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Lord Austencourt. Sir Rowland Austencourt. Charles Austencourt. Sir Willoughby Worret. Falkner. Abel Grouse. |
Mr. Cornelius O’Dedimus. Ponder. William. Servant. Countryman. Sailor. |
Game-Keeper. Parish Officer. Lady Worret. Helen Worret. Fanny. Tiffany. |
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Ab. Gr. Don’t tell me of your sorrow and repentance girl. You’ve broke my heart. Married hey? and privately too—and to a lord into the bargain! So, when you can hide it no longer, you condescend to tell me. Think you that the wealth and title of lord Austencourt can silence the fears of a fond father’s heart? Why should a lord marry a poor girl like you in private, if his intentions were honourable? Who should restrain him from publicly avowing his wife?
Fanny. My dearest father, have but a little patience, and I’ll explain all.
Ab. Gr. Who was present, besides the parson, at your wedding?
Fanny. There was our neighbour, the attorney, sir, and one of his clerks, and they were all—
Ab. Gr. My heart sinks within me—but mark me. You may remember I was not always what now I seem to be. I yesterday received intelligence which, but for this discovery, had shed a gleam of joy over my remaining days. As it is, should your husband prove the villain I suspect him, that intelligence will afford me an opportunity to resume a character in life which shall make this monster lord tremble. The wrongs of Abel Grouse, the poor but upright man, might have been pleaded in vain to him, but as I shall soon appear, it shall go hard but I will make the great man shrink before me, even in his plenitude of pride and power.
Fanny. You terrify me, sir, indeed you do.
Ab. Gr. And so I would. I would prepare you for the worst that may befal us: for should this man, this lord, who calls himself your husband—
Fanny. Dearest father, what can you mean? Who calls himself my husband! He is my husband.
Ab. Gr. If he is your husband, how does he dare to pay his addresses, as he now publicly does, to the daughter of sir Willoughby Worret, our neighbour. I may be mistaken. I’m in the midst here of old acquaintances, though in this guise they know me not. They shall soon see me amongst them. Not a word of this, I charge you. Come girl, this lord shall own you. If he does not, we will seek a remedy in those laws which are at once the best guardians of our rights and the surest avengers of our wrongs. [Exeunt.
Sir W. Three quarters of an hour since breakfast was first announced to my wife. My patience is exhausted. Oh wedlock, wedlock! why did I ever venture again into thy holy state—of misery! Of all the taxes laid on mankind by respect to society and the influence of example, no one is so burthensome as that which obliges a man to submit to a thousand ills at home, rather than be suspected of being a bad husband abroad. (enter servant) Go to your lady.
Serv. I told her ladyship five times before, sir Willoughby, that breakfast was waiting.
Sir W. Then tell her once more, and that will make six, and say I earnestly request the favour she will hasten to breakfast, as while she stays I starve.
Serv. Yes, sir Willoughby, but she’ll stop the longer for the message. (Aside going out.) [Exit.
Sir W. My wife is the very devil. It seems that she’d be miserable if she did not think me happy; yet her tenderness is my eternal torment; her affection puts me in a fidget, and her fondness in a fever.
Enter servant.
Serv. My lady says she wont detain you a moment, sir Willoughby. [Exit.
Sir W. The old answer. Then she’s so nervous. A nervous wife is worse than a perpetual blister; and then, as the man says in the play, your nervous patients are always ailing, but never die. Zounds! why do I bear it? ’tis my folly, my weakness, to dread the censure of the world, and to sacrifice every comfort of my fire side to the ideal advantage of being esteemed a good husband. (Lady Worret is heard speaking behind) Hark! now she begins her morning work, giving more orders in a minute than can be executed in a month, and teasing my daughter to death to teach her to keep her temper; yet every body congratulates me on having so good a wife; every body envies me so excellent an economist; every body thinks me the happiest man alive; and nobody knows what a miserable mortal I am.
Lady W. (behind) And harkye, William, (entering with servant) tell the coachman to bring the chariot in a quarter of an hour: and William, run with these books immediately to the rector’s; and William, bring up breakfast this moment.
Will. Yes, my lady: (aside) Lord have mercy upon us! [Exit.
Lady W. My dear sir Willoughby, I beg a thousand pardons; but you are always so indulgent that you really spoil me. I’m sure you think me a tiresome creature.
Sir W. No, no, my life, not at all. I should be very ungrateful if I didn’t value you just exactly as highly as you deserve.
Lady W. I certainly deserve a good scolding: I do indeed. I think if you scolded me a little I should behave better.
Sir W. Well, then, as you encourage me, my love, I must own that a little more punctuality would greatly heighten the zest of your society.
Lady W. And yet, sir Willoughby, you must acknowledge that my time is ever dedicated to that proper vigilance which the superintendance of so large an establishment undoubtedly requires.
Sir W. Why, true, my love; but somehow I can’t help thinking, that, as my fortune is so ample, it is quite unnecessary that you should undergo so much fatigue: for instance, I do think that the wife of a baronet of 12,000l. a year owes it to her rank to be otherwise employed than in hunting after the housemaid, or sacrificing her time in the storeroom in counting candles, or weighing out soap, starch, powder-blue, and brown sugar.
Lady W. (in tears) This is unkind, sir Willoughby, this is very unkind.
Sir W. So! as usual, here’s a breeze springing up. What the devil shall I say to sooth her? Wife, wife! you drive me mad. You first beg me to scold you, and then are offended because I obligingly comply with your request.
