[A dark Chamber, in which the door of a closet is just distinguished. Sir Archy Fineer is discovered Iying on a sopha.]
Sir Archy [trying to look at
his Watch].
Now what the devil is it o'clock?
I have fastened the shutters so closely, for fear of some trick, that I cannot
make out the hour. But the Ghost, according to custom, reserves its favours
for those who fly them. 'Tis so dark, I'll e'en venture to take another nap.
[lies down. A rustling noise within the wainscoat.] What's that? [lifting
up his head.] Is it Innis?—No; 'tis in an opposite direction from the
door—Again?—Why what the deuce—
Valentine [opening a door of
which there was no outward mark.]
The room has been darkened. How unlucky! I can't see my way. [to himself].
Sir
Archy.
There is somebody stirring, past doubt. [aside.]
Valentine.
How shall I get at Innis? [to
himself.]
Sir Archy.
The d——l! Somebody's come into
the room! [aside.]
Valentine.
Or if I could find my Sister—[to
himself.]
Sir Archy.
I hear a footstep distinctly! [aside.]
Valentine.
I can't make out where the door
is! [to himself, and groping about.]
Sir Archy.
This is no fancy! [aside.]
Valentine.
I think I hear something like breathing!
[listens] Perhaps 'tis the pretended Ghost! [to himself.]
Sir Archy.
Is this some theif, now? or a sweetheart
of the fair Innis, in the disguise of a spectre? I wish I had my Pistols! [aside.]
Valentine.
I should like to devellop this fraud.
I'll get my stick. [to himself; goes back by the private door.]
[A tap at the outer door.]
Sir Archy.
What's that, now? That's still another
sound! Are there two of these Goblins?
Davis [without].
Sir!
Sir Archy.
Who calls?
Davis [without].
Davis, Sir.
Sir Archy.
I am heartily glad. Open the door
and come in, Mr. Davis.
[Enter Davis, but no farther than the door.]
Davis.
I have only stept up to call you,
Sir, because Mrs. Innis—
Sir Archy [rising].
Come in, come in, Mr. Davis, and
open the door wide, to give some light. [draws him in.] Do you know,
Mr. Davis, somebody has certainly got into the room?
Davis.
O lord! [hastening to the door,
to get out, runs against it, and shuts himself in.] I'm a dead man! The
door's shut upon me!
Sir Archy.
Hark! the sound came that way. Don't
speak!
Davis.
I won't, sir, indeed! only, for
mercy's sake, let me out!
Sir Archy.
Hush! I hear it again!
Davis.
O lord!
[Re-enter Valentine, with a Stick.]
Valentine.
Some infamous imposition is afloat,
I have no doubt, and if, unknown myself, I can detect, or frighten its author
—
Sir Archy.
Don't fetch your breath
so hard, Davis; somebody is certainly advancing! [in a whisper.]
Davis.
Oh! oh! [shaking.]
Valentine.
That's a groan, meant to terrify
the house, I suppose. What knavery! But I'll try who will shrink first. Who
are you? What do you do here? [in a feigned & hoarse voice.]
Davis [to himself].
O lord! 'tis the lady that
walks!
Sir Archy.
'Tis some cursed ruffian
by the voice! I don't much like my situation! [to himself, & retreating.]
Valentine.
Answer! by what right or
title are you in this house? [in the same voice.]
Davis [trembling].
None, honourable lady! I'll go out
of it directly.
Valentine.
Lady? I am glad he thinks my voice
so delicate. [aside]For what evil purpose, then, have you entered it?
[in the feigned voice.]
Davis.
I humbly crave pardon, (57) but I knew nothing of your ladyship's
walking!
Valentine.
Walking? What does the booby mean?
would he have me come into the room on horse-back? [aside.] Out! out,
I say! Why are you not gone? [in the feigned voice.]
Davis.
I can't find the way, madam!
Valentine.
Would you have me find a
way for you? [in the same voice.]
Davis.
O lord, no!
Sir Archy.
What an impudent rascal this must
be. [aside.]
Valentine.
If ever you dare play any
more of your tricks in this house... [in the feigned voice.]
Davis.
I never will, indeed, honourable
madam!—O, where's the door? [groping about.]
Sir Archy.
I wish I had a blunderbuss, with
all my heart! [aside.]
Valentine.
Or ever dare appear in it again
to the last hour of your life...
