Shuff. Psha!—any.—What do you call Mr. Rochdale's favourite, now.
John. Traitor, sir.
Shuff. When Traitor's in the avenue, I shall be there.
[Exit John.
Lady Car. Answer me one question, candidly, and, perhaps, I may entrust you with a secret.—Is Mr. Rochdale seriously attached?
Shuff. Very seriously.
Lady Car. Then I won't marry him.
Shuff. That's spirited.—Now, your secret.
Lady Car. Why—perhaps you may have heard, that my father, Lord Fitz Balaam, is, somehow, so—so much in debt, that—but, no matter.
Shuff. Oh, not at all;—the case is fashionable, with both lords and commoners.
Lady Car. But an old maiden aunt, whom, rest her soul! I never saw, for family pride's sake, bequeathed me an independence. To obviate his lordship's difficulties, I mean to—to marry into this humdrum Cornish family.
Shuff. I see—a sacrifice!—filial piety, and all that—to disembarrass his lordship. But hadn't your ladyship better—
Lady Car. Marry to disembarrass you?
Shuff. By my honour, I'm disinterested.
Lady Car. By my honour, I'm monstrously piqued—and so vex'd, that I can't read this morning,—nor talk,—nor——I'll walk.
Shuff. Shall I attend you?
Lady Car. No;—don't fidget at my elbow, as you do at the opera. But you shall tell me more of this by and by.
Shuff. When?—Where?
[Taking her Hand.
Lady Car. Don't torment me.—This evening, or—to-morrow, perhaps;—in the park,—or——psha! we shall meet at dinner.—Do, let me go now, for I shall be very bad company.
Shuff. [Kissing her Hand.] Adieu, Lady Caroline!—
Lady Car. Adieu!
[Exit.
Shuff. My friend Frank, here, I think, is very much obliged to me!—I am putting matters pretty well en train to disencumber him of a wife;—and now I'll canter over the heath, and see what I can do for him with the brazier's daughter.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
A mean Parlour at the Red Cow.
A Table—Pen, Ink, and Paper on it.—Chairs.
Mary and Mrs. Brulgruddery discovered.
Mrs. Brul. Aye, he might have been there, and back, over and over again;—but my husband's slow enough in his motions, as I tell him, till I'm tir'd on't.
Mary. I hope he'll be here soon.
Mrs. Brul. Ods, my little heart! Miss, why so impatient? Hav'n't you as genteel a parlour as any lady in the land could wish to sit down in?—The bed's turn'd up in a chest of drawers that's stain'd to look like mahogany:—there's two poets, and a poll parrot, the best images the jew had on his head, over the mantlepiece; and was I to leave you all alone by yourself, isn't there an eight day clock in the corner, that when one's waiting, lonesome like, for any body, keeps going tick-tack, and is quite company?
Mary. Indeed, I did not mean to complain.
Mrs. Brul. Complain?—No, I think not, indeed!—When, besides having a handsome house over your head, the strange gentleman has left two guineas—though one seems light, and t'other looks a little brummish—to be laid out for you, as I see occasion. I don't say it for the lucre of any thing I'm to make out of the money, but, I'm sure you can't want to eat yet.
Mary. Not if it gives any trouble;—but I was up before sunrise, and have tasted nothing to-day.
Mrs. Brul. Eh! why, bless me, young woman! ar'n't you well?
Mary. I feel very faint.
Mrs. Brul. Aye, this is a faintish time o'year; but I must give you a little something, I suppose:—I'll open the window, and give you a little air.
[Dennis Brulgruddery, singing, without.