Lady W. No, sir Willoughby, I am only surprised that you should so little know the value of a wife who daily degrades herself for your advantage.
Sir W. That’s the very thing I complain of. You do degrade yourself. Your economy, my life, is downright parsimony: your vigilance is suspicion; your management is meanness; and you fidget your servants till you make them fretful, and then prudently discharge them because they will live with you no longer. Hey! ods life, I must sooth her: for if company comes, and finds her in this humour, my dear-bought reputation as a good husband is lost forever. (Enter servant with breakfast.) Come, come, my dear lady Worret, let us go to breakfast, come (sitting down to breakfast) let us talk of something else. Come, take your tea.
Lady W. (to servant) Send William to speak to me. [Exit servant.
Sir W. Where’s Helen?
Lady W. I have desired her to copy a few articles into the family receipt book before breakfast; for as her marriage will so shortly take place, it is necessary she should complete her studies.
Sir W. What, she’s at work, I suppose, on the third folio volume.
Lady W. The fifth, I believe.
Sir W. Heaven defend us! I don’t blame it; I don’t censure it at all: but I believe the case is rather unprecedented for an heiress of 12,000l. a year to leave to posterity, in her own hand writing, five folio volumes of recipes, for pickling, preserving, potting, and pastry, for stewing and larding, making ketchup and sour krout, oyster patties, barbacued pies, jellies, jams, soups, sour sauce, and sweetmeats.
Lady W. Oh, sir Willoughby! if young ladies of the present day paid more attention to such substantial acquirements, we should have better wives and better husbands.
Sir W. Why that is singularly just.
Lady W. Yes, if women were taught to find amusement in domestic duties, instead of seeking it at a circulating library, assemblies, and balls, we should hear of fewer appeals to Doctor’s Commons and the court of King’s Bench.
Sir W. Why that is undeniably true (aside) and now, as we have a moment uninterrupted by family affairs—
Enter William.
Lady W. Is the carriage come?
Will. No, my lady.
Lady W. Have you carried the books?
Will. No, my lady.
Lady W. Then go and hasten the coachman.
Will. No, my lady—yes, my lady.
Lady W. And William, send up Tiffany to Miss Helen’s room, and bid her say we expect her at breakfast.
Will. Miss Helen has been in the park these two hours.
Sir W. (Laughs aside.)
Lady W. How! in the park these two hours? Impossible. Send Tiffany to seek her.
Will. Yes, my lady. [Exit.
Sir W. So, as usual, risen with the lark, I suppose.
Lady W. Her disobedience will break my heart.
Sir W. Zounds! I shall go mad. Here’s a mother-in-law going to break her heart, because my daughter prefers a walk in the morning to writing culinary secrets in a fat folio family receipt book!
Lady W. Sir Willoughby, sir Willoughby, it is you who encourage her in disregarding my orders.
Sir W. No such thing, lady Worret, no such thing: but if the girl likes to bring home a pair of ruddy cheeks from a morning walk, I don’t see why she is to be balked of her fancy.
Lady W. Ruddy cheeks, indeed! Such robust health is becoming only in dairy maids.
Sir W. Yes, I know your taste to a T. A consumption is always a key to your tender heart; and an interesting pallid countenance will at any time unlock the door to your best affections: but I must be excused if I prefer seeing my daughter with the rosy glow of health upon her cheek, rather than the sickly imitations of art, which bloom on the surface alone, while the fruit withers and decays beneath—but zounds! don’t speak so loud, here’s somebody coming, and they’ll think we are quarrelling. (Helen sings behind) So here comes our madcap.
Enter Helen.
Helen. Good morning, good morning. Here, papa, look what a beautiful posy of wild flowers I have gathered. See, the dew is still upon them. How lovely they are! To my fancy, now, these uncultivated productions of nature have more charms than the whole garden can equal. Why can we not all be like these flowers, simple and inartificial, with the stamp of nature and truth upon us?
Lady W. Romantic stuff! But how comes it, Miss Helen, that my orders are thus disobeyed?
Helen. Why lord, mamma, I’ll tell you how it was; but first I must eat my breakfast; so I’ll sit down and tell you all about it. (sits down.) In the first place, I rose at six, and remembering I was to copy out the whole catalogue of sweetmeats, and as I hate all sweet things, (some sugar, if you please, papa) I determined to take one run round the park before I sat down to my morning’s work: so taking a crust of bread and a glass of cold water, which I love better than (some tea, if you please, mamma) any thing in the world, out I flew like a lapwing; stopped at the dairy; and (some cream, if you please, papa) down to the meadows and gathered my nosegay; and then bounded home, with a heart full of gayety, and a rare appetite for—some roll and butter, if you please, mamma.
Lady W. Daughter, this levity of character is unbecoming your sex, and even your age. You see none of this offensive flightiness in me.
Sir W. Come, come, my dear lady Worret. Helen’s gayety is natural. Helen, my love, I have charming news for you. Every thing is at last arranged between lord Austencourt and me respecting your marriage.
Helen. Why now, if mamma-in-law had said this, I should have thought she meant to make me as grave as herself.
Lady W. In expectation that Helen will behave as becomes her in this most important affair of her life, I consent to pass over her negligence this morning in regard to my favourite receipts.
Helen. I hate all receipts, sweet, bitter, and sour.
Lady W. Then we will now talk of a husband.
Helen. I hate all husbands, sweet, bitter, and sour.
Sir W. Whoo! Helen, my love, you should not contradict your mamma.
Helen. My dear papa, I don’t contradict her; but I will not marry lord Austencourt.