Davis.
O, I've found the door! I'm as glad
as if it were the twenty thousand pound prize in the lottery! (58) [opens
it, & runs out, pulling it after him.]
Valentine.
Expect the condign punishment
you merit! [in a still deeper voice, & brandishing his Stick, but
retreating behind the door, while it is open.]
Sir Archy.
What a complete knave! If I were
sure he had no weapon; I'd throttle him! [aside & advancing, receives
a stroke from the brandishing stick.] The devil!—This is the most substantial
sort of a spectre!—[to himself.]
Valentine.
So! so! so! do Ghosts come
in Pairs here? I have not cleared the coast yet; but if a little wholesome
discipline will do it—[to himself, & feeling about with his stick.]
Sir Archy [gliding closely
to the wall, to avoid it].
My blood boils to take him
by the Collar! [aside.]
Valentine.
'Tis a species of imposter for which
I have no mercy. [aside.]
Voices Without.
Sir Archy! Sir Archy! Sir Archy
Fineer!
Valentine.
Sir Archy Fineer? Heavens!
—let me make my escape! [aside, & glides away by the private door,
which he closes, as the other is thrown open from without.]
Sir Archy.
Come in, come in!—Bring lights!
The Same Voices.
We dare not come in!
Innis [without].
We are afraid you have got the Ghost
with you!
Sir Archy.
Be sure keep guard that no one slip
past you (59) through the door. Some villain is parading the chamber with a bludgeon;
but I shall soon seize him now.—What can this mean? [looking round]
Here's nobody!
Innis [coming gently in].
Are you sure of that, sir?
Poor Mr. Davis is quite in a transe; and the new servants have run down, and
say they'll all give warning.
Sir Archy.
Which way could he get out?
Innis.
Which way? Good la, sir!—Why how
should a Ghost vanish, but vanish, you know, sir?
Sir Archy.
I see no issue, no door—except
this closet.
Innis.
But that's the very place, sir!
[whispering.]
Sir Archy.
It is, is it? I'll break it open
this very moment, then.
Innis.
O lud, how can you be so
wicked? [running away.]
Sir Archy.
'Tis but one of her lovers, I'll
be sworn. I won't derange him. The golden rule for-ever! [aside.]
Stay! stay!—Is your young lady up yet?
Innis.
Up? yes, sir; & gone out.
Sir Archy.
Gone out? Why did not you tell me?
Innis.
She would not let me, sir.
Sir Archy.
And what's to be said to Lord Ardville?
Innis.
My young lady only bid me tell him
she was walked out in the fields.
Sir Archy.
And is this the breakfast she has
prepared for him? A little torment!—I must fly & stop the old celadon
(60) from approaching, till I can catch her for a few more of my worldly lessons.
[aside.] Be sure tell my adventure to Lord Exbury, & let this room
be well examined. Tell him, too, that however aeriel may be the Ghost, it weilds
a weapon that might make its way through a mob at a contested election. [Exit.]
Innis.
Gone off?—without so much as a single word with any meaning in it! So then
it i'n't Sir Archy neither! So I suppose its nobody, all the time, but a trick!
O if I could catch that nasty old Fortune-teller!—I am glad, however, I
had not sent off poor Mr. Davis—O lud! if I a'n't left all alone with the
Closet! [runs out.]
Scene 2
[The Study of Lord Exbury. Lord Exbury sits writing. Enter Davis.]
Davis.
May I come in?—O my lord, my lord,
I have seen it!
Lord Exbury.
Seen what?
Davis.
The lady, my lord! the lady that
walks—that is, I have seen nothing—for I durst not look up, & we were
all in the dark—but it came into the room while I was there, my lord, &
ordered me to go straight out of the house!
Lord Exbury.
Is it possible, Davis, you can suffer
your imagination to transport you thus beyond reason?
Davis.
O my lord, if you had heard such
a sound of a voice as I have heard! You would not think it imagination! I never
was afraid of the least thing in the World before—never since I was that high
[holding his hand a foot from the ground]—unless it might just be
a wild Cat—or perhaps a mad ox,—or it may be a Bull Dog—or—
Lord Exbury.
And did this lady come from the
closet Innis has been talking about ?
Davis.