Lady W. This is too much for my weak nerves. I leave you, sir Willoughby, to arrange this affair, while I hasten to attend to my domestic duties.
Sir W. (aside to lady W.) That’s right; you’d better leave her to me. I’ll manage her, I warrant. Let me assist you—there—I’ll soon settle this business. (Hands lady Worret off.)
Helen. Now, my dear papa, are you really of the same opinion as her ladyship?
Sir W. Exactly.
Helen. Ha! ha! lud! but that’s comical. What! both think alike?
Sir W. Precisely.
Helen. That’s very odd. I believe it’s the first time you’ve agreed in opinion since you were made one: but I’m quite sure you never can wish me to marry a man I do not love.
Sir W. Why no, certainly not; but you will love him; indeed you must. It’s my wife’s wish, you know, and so I wish it of course. Come, come, in this one trifling matter you must oblige us.
Helen. Well, as you think it only a trifling matter, and as I think it of importance enough to make me miserable, I’m sure you’ll give up the point.
Sir W. Why no, you are mistaken. To be sure I might have given it up; but my lady Worret, you know—but that’s no matter. Marriage is a duty, and tis incumbent on parents to see their children settled in that happy state.
Helen. Have you found that state so happy, sir?
Sir W. Why—yes—that is—hey? happy! certainly. Doesn’t every body say so? and what every body says must be true. However, that’s not to the purpose. A connexion with the family of lord Austencourt is particularly desirable.
Helen. Not to me, I assure you, papa.
Sir W. Our estates join so charmingly to one another.
Helen. But sure that’s no reason we should be joined to one another.
Sir W. But their contiguity seems to invite a union by a marriage between you.
Helen. Then pray, papa, let the stewards marry the estates and give me a separate maintenance.
Sir. W. Helen, Helen, I see you are bent on disobedience to my lady Worret’s wishes. Zounds! you don’t see me disobedient to her wishes; but I know whereabouts your objection lies. That giddy, dissipated young fellow, his cousin Charles, the son of sir Rowland Austencourt, has filled your head with nonsensical notions and chimeras of happiness. Thank Heaven, however, he’s far enough off at sea.
Helen. And I think, sir, that because a man is fighting our battles abroad, he ought not to be the less dear to those whom his courage enables to live in tranquillity at home.
Sir W. That’s very true: (aside) but I have an unanswerable objection to all you can say. Lord Austencourt is rich, and Charles is a beggar. Besides sir Rowland himself prefers lord Austencourt.
Helen. More shame for him. His partial feelings to his nephew, and unnatural disregard of his son, have long since made me hate him. In short, you are for money, and choose lord Austencourt: I am for love, and prefer his poor cousin.
Sir W. Then, once for all, as my lady Worret must be obeyed, I no longer consult you on the subject, and it only remains for you to retain the affection of an indulgent father, by complying with my will (I mean my wife’s) or to abandon my protection. [Exit.
Helen. I won’t marry him, papa, I won’t, nor I won’t cry, though I’ve a great mind. A plague of all money, say I. Oh! what a grievous misfortune it is to be born with 12,000l. a year? but if I can’t marry the man I like, I won’t marry at all; that’s determined: and every body knows the firmness of a woman’s resolution, when she resolves on contradiction. [Exit.
O’Dedimus. There! I think I’ve expressed my meaning quite plainly, (reads) “Farmer Flail, I’m instructed by lord Austencourt, your landlord, to inform you, by word of letter, that if you can’t afford to pay the additional rent for your farm, you must turn out.” I think that’s clear enough. “As to your putting in the plea of a large family, we cannot allow that as a set off; because, when a man can’t afford to support seven children with decency, he ought not to trouble himself to get them.” I think that’s plain English.
“Your humble servant,
“CORNELIUS O’DEDIMUS,
“Attorney at law.
“P.S. You may show this letter to his lordship, to convince him I have done my duty; but as I don’t mean one word of it, if you’ll come to me privately, I’ll see what can be done for you, without his knowing any thing of the matter,” and I think that’s plain English.
Enter gamekeeper with a countryman in custody.
O’Ded. Well, friend, and what are you?
Countryman. I be’s a poacher: so my lord’s gamekeeper here do say.
O’Ded. A poacher! Faith that’s honest.
Gamekeeper. I caught him before day-light on the manor. I took away his gun and shot his dog.
O’Ded. That was bravely done. So, you must pamper your long stomach with pheasants and partridges, and be damned to ye! Will you prefer paying five pounds now, or three month’s hard labour in the house of correction?
Countrym. Thank ye, sir, I don’t prefer either, sir.
O’Ded. You must go before the justice. He’ll exhort you, and commit ye.
Countrym. Ees, I do know that extortion and commission, and such like, be the office of the justice; but I’ll have a bit of law, please punch. He ha’ killed my poor dog, that I loved like one o’ my own children, and I’ve gotten six of ’em, Lord bless ’em.
O’Ded. Six dogs!
Countrym. Dogs! No, children, mun.
O’Ded. Six children! Och, the fruitful sinner!
Countrym. My wife be a pains-taking woman, sir. We ha’ had this poor dog from a puppy.
O’Ded. Shut your ugly mouth, you babbler.—Six children! Oh! we must make an example of this fellow. An’t I the village lawyer? and an’t I the terror of all the rogues of the parish? (aside to him.) You must plead “not guilty.”
Countrym. But I tell you, if that be guilt, I be guilty.
O’Ded. Why, you blundering booby, if you plead guilty, how will I ever be able to prove you innocent?
Countrym. Guilty or innocent, I’ll have the law of him, by gum. He has shot my poor old mongrel, and taken away my musket; and I’ve lost my day’s drilling, and I’ll make him pay for it.
O’Ded. A mongrel and a musket! by St. Patrick, Mr. Gamekeeper, and you have nately set your foot in it.
Gamekeeper. Why, sir, its a bad affair, sir. ’Twas so dark, I couldn’t see; and when I discovered my mistake, I offered him a shilling to make it up, and he refused it.
O’Ded. (aside to gamekeeper.) Harkye, Mr. Gamekeeper; he has one action against ye for his dog, and another for false imprisonment. (aloud) I love to see the laws enforced with justice: (aside) but I’ll always help a poor man to stand up against oppression. (to gamekeeper) He has got you on the hip, and so go out and settle it between yourselves, and do you take care of yourself: (to countryman) and do you make the best of your bargain. [Exeunt.
Parish officer brings forward the sailor.
Officer. Here’s a vagrant. I found him begging without a pass.
O’Ded. Take him before his worship directly. The sturdy rogue ought to be punished.
Sailor. Please your honour, I’m a sailor.
O’Ded. And if you’re a sailor, an’t you ashamed to own it? A begging sailor is a disgrace to an honourable profession, for which the country has provided an asylum as glorious as it is deserved.
Sailor. Why so it has: but I an’t bound for Greenwich yet.
O’Ded. (aside to him.) Why, you’re disabled, I see.
Sailor. Disabled! What for? Why I’ve only lost one arm yet. Bless ye, I’m no beggar. I was going to see my Nancy, thirty miles further on the road, and meeting some old messmates, we had a cann o’ grog together. One cann brought on another, and then we got drinking the king’s health, and the navy, and then this admiral, and then t’other admiral, till at last we had so many gallant heroes to drink, that we were all drunk afore we came to the reckoning; so, your honour, as my messmates had none of the rhino, I paid all; and then, you know, they had a long journey upwards, and no biscuit aboard; so I lent one a little, and another a little, till at last I found I had no coin left in my locker for myself, except a cracked teaster that Nancy gave me; and I couldn’t spend that, you know, though I had been starving.
O’Ded. And so you begged!
Sailor. Begged! no. I just axed for a bit of bread and a mug o’ water. That’s no more than one Christian ought to give another, and if you call that begging, why I beg to differ in opinion.
O’Ded. According to the act you are a vagrant, and the justice may commit ye; (aside to the officer) lookye, Mr. Officer—you’re in the wrong box here. Can’t you see plain enough, by his having lost an arm, that he earns a livelihood by the work of his hands; so lest he should be riotous for being detained, let me advise you to be off. I’ll send him off after you with a flea in his ear—the other way.
Officer. Thank ye, sir, thank ye. I’m much obliged to you for your advice, sir, and shall take it, and so my service to you. [Exit.
O’Ded. Take this my honest lad; (gives money) say nothing about it, and give my service to Nancy.
Sailor. Why now, heaven bless you honour forever; and if ever you’re in distress, and I’m within sight of signals, why hang out your blue lights; and if I don’t bear down to your assistance, may my gun be primed with damp powder the first time we fire a broadside at the enemy. [Exit.
O’Dedimus rings a bell.
O’Ded. Ponder! Now will this fellow be thinking and thinking, till he quite forgets what he’s doing. Ponder, I say! (enter Ponder.) Here, Ponder, take this letter to farmer Flail’s, and if you see Mrs. Muddle, his neighbour, give my love and duty to her.
Ponder. Yes, yes, sir; but at that moment, sir, I was immersed in thought, if I may be allowed the expression; I was thinking of the vast difference between love and law, and yet how neatly you’ve spliced them together in your last instructions to your humble servant, Peter Ponder, clerk.—Umph!
O’Ded. Umph! is that your manners, you bear-garden? Will I never be able to larn you to behave yourself? Study me, and talk like a gentleman, and be damn’d to ye.
Ponder. I study the law; I can’t talk it.
O’Ded. Cant you? Then you’ll never do. If your tongue don’t run faster than your client’s, how will you ever be able to bother him, you booby?
Ponder. I’ll draw out his case; he shall read, and he’ll bother himself.
O’Ded. You’ve a notion. Mind my instructions, and I don’t despair of seeing you at the bar one day. Was that copy of a writ sarved yesterday upon Garble, the tailor?
Ponder. Aye.
O’Ded. And sarve him right too. That’s a big rogue, that runs in debt wid his eyes open, and though he has property, refuses to pay. Is he safe?
Ponder. He was bailed by Swash the brewer.
O’Ded. And was the other sarved on Shuttle, the weaver?
Ponder. Aye.
O’Ded. Who bailed him?
Ponder. Nobody. He’s gone to jail.
O’Ded. Gone to jail! Why his poverty is owing to misfortune. He can’t pay. Well, that’s not our affair. The law must have its course.
Ponder. So Shuttle said to his wife, as she hung crying on his shoulder.
O’Ded. That’s it; he’s a sensible man; and that’s more than his wife is. We’ve nothing to do with women’s tears.
Ponder. Not a bit. So they walked him off to jail in a jiffey, if I may be allowed the expression.
O’Ded. To be sure, and that was right. They did their duty: though for sartin, if a poor man can’t pay his debts when he’s at liberty, he wont be much nearer the mark when he’s shut up in idleness in a prison.
Ponder. No.