I can't pretend to say where she
came from, my lord, but she was perilous angry with me—though what for I know
no more than the man in the moon—unless it might be the taking her house while
she continues walking; for she told me that if ever she surprised me in it again,
she'd find a new way out of it for me!—which, I take it, was pretty near the
same thing as saying she'd make away with me! [whispering, & looking
round affrighted.]
Lord Exbury.
No more of this, Davis. (61) Let Innis
go immediately in search of the house-keeper, & insist upon a public examination
of this closet: & do you tell my son Mordaunt that, if he is at leisure,
I would speak with him.
Davis.
Yes, my lord.—But it's a sad thing
not to be believed, just because one is not—sometimes—over-exact, just to
a tittle!
Lord Exbury.
Let this be a lesson to you, Davis,
& the Ghost may prove your friend.
Davis.
I humbly hope, at least, your lordship
won't stay any longer in this house, for I am fallen away already so with this
fright—
Lord Exbury.
Make haste, Davis.
Davis.
I dare say I weigh six or seven
stone lighter than when I came into it.
Lord Exbury [frowning].
Davis!
Davis [in a melancholy tone].
Half a pound, I hope, at
least, my lord, I may say! [Exit.]
Lord Exbury.
How uniformly it seems the business
of Credulity to forget Reason, & annihilate Probability!
[Re-enter Davis.]
Davis.
I beg pardon, my lord, but I just
saw, through the stair case window, the old Gentleman going by, who told all
about the lady's walking at Lord Ardville's.
Lord Exbury.
O, Mr. Litchburn? I will hear his
own account, then; for he is Just as scrupulous to be literal, as you are prodigal
to exaggerate. Tell him I should be glad of the pleasure of a moment's conversation
with him.
Davis.
Yes, my lord. I wish I could know
whether the Ghost appeared to him with that same trumpet voice it did to me!
but I dare say he'll be bound over not to tell. [Exit.]
Lord Exbury.
Whatever excites terror, however
simply, ought to be traced to its source. Wonder flourishes under obscurity,
& Fear has no better patron than mystery.
[Enter Mr. Litchburn.]
Litchburn [before Lord
Exbury perceives him].
I feel as cold as a stone at putting
my feet into this house again. Would I were safe out of it again! & I fear
'tis only to question me about lending poor dear Mr. Valentine the key to the
Garden Stair-case. [aside.]
Lord Exbury [turning round].
Mr. Litchburn, I am almost
ashamed of troubling you about (62)
so foolish a business; but I understand you are acquainted with some particulars
relative to the idle report that this house is haunted?
Litchburn.
Alack, yes, my lord! but what's
the extraordinary, is to say, that what I have to offer upon this matter, is
a something that nobody credits!
Lord Exbury.
If the subject is disagreeable to
you—
Litchburn.
No subject can be disagreeable to
me, I hope, my lord, that your worthy lordship has the affability to call up...
not even... [ lowering his voice] the walking lady herself!
Lord Exbury.
Favour me, then, with the account.
Litchburn.
A young man in my service, my lord,
cast an... I am afraid... a sort of an amourous glance at a young damsel belonging
to the house-keeper of the lady lately deceased in this house. A complaint being
made to me, I forbad such naughtiness: but—you'll never believe it, my lord!
—all I said was as good as thrown away!
Lord Exbury.
Well?
Litchburn.
I'll, rather,—humbly craving your
lordship's pardon for letting the truth slip out so rudely. Never suspecting,
however, but what I said had won upon him, I always took his part, when I was
told of his tricks, 'till one day—it was a friday—the house-keeper came
to me, &, looking full in my face, said I had no Eyes! Upon which,—rather
in a pet,—I am afraid,—at such unceremoniousness, No Eyes, Mrs. Patson,
says I; why then what may you call these two things here at each side of my
nose? upon which she downright told me I was as good as blind! for that the
lad had got a key made to what they call the little Garden Stair-case!
Lord Exbury.
But what is this to the house being
haunted?
Litchburn.
It's coming round, my lord, in a
surprising manner. I got the key from the lad, as it so happenned; on the very
eve of the day that the late lady was defunct; but though I talked to him till
the tears ran down my Cheeks at the melting things I said, I am dubious if they
touched him; for only a week after the poor lady was buried, he took a ladder,
at four o'clock in the morning, & mounted it, to get into the house through
a closet Window!
Lord Exbury.
O,—a closet?
Litchburn.
Ah, my good lord, I can hardly tell
you!—but, just as he put his hands upon the Window frame—the dead lady appeared
before him!