O’Ded. And when he that sent them there comes to make up his last account, ’tis my belief that he wont be able to show cause why a bill shouldn’t be filed against him for barbarity. Are the writings all ready for sir Rowland?
Ponder. All ready. Shall I now go to farmer Flail’s with the letter?
O’Ded. Aye, and if you see Shuttle’s wife in your way, give my service to her; and d’ye hear, as you’re a small talker, don’t let the little you say be so cursed crabbed; and if a few kind words of comfort should find their way from your heart to your tongue, don’t shut your ugly mouth, and keep them within your teeth. You may tell her that if she can find any body to stand up for her husband, I shan’t be over nice about the sufficiency of the bail. Get you gone.
Ponder. I shall. Let me see! farmer Flail—Mrs. Muddle, his neighbour—Shuttle’s wife—and a whole string of messages and memorandums—here’s business enough to bother the brains of any ordinary man! You are pleased to say, sir, that I am too much addicted to thinking—I think not. [Exit Ponder.
O’Ded. By my soul, if an attorney wasn’t sometimes a bit of a rogue, he’d never be able to earn an honest livelihood. Oh Mr. O’Dedimus! why have you so little when your heart could distribute so much!
Sir Rowland, without.
Sir Row. Mr. O’Dedimus—within there!
O’Ded. Yes, I’m within there.
Enter sir Rowland.
Sir Row. Where are these papers? I thought the law’s delay was only felt by those who could not pay for its expedition.
O’Ded. The law, sir Rowland, is a good horse, and his pace is slow and sure; but he goes no faster because you goad him with a golden spur; but every thing is prepared, sir; and now, sir Rowland, I have an ugly sort of an awkward affair to mention to you.
Sir Row. Does it concern me?
O’Ded. You know, sir Rowland, at the death of my worthy friend, the late lord Austencourt, you were left sole executor and guardian to his son, the present lord, then an infant of three years of age.
Sir Row. What does this lead to? (starting)
O’Ded. With a disinterested view to benefit the estate of the minor, who came of age the other day, you some time ago embarked a capital of 14,000l. in a great undertaking.
Sir Row. Proceed.
O’Ded. I have this morning received a letter from the agent, stating the whole concern to have failed, the partners to be bankrupts, and the property consigned to assignees not to promise, as a final dividend, more than one shilling in the pound. This letter will explain the rest.
Sir Row. How! I was not prepared for this—What’s to be done?
O’Ded. When one loses a sum of money that isn’t one’s own, there’s but one thing to be done.
Sir Row. And what is that?
O’Ded. To pay it back again.
Sir Row. You know that to be impossible, utterly impossible.
O’Ded. Then, sir Rowland, take the word of Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law, his lordship will rigidly exact the money, to the uttermost farthing.
Sir Row. You are fond, sir, of throwing out these hints to his disadvantage.
O’Ded. I am bold to speak it—I am possessed of a secret, sir Rowland, in regard to his lordship.
Sir Row. (alarmed.) What is it you mean?
O’Ded. I thought I told you it was a secret.
Sir Row. But to me you should have no secrets that regard my family.
O’Ded. With submission, sir Rowland, his lordship is my client, as well as yourself, and I have learned from the practice of the courts, that an attorney who blabs in his business has soon no suit to his back.
Sir Row. But this affair, perhaps, involves my deepest interest—my character—my all is at stake.
O’Ded. Have done wid your pumping now—d’ye think I am a basket full of cinders, that I’m to be sifted after this fashion?
Sir Row. Answer but this—does it relate to Charles, my son?
O’Ded. Sartinly, the young gentleman has a small bit of interest in the question.
Sir Row. One thing more. Does it allude to a transaction which happened some years ago—am I a principal concerned in it?
O’Ded. Devil a ha’porth—it happened only six months past.
Sir R. Enough—I breathe again.
O’Ded. I’m glad of that, for may-be you’ll now let me breathe to tell you that as I know lord Austencourt’s private character better than you do, my life to a bundle of parchment, he’ll even arrest ye for the money.
Sir R. Impossible, he cannot be such a villain!
Abel Grouse. (without) What ho! is the lawyer within?
Sir Row. Who interrupts us?
O’Ded. ’Tis the strange man that lives on the common—his name is Abel Grouse—he’s coming up.
Sir R. I’ll wait till you dismiss him, for I cannot encounter any one at present. Misfortunes crowd upon me; and one act of guilt has drawn the vengeance of Heaven on my head, and will pursue me to the grave. [Exit to an inner room.
O’Ded. Och! if a small gale of adversity blows up such a storm as this, we shall have a pretty hurricane by and by, when you larn a little more of your hopeful nephew, and see his new matrimonial scheme fall to the ground, like buttermilk through a sieve.
Enter Abel Grouse.
Abel Grouse. Now, sir, you are jackall, as I take it, to lord Austencourt.
O’Ded. I am his man of business, sure enough; but didn’t hear before of my promotion to the office you mention.
Ab. Gr. You are possessed of all his secret deeds.
O’Ded. That’s a small mistake—I have but one of them, and that’s the deed of settlement on Miss Helen Worret, spinster.
Ab. Gr. Leave your quibbling, sir, and speak plump to the point—if habit hasn’t hardened your heart, and given a system to your knavery, answer me this: lord Austencourt has privately married my daughter?
O’Ded. Hush!
Ab. Gr. You were a witness.
O’Ded. Has any body told you that thing?
Ab. Gr. Will you deny it?
O’Ded. Will you take a friend’s advice?
Ab. Gr. I didn’t come for advice. I came to know if you will confess the fact, or whether you are villain enough to conceal it.