Lord Exbury.
Surely, Mr. Litchburn—
Litchburn.
She shook her head at him, my lord,
as who should say—What do you do here, young sinner?—& waved her hand,
gracefully,—as I may do now;—upon which he felt himself turned, quite suddenly,
from his wicked courses;—for he fell from the top of the ladder to the bottom!
Lord Exbury.
I should be better reconciled to
Ghost stories, if I heard oftener so good a moral to them.
Litchburn.
He was brought home by some workmen
quite in a stound; (63) & when he came to himself, he confessed the whole;
&, what I think as much the extraordinary as any, he owned he was more struck
with the sight of that dead lady, appearing to him for a moment, than with all
I had been at the trouble of saying to him for so many days & hours!
Lord Exbury.
And can you really credit all this?
Litchburn.
It's surprising to say, my lord,
but that is the identical question every body puts to me! However, your good
lordship does not yet know what's to come! I went to the house next day, purporting
to deliver up the key, but a thing happenned so horrid, that it put it neat
out of my head!—which is the way that I had it for the service of your good
son.
Lord Exbury.
How?—My Son?—
Litchburn.
Dear Heart! there's the truth slipping
out again! However, pray, my good lord, take no notice of it to the poor young
Gentleman, he having begged it to be kept secret, &, most in particular,
from your good lordship.
Lord Exbury.
Incorrigible Mordaunt! what new
clandestine scheme art thou pursuing? [aside.] Proceed, Mr. Litchburn.
Litchburn.
I made a pretence, my lord, to go
to the room where the closet is, not believing the thing then myself; but I
found the door was locked!—which it had never been before!—& the House-keeper
refused to signify to me the why or the wherefore!—& now, my lord, to
come to the worst at once, I contrived to peep through the key-hole—&
there—I saw the spectre myself! All white, & standing as stiff as a post!
Just in this manner, as I may do now!
Lord Exbury.
My dear Mr. Litchburn—
Litchburn.
I was never so nigh to a swoon in
my life. But I crept away, as well as I could—
Lord Exbury.
Without informing the house-keeper
what you had seen?
Litchburn.
As she would not open the door,
my lord, I naturally concluded her under influence.
Lord Exbury.
I had imagined superstition of this
force confined to the wholly ignorant.
Litchburn.
Ah, my lord! what a man has seen
with his Eyes, he finds hard to get out of his head—humbly craving your lordship's
pardon for taking the liberty to speak my opinion so uncomplaisantly:—which,
indeed, my good Lord Ardville has broken me of doing, till it's somewhat of
the extraordinary I don't forget the having one.
Lord Exbury.
I am much obliged to you, Mr. Litchburn,
for this account; & shall be still more so, if you will be kind enough to
remain in the house about half an hour.
Litchburn [bowing & retiring].
I should be a beast, my good lord,
not to be happy to obey;—though, Heaven knows, I had as lief, to the very
full, stand in the stocks—only I won't take such a liberty as to say so! [aside.
Exit.]
Lord Exbury.
Poor simple soul! it will be highly
necessary to include him in the party present at unravelling this absurdity.
But I must now, alas! exert myself for a far harder task than detecting a village
apparition—the task of attempting to touch a heart grown callous to Reason,
& dead to Nature, yet alive, "tremblingly alive," (64) to every folly of Fashion.
Davis!
[Enter Davis.]
Is not Mordaunt coming?
Davis.
I will call him again, my lord.
I wish the Ghost would call him! I warrant he would not want so many biddings!
[Exit.]
Lord Exbury.
Yet, had it been he who thus had
failed me, though for his sake alone I have forced this severe measure upon
my family, it would less acutely have wounded me. Our disappointments are but
proportioned to our expectations; & what are the paternal hopes that Mordaunt
has not long since blighted? But Valentine—by him to be deserted in distress!
—by him, neglected in sorrow! Where must I look for sympathy? to whom turn
for zeal, or virtue?—O Valentine! son of my cherished hopes! whatever it may
be that hath wrought thee to this change, short be its duration, that I may
know again my son!
[Enter Mordaunt.]
Mordaunt.
I am afraid I have made you wait,
my lord.
Lord Exbury.
Not much. What unfeeling ease! [aside.]
Mordaunt.
Not that you can have any thing
of consequence to do with your time, to be sure, in such a place as this.