O’Ded. Have done wid your bawling—sir Rowland’s in the next room!
Ab. Gr. Is he? then sir Rowland shall hear me—Sir Rowland!—he shall see my daughter righted—Ho there! Sir Rowland!
O’Ded. (aside) Here’ll be a devil of a dust kicked up presently about the ears of Mr. Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law!
Enter sir Rowland.
Sir Row. Who calls me?
Ab. Gr. ’Twas I!
Sir Row. What is it you want, friend?
Ab. Gr. Justice!
Sir Row. Justice! then you had better apply there, (pointing to O’Dedimus.)
Ab. Gr. That’s a mistake—he deals only in law—’tis to you that I appeal—Your nephew, lord Austencourt, is about to marry the daughter of sir Willoughby Worret.
Sir Row. He is.
Ab. Gr. Never! I will save him the guilt of that crime at least!
Sir Row. You are mysterious, sir.
Ab. Gr. Perhaps I am. Briefly, your nephew is privately married to my daughter—this man was present at their union—will you see justice done me, and make him honourably proclaim his wife?
Sir Row. Your tale is incredible, sir—it is sufficient, however, to demand attention, and I warn you, lest by your folly you rouse an indignation that may crush you.
Ab. Gr. Hear me, proud man, while I warn you! My daughter is the lawful wife of lord Austencourt—double is the wo to me that she is his wife: but as it is so, he shall publicly acknowledge her—to you I look for justice and redress—see to it, sir, or I shall speedily appear in a new character, with my wrongs in my hand, to hurl destruction on you. [Exit.
Sir Row. What does the fellow mean?
O’Ded. That’s just what I’m thinking—
Sir Row. You, he said, was privy to their marriage.
O’Ded. Bless ye, the man’s mad!
Sir Row. Ha! you said you had a secret respecting my nephew.
O’Ded. Sir, if you go on so, you’ll bother me!
Sir Row. The fellow must be silenced—can you not contrive some means to rid us of his insolence?
O’Ded. Sir, I shall do my duty, as my duty should be done, by Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law.
Sir Row. My nephew must not hear of this accursed loss—be secret on that head, I charge you! but in regard to this man’s bold assertion, I must consult him instantly—haste and follow me to his house.
O’Ded. Take me wid ye, sir; for this is such a dirty business, that I’ll never be able to go through it unless you show me the way. [Exeunt.
End of act I.
Helen. Lord Austencourt—true—this is his hour for persecuting me—very well, desire lord Austencourt to come in. (exit servant) I won’t marry. They all say I shall. Some girls, now, would sit down and sigh, and moan, as if that would mend the matter—that will never suit me! Some indeed would run away with the man they liked better—but then the only man I ever liked well enough to marry—is—I believe, run away from me. Well! that won’t do!—so I’ll e’en laugh it off as well as I can; and though I wont marry his lordship, I’ll teaze him as heartily as if I had been his wife these twenty years.
Enter lord Austencourt.
Lord A. Helen! too lovely Helen! once more behold before you to supplicate for your love and pity, the man whom the world calls proud, but whom your beauty alone has humbled.
Helen. They say, my lord, that pride always has a fall some time or other. I hope the fall of your lordship’s hasn’t hurt you.
Lord A. Is it possible that the amiable Helen, so famed for gentleness and goodness, can see the victim of her charms thus dejected stand before her.
Helen. Certainly not, my lord—so pray sit down.
Lord A. Will you never be for one moment serious?
Helen. Oh, yes, my lord! I am never otherwise when I think of your lordship’s proposals—but when you are making love and fine speeches to me in person, ’tis with amazing difficulty I can help laughing.
Lord A. Insolent vixin. (aside) I had indulged a hope, madam, that the generosity and disinterested love I have evinced—
Helen. Why as to your lordship’s generosity in condescending to marry a poor solitary spinster, I am certainly most duly grateful—and no one can possibly doubt your disinterestedness, who knows I am only heiress to 12,000l. a year—a fortune which, as I take it, nearly doubles the whole of your lordship’s rent roll!
Lord A. Really, madam, if I am suspected of any mercenary motives, the liberal settlements which are now ready for your perusal, must immediately remove any such suspicion.
Helen. Oh, my lord, you certainly mistake me—only as my papa observes, our estates do join so charmingly to one another!
Lord A. Yes:—that circumstance is certainly advantageous to both parties (exultingly.)
Helen. Certainly!—only, as mine is the biggest, perhaps yours would be the greatest gainer by the bargain.
Lord A. My dear madam, a title and the advantages of elevation in rank amply compensate the sacrifice on your part.
Helen. Why, as to a title, my lord (as Mr. O’Dedimus, your attorney, observes) there’s no title in my mind better than a good title to a fine estate—and I see plainly, that although your lordship is a peer of the realm—you think this title of mine no mean companion for your own.
Lord A. Nay, madam—believe me—I protest—I assure you—solemnly, that those considerations have very little—indeed no influence at all with me.
Helen. Oh, no!—only it is natural that you should feel (as papa again observes) that the contiguity of these estates seem to invite a union by a marriage between us.
Lord A. And if you admit that fact, why do you decline the invitation?
Helen. Why, one doesn’t accept every invitation that’s offered, you know—one sometimes has very disagreeable ones; and then one presents compliments, and is extremely sorry that a prior engagement obliges us to decline the honour.
Lord A. (aside) Confound the satirical huzzy—But should not the wishes of your parents have some weight in the scale?
Helen. Why, so they have; their wishes are in one scale, and mine are in the other; do all I can, I can’t make mine weigh most, and so the beam remains balanced.
Lord A. I should be sorry to make theirs preponderate, by calling in their authority as auxiliaries to their wishes.
Helen. Authority!—Ho! what, you think to marry me by force! do ye my lord?
Lord A. They are resolute, and if you continue obstinate—
Helen. I dare say your lordship’s education hasn’t precluded your knowledge of a very true, though rather vulgar proverb, “one man may lead a horse to the water, but twenty can’t make him drink.”
Lord A. The allusion may be classical, madam, though certainly it is not very elegant, nor has it even the advantage of being applicable to the point in question. However I do not despair to see this resolution changed. In the mean time, I did not think it in your nature to treat any man who loves you with cruelty and scorn.
Helen. Then why don’t you desist, my lord? If you’d take an answer, you had a civil one: but if you will follow and teaze one, like a sturdy beggar in the street, you must expect at last a reproof for your impertinence.
Lord A. Yet even in their case perseverance often obtains what was denied to poverty.
Helen. Yes, possibly, from the feeble or the vain; but genuine Charity, and her sister, Love, act only from their own generous impulse, and scorn intimidation.
Enter Tiffany.
Tiffany. Are you alone, madam?
Helen. No; I was only wishing to be so.
Tiff. A young woman is without, inquiring for sir Willoughby, ma’am; I thought he had been here.
Tiff. Yes, ma’am; ’tis Fanny, the daughter of the odd man that lives on the common.
Helen. I’ll see her myself—desire her to walk up. [Exit Tiffany.
Lord A. (seems uneasy) Indeed! what brings her here?
Helen. Why, what can be the matter now? your lordship seems quite melancholy on a sudden.
Lord A. I, madam! oh no!—or if I am—’tis merely a head ach, or some such cause, or perhaps owing to the influence of the weather.
Helen. Your lordship is a very susceptible barometer—when you entered this room your countenance was set fair; but now I see the index points to stormy.
Lord A. Madam, you have company, or business—a good morning to you.
Helen. Stay, stay, my lord.
Lord A. Excuse me at present, I have an important affair—another time.
Helen. Surely, my lord, the arrival of this innocent girl does not drive you away!
Lord A. Bless me, madam, what an idea! certainly not; but I have just recollected an engagement of consequence—some other time—Madam, your most obedient—[Exit.
Enter Fanny.
Fan. I beg pardon, madam, I’m fearful I intrude; but I inquired for sir Willoughby, and they showed me to this room. I wished to speak with him on particular business—your servant, madam.
Hel. Pray stay, my good girl—I rejoice in this opportunity of becoming acquainted with you—the character I have heard of you has excited an affectionate interest—you must allow me to become your friend.
Fanny. Indeed, indeed, madam, I am in want of friends; but you can never be one of them.
Helen. No! Why so?
Fan. You, madam! Oh no—you are the only enemy I ever had.
Hel. Enemy! This is very extraordinary! I have scarce ever seen you before—Assuredly I never injured you.
Fan. Heaven forbid I should wish any one to injure you as deeply.
Hel. I cannot understand you—pray explain yourself.
Fan. That’s impossible, madam—my lord would never forgive me.
Hel. Your lord! Let me entreat you to explain your meaning.
Fan. I cannot, madam; I came hither on business of importance, and no trifling business should have brought me to a house inhabited by one who is the cause of all my wretchedness.
Hel. This is a very extraordinary affair! There is a mixture of cultivation and simplicity in your manner that affects me strongly—I see, my poor girl, you are distressed; and though what you have said leaves on my mind a painful suspicion—
Fan. Oh heavens, madam! stay, I beseech you!—I am not what you think me, indeed I am not—I must not, for a moment, let you think of me so injuriously: yet I have promised secrecy! but sure no promise can be binding, when to keep it we must sacrifice all that is valuable in life—hear me, then madam—the struggle is violent; but I owe it to myself to acknowledge all.
Hel. No, no, my dear girl! I now see what it would cost you to reveal your secret, and I will not listen to it; rest assured, I have no longer a thought to your disadvantage: curiosity gives place to interest: for though ’tis cruelty to inflict a wound, ’tis still more deliberate barbarity to probe when we cannot hope to heal it. (going.)
Fan. Stay, madam, stay—your generosity overpowers me! oh madam! you know not how wretched I am.
Hel. What is it affects you thus?—come, if your story is of a nature that may be revealed, you are sure of sympathy.
Fan. I never should have doubted; but my father has alarmed me sadly—he says my lord Austencourt is certainly on the point of marriage with you.
Hel. And how, my dear girl, if it were so, could that affect you? Come, you must be explicit.
Fan. Affect me! merciful Heaven! can I see him wed another? He is my husband by every tie sacred and human.
Hel. Suffering, but too credulous girl! have you then trusted to his vows?
Fan. How, madam! was I to blame, loving as I did, to trust in vows so solemn? could I suppose he would dare to break them, because our marriage was performed in secret?
Hel. Your marriage, child! Good Heavens, you amaze me! but here we may be interrupted—this way with me. If this indeed be so all may be well again: for though he may be dead to feeling be assured he is alive to fear: the man who once descends to be a villain is generally observed to be at heart a coward. [Exeunt.
Ponder. I’ve heard that intense thinking has driven some philosophers mad!—now if this should happen to me, ’twill never be the fate of my young patron, Mr. Charles Austencourt, whom I have suddenly met on his sudden return from sea, and who never thinks at all. Poor gentleman, he little thinks what—
Enter Charles Austencourt.