Lord Exbury.
Astonishing! his courage almost
diverts me of self-command! [aside.]
Mordaunt.
Had not you better sit down, my
lord? [taking a Chair, & seating himself.]
Lord Exbury.
My heart swells with resentment.
I shall become violent. I had better postpone my purpose. [aside.]
Mordaunt.
The truth is, I was taking a little
nap.
Lord Exbury.
How he disorders me! Is this apathy?
or assurance? [aside.]
Mordaunt.
I have a miserable room up there,
my lord; full of holes & cracks. This is much better,—of the two.
Lord Exbury.
I must not lecture him now. I dare
not trust myself. [aside.] Mr. Exbury, [with constrained calmness.]
I will not detain you at present. Come to me in the evening.
Mordaunt.
Very well, my lord. But I was thinking,
if you make no other use of this room than just writing in it, if you could
not as well change with me.
Lord Exbury.
I am urged too far! [aside]
Mordaunt!—[with emotion.]
Mordaunt [without looking
at him].
Being visited by the zephyrs
where one sleeps, won't do at all.
Lord Exbury [with severity].
Mordaunt!
Mordaunt [still looking
another way].
And as to the shabbiness
of the room, it can't much signify; for you'll never think of letting any
one in while we live in such a manner as this.
Lord Exbury.
I am overpowered! [aside.]
Mordaunt! [striking his hand upon the Table] hear me!
Mordaunt [starting].
What's the matter, my lord?
Lord Exbury.
It is strange, &, no doubt,
it is wrong, but I am not master of myself sufficiently to disguise that your
insensibility, at this moment, offends me yet more keenly than your vices!
Mordaunt.
So! now the Storm is coming
on! [aside, but keeping his seat.]
Lord Exbury.
Various are the excuses, & many
the palliations for the indiscretions of youth, where repentance follows misdeeds,
& error is succeeded by calamity: but so impenetrably are you hardened,
that you seem as indifferent to the consequences of your faults, as to their
heinousness.
Mordaunt.
I am frightened to death lest I
should drop asleep before he has done! [aside.]
Lord Exbury.
The smallest appearance of concern
would soften us all; one single moment of contrition subdue us completely.—
Mordaunt.
He'll never forgive it if I do!
[aside.]
Lord Exbury.
But no! you drive your sister, in
her first bloom, from the World; rob your Brother, in his opening prospects,
of the assistance of his family, & sever your Father, in the decline of
his life, from his friends, his habits, & his comforts.—
Mordaunt.
I wish he'd have done! [aside.]
Lord Exbury.
And all with as careless an indolence
as if you were but blowing bubbles into the air!—alas! bubbles we are indeed!
—not, it is true, so gay in our colours, or so transparent in our composition,
but as unsubstantial, as frail,—&, nearly, as evanescent!
Mordaunt.
He don't talk ill—if he were not
so long. [aside.]
Lord Exbury.
And for what?—tell me, I beseech!
for what have you adopted expences thus ruinous to your fortune, & destructive
of your integrity? For what, I conjure you tell me!—are we all round sacrificed
—Will you not answer?
Mordaunt [starting].
My lord?
Lord Exbury.
Has it been to assist some object
in distress?
Mordaunt.
Sir!
Lord Exbury.
To help a friend?
Mordaunt.
Ha?
Lord Exbury.
To serve your country?
Mordaunt.
What a set of queer questions! [aside.]
Lord Exbury.
No!—it has been but to buy finer
Horses than some other spendthrift! to bet higher wagers than some other profligate!
& to drown reason in better wines than some other futile waster of life
& faculties!
Mordaunt.
He does not spare for cutting! [aside.]
Lord Exbury.
Pitiful pre-eminence! Ambition is
not a word it merits; even the meanest is higher—even the greatest not more
mischievous. Yet you have the courage to complain of an inconvenience! Mordaunt!
if your privations were incurred by doing good to a single fellow creature,
they would render you an object of pity; but in springing solely from your own
wilful folly, they must be considered but as a part of it. [a pause.]
Are you determined not to answer?
Mordaunt.
My lord!
Lord Exbury.
Perhaps you have not even heard
me? Well, sir, I have done! This total want of feeling you think, I presume,
philosophy? But have a care how you support it! You can see, unmoved, your family
in anguish; but—mean, wretched trembler at the imperious bar of Fashion!—
let any one inform you, that your Hat is not in the dimensions of that last
fop whose model has been admired—& you will change colour, & betray
immediate disturbance!
Mordaunt.
My hat, my lord? [looking at
it anxiously.] What's the matter with my hat?
Lord Exbury.
O Mordaunt, it is time, indeed,
I should have done! I have not been able to touch you—but I have tortured
myself! [Exit.]
Mordaunt.
I thought he would mount his great horse. But what the devil put it in his
head to talk of my hat? Is it not the thing, I wonder? Plague take it!—not
that he understands much of the matter. He has cured me of my sleeping fit,
however! He's been cursedly severe. But I forgive him. He is not quite without
reason. I've been but a fool, I believe. I feel devilish queer. I must not
give the thing up, though. I'll go look for the Fortune-teller, I think—&
make him send me a few shepherdesses to amuse me. [Exit.]
Scene 3
[A beautiful country prospect, presenting distant hills, & groups of Trees. Enter Dawson.]
Dawson.
Now if I were not looking for this
fellow, I should meet him at every turn. A sorry rascal! one of his pieces of
fun, quotha? I wish I could light on him! I'd soon teach him to make so merry
with me! Mrs. Innis is a very smart Girl, no doubt; but what am I?—If ever
she meets with a man who for good looks, or a pretty sort of way with him, or
a genteel turn, is so much as to be compared with me—I'll say I'm no judge;
—that's all!
[Enter a Wood Cutter, loaded.]
This way, my lad!—Have you seen any thing in your walks of a grim hulky fellow that's lurking here abouts?
Wood Cutter.
Not I! I be seeing after something
mainly better. I do no' look for such like.
Dawson.
Why he's a cunning man. He could
tell you your fortune.
Wood Cutter.
Could he? I do guess I could tell
it myself, partly .
Dawson.
Ay? What is it, then?
Wood Cutter.
Neighbour's fare; to work hard till
it comes, & then pleay till it goes!
Dawson.
Will you help me to hunt him?
Wood Cutter.
Ay, master—when I cannot get better
game. But I be but of a faint stomach to start after the worst, when I may start
after the best.
Dawson.
The best? Why you don't pretend
to be a Sportsman?
Wood Cutter.
Yes, but I do.
Dawson.
And what do you chace?
Wood Cutter.
Three things, master, that may be
but a trifle to great folk, but that do serve to keep me in special plight:
& the first, it be a good stomach, by earning with my hands what I do put
into my mouth & the second, it be good rest at nights, by falling foul of
no man, & the third, it be the best of any, for it be a sweet'ning to all
my labours, an they were tenfold more; for it be the promise of Kate that, come
the day she will marry me. & then, I warr'nt you, we shall bless one another
with such a mart of little ones, as there won't be the like in all the parish.
& we will tend 'em, & nurse 'em, together—till we be old enough, &
weakly enough, for they to tend & nurse we.
Dawson.
Who's Kate?
Wood Cutter.
Do no' you know Kate? You do come
from some far country, thee; for, here about, there be none so oafish but do
know pretty Kate.
Dawson.
Well but, my lad,—
Wood Cutter.
I canno' prate any more, man, for
I do think I see her, yinder;—& if it be she, she be looking for I. [Exit.]
Dawson.
Now that such a young rascal as
that can get a pretty Girl to trip after him sooner than such a man as I! If
it don't make me sick, I'm a dog. However, Mrs. Innis may do as she likes; but
if she lives to be as old as Mother Red Cap, & as ugly as Mother Shipton,
(65) she'll never have such another offer as mine. I question, indeed, when all's
put together—little as I am given to think much of my own merits—whether
such another offer (66) is to be had. [Exit.]
[Enter Hilaria.]
Hilaria.
Ah, here I am again, enjoying this
delightful retreat, once more in happy liberty. Are the beauties of Nature all
left to the poorer classes? And when again I have a Carriage, shall I again
neglect them? Arrange my head so daintily as to dread every wind of Heaven?
My feet so slightly, that they will shrink from the touch of the Earth? And
make all the elements my enemies by the delicacy of my apparel? Relinquish views
that enrapture my senses? Exercise, that invigorates my health? And a contemplation
of Nature in its sweet simplicity that exalts my Soul? Ah, if even in solitude
I am thus enchanted, what must be the rural life with a chosen companion? How
my reflections run away with me! I must not heed them. No! Happiness is so impossible
without Wealth—What are those two young Persons? A pair of true loveyers
by their fond looks. Poor wretches! how I pity them! And can Love exist
where toil must occupy the time, & meanness the character?