Charles. Not gone yet? How comes it you are not on the road to my father? Is the fellow deaf or dumb. Ponder! are ye asleep?
Pon. I’m thinking, whether I am or not.
Charles. And what wise scheme now occupies your thoughts?
Pon. Sir, I confess the subject is beneath me (pointing to the portmanteau.)
Char. The weight of the portmanteau, I suppose, alarms you.
Pon. If that was my heaviest misfortune, sir, I could carry double with all my heart. No, sir, I was thinking that as your father, sir Rowland, sent you on a cruize, for some cause best known to himself; and as you have thought proper to return for some cause best known to yourself, the chances of war, if I may be allowed the expression, are, that the contents of that trunk will be your only inheritance, or, in other words, that your father will cut you off with a shilling—and now I’m thinking—
Char. No doubt—thinking takes up so many of your waking hours, that you seldom find time for doing. And so you have, since my departure, turned your thinking faculties to the law.
Pon. Yes, sir; when you gave me notice to quit, I found it so hard to live honestly, that lest the law should take to me, I took to the law: and so articled my self to Mr. O’Dedimus, the attorney in our town: but there is a thought unconnected with law that has occupied my head every moment since we met.
Char. Pr’ythee dismiss your thought, and get your legs in motion.
Pon. Then, sir, I have really been thinking, ever since I saw you, that you are a little—(going off to a distance) a little odd hereabouts, sir; (pointing to his head) a little damned mad, if I may be allowed the expression!
Char. Ha! ha! very probably. My sudden return, without a motive, as you suppose, has put that wise notion in your head.
Pon. Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well the motive—the old story, sir, ha! love!
Char. Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose, that I—that I can be guilty of such a folly—I should be glad to know how you dare venture to think that I——
Pon. Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.
Char. Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?
Pon. The old symptoms, sir—in the first place, frequent fits of my complaint.
Char. Your complaint?
Pon. Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs, fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counter orders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of your senses, if I may be allowed the expression.
Char. No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression—’tis impertinent, ’tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never had the fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and, heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!
Pon. Nor I, sir; though I’ve been married these three years, I never once sighed for my dear wife in all that time—heigho!
Char. I mustn’t be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for an unobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.
Pon. Then, sir, you mis-took me. I fancy it was in one of your most decided unobserving fits that you took me for a blockhead.
Char. Well, sir; I see you have discovered my secret. Act wisely, and it may be of service to you.
Pon. Sir, I haven’t studied the law for nothing. I’m no fool, if I may be allowed the expression.
Char. I begin to suspect you have penetration enough to be useful to me.
Pon. And craving your pardon, sir, I begin to suspect your want of that faculty, from your not having found out that before.
Char. I will now trust you, although once my servant, with the state of my heart.
Pon. Sir, that’s very kind of you, to trust your humble servant with a secret he had himself discovered ten months ago.
Char. Keep it with honour and prudence.
Pon. Sir, I have kept it. Nobody knows of it, that I know of, except a few of your friends, many of your enemies, most travelling strangers, and all your neighbours.
Char. Why, zounds! you don’t mean to say that any body, except yourself, suspects me to be in love.
Pon. Suspects! no, sir; suspicion is out of the question; it is taken as a proved fact in all society, a bill found by every grand jury in the county.
Char. The devil it is! Zounds! I shall never be able to show my face—this will never do—my boasted disdain of ever bowing to the power of love—how ridiculous will it now render me—while the mystery and sacred secrecy of this attachment constituted the chief delight it gave to the refinement of my feelings—O! I’ll off to sea again—I won’t stay here—order a post-chaise—no—yes—a chaise and four, d’ye hear?
Pon. Yes, sir; but I’m thinking—
Char. What?
Pon. That it is possible you may alter your mind.
Char. No such thing, sir; I’ll set off this moment; order the chaise, I say.
Pon. Think of it again, sir.
Char. Will you obey my orders, or not?
Pon. I think I will. (aside) Poor gentleman! now could I blow him up into a blaze in a minute, by telling him that his mistress is just on the point of marriage with his cousin, but though they say “ill news travels apace,” they shall never say that I rode postillion on the occasion. [Exit into inn.
Char. Here’s a discovery! all my delicate management destroyed! known all over the country! I’m off! and yet to have travelled so far, and not to have one glimpse of her! but then to be pointed at as a poor devil in love, a silly inconsistent boaster! no, that wont do—but then I may see her—yes, I’ll see her once—just once—for three minutes, or three minutes and a half at most—no longer positively—Ponder, Ponder! (enter Ponder) Ponder, I say—
Pon. I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, for I’m thinking—
Char. Damn your thinking, sir!
Pon. I was only thinking that you may have altered your mind already.
Char. I have not altered my mind: but since I am here, I should be wanting in duty not to pay my respects to my father; so march on with the trunk, sir.
Pon. Yes, sir: but if that’s all you want to do, sir, you may spare yourself the trouble of going further, for, most fortunately, here he comes; and your noble cousin, lord Austencourt, with him—
Char. The devil!
Pon. Yes, sir; the devil, and his uncle, your father, if I may be allowed the expression. [Exit.
Enter sir Rowland and lord Austencourt.
Char. My dear father, I am heartily glad to see you—
Sir R. How is this, Charles! returned thus unexpectedly?
Char. Unexpected pleasure, they say, sir, is always most welcome—I hope you find it so.
Sir R. This conduct, youngster, requires explanation.