[Enter the Wood Cutter, with a load of wood, & the Hay Maker, with a rake, holding by his arm. Hilaria retreats, but keeps in sight.]
Hay Maker.
Nay, nay, but put down thy load,
& rest thee, dear Tom.
Wood Cutter.
Dost think me tired—& thee
so nigh, Kate?
Hay Maker.
Nay, but a while, Tom;—I do pray
it of thee!
Wood Cutter [unloading].
Then will I do it, for I can gainsay
thee in nothing. Wilt not sit by me, Kate? Nay, nigher.—Dost think I would
hurt thee, my wench? Dost not know I would die first? But why dost take it in
thy fancy, Kate, that I be so main soon tired? An I were such a poor hand as
that, what would become of thee when we shall be fetching a walk together of
a Sunday, & three or four of thy little ones be clinging about us, &
calling out, Dad! take me up! Pretty dears! dost think I could let 'em crawl
on? No, no; I be n't so stone-hearted.
Hay Maker [turning
from him].
Nay, Tom, nay!—
Wood Cutter.
Why art thy cheeks so red, Kate?
Be'st ashamed? Thee'llt be the loveliest mother in all the Parish. How shall
I bestride me home, when I bethink me that thee & thy little ones be on
the watch for me! I shall have my heart in my shoes, Kate, till I get to thee
—& then, I warr'nt, it will be bouncing into thy bosom. But I'll ne'er
come within till I have earned wherewithal to gladden thee.
Hay Maker.
Ah, Tom! will not thy sight do that?
How will I rub, & clean, & brighten my platters, & my pans, &
my nice red bricks, to make them all shine, & look sightly, to welcome thee!
Wood Cutter.
But, Kate, why be'st thee so shy?
Shalt not like to see thy own little prattlers, climbing up thy knees, &
playing pretty gambols around thee?
Hay Maker.
If thee couldst keep 'em, Tom!—
Wood Cutter.
Keep 'em, Kate? Look at my arm?
What dost fancy 'twas gi'n me for? not to dandle beside me, like a lout, &
do nothing, but to work for thee, Kate! to fight for thee, & to hold thee
to my heart! [going to embrace her.]
Hay Maker.
Nay, nay,—but not yet, Tom!—
Wood Cutter.
But when, Kate, when?—We ha' been
asked out & out; when, then, when?
Hay Maker.
Art thee not too poor, Tom, yet?
Wood Cutter.
Dost want to be rich, Kate?
Hay Maker.
Yes, Tom,—for Thee!
Wood Cutter.
And for Thee, my Kate, I be proud
to be poor! How could I prove my true love, an I were rich? I could but go share
& share with what I should not know which way to withhold from thee: but
now, my Kate, I will work—that Thou mayst feed: I will labour,—that Thou
mayst be cloathed: & with the sweat of my brow I will thatch the roof that
shall shelter thy dear head! Where's the rich man, Kate, that can prove true
love like this?—When, then, when?
Hay Maker.
Dear Tom—when thee wilt!
Wood Cutter.
Sunday?
Hay Maker.
Ah, Tom!—'t be but three days
to Sunday!
Wood Cutter.
Ah, Kate!—will not every day after
be shorter?
Hay Maker.
If thee thinkst so, Tom—
Wood Cutter.
Come, then, let's to the Parson
together, & tell him a bit of our mind. I'll make thee a koind husband,
Kate!
Hay Maker.
Dear Tom!—I'll make thee a loving
Wife!
[Exeunt.]
Hilaria [coming forward].
Heavens! what a scene! I feel almost
annihilated!—I might have spared, alas, my pity for myself! Can I see, &
not emulate, affection that has thus its source in Virtue? O Valentine! for
Thee could I not, also, watch & wait? listen for thy step, & at thy
loved approach—
[The Strange Man crosses the stage.]
Ah, there's that ill looking man I observed skulking about yesterday. He seems watching for some one, &, I fear, with evil intent.—Oh happy Pair! Objects of Envy, not disdain! I will fit up, at least, your little cottage, I will furnish your wedding Garments, I will—Ah! Sir Archy—Now must I rally—or die!—
[Enter Sir Archy Fineer.]
Sir Archy.
Ah ha, my little Cousin! whither
are you running? To Gretna Green?
Hilaria.
I am glad, at least, you are in
such good humour. I was almost afraid to see you.
Sir Archy.
No, no; we must never dwell upon
grievances. But whence comes it, my fair fugitive, you think it necessary to
lead your poor Strephon such a dance?
Hilaria.
O Sir Archy! I must speak to you
sincerely. I am ready to expire!—'Tis so shocking—so abominable, giving
a man one's hand, when one hates him so cordially! I have been considering the
matter over gravely, & thinking what my horror will be, when I get into
my carriage—O Sir Archy!—to see Him at my Elbow!—when I enter my house
to have no right to prevent Him from entering it also!—&, when I want
to be alone—O Sir Archy!—to make a scruple of bidding the footman shut the
door in his face!
Sir Archy.
Why all this is rather irksome,
I confess.
Hilaria.
Is it not provoking one can't marry
a man's fortune, without marrying himself? that one can't take a fancy to his
mansions, his parks, his establishment,—but one must have his odious society
into the bargain?
Sir Archy.
But think how soon you'll be free.
Hilaria.
No; I hate to think about people's
dying.
Sir Archy.
But you don't hate to think about
people's being comfortably wrapt in fleecy hosiery,—reclined on an easy chair,
& unable, by the month together, to hop after & torment their fair mates?
Hilaria.
Why no—that is not quite disagreeable.
But, really, poor Women are cruelly off: 'tis so prodigious a temptation to
be made mistress in a moment of mansions, carriages, domestics—to have Time,
Power, & Pleasure cast at once at their disposal—
Sir Archy.
And where is the cruelty of all
this?
Hilaria.
It's accompaniment is so often discordant!
If the regard of Lord Ardville be sincere—why can he not settle half his wealth
upon me at once, without making me a prisoner for life in return?
Sir Archy.
Why that would be disinterested,
I own; but you must forgive the brightness of your Eyes, that has rendered him
more selfish. He is not, however, illiberal, for he had proposed this very morning
adorning your breakfast Table with a case of Jewels of the finest Gems of the
East.
Hilaria.
Indeed? But how came they to be
set so soon?
Sir Archy.
They belonged to his late lady,
during his splendid Eastern embassy. But that is of no import to you. You are
deciding, I find, upon a more simple mode of life?
Hilaria.
I think so!
Sir Archy.
And a mate who has none of these
fopperies to present to you?
Hilaria.
No, no, no mate at all.
Sir Archy.
You blush a little, though—Ah,
Cousin! after prospects, offers, possessions such as these—shall I wait upon
you to dine on a scrag of mutton, & a rice pudding?
Hilaria.
No, no, no!—
Sir Archy.
Hear you ring your bell, when you
want to go out, that you may order—your Pattens? (67)
Hilaria.
Fie—
Sir Archy.
When I enquire for your servant
at a public place, hearken to a child's voice that squeaks out, Ready, Sir!
& see a little Imp jump up, not three feet high?
Hilaria.
What pleasure you take in teizing!
Sir Archy.
Or, when I call your Carriage for
you myself, be told—'tis Number 347? (68)
Hilaria.
You are quite ill-natured. I'll
hear no more. [walking away.]
Sir Archy.
And will you, also, see no more?
[producing a chagrin case.] (69)
Hilaria.
What do you mean?
Sir Archy.
That before you entirely decide,
you will view the contents of this case, entrusted to my presentation by his
lordship.
Hilaria.
No, no!
Sir Archy [opening the box].
Tell me if ever—
Hilaria.
I won't see them, I protest. [walking
off, but looking back.] How they glitter!
Sir Archy.
Ah, sweet Coz!
Hilaria.
Nay, I don't deny it's a sort of
madness to refuse—but I have witnessed, just now, so touching a union of happiness
with simplicity, nay, with poverty, that—
Sir Archy.
I know, then, what you are thinking
of! but when you hear that a certain youth—now why cast down your Eyes?—
is utterly ruined—
Hilaria.
Good heaven!
Sir Archy.
Ay, to his last shilling!—but
'tis a secret, because an affair of honour. (70) You must not, therefore, even
hint at it. Nor should I divulge it, but to shew you, in time, your alternative.
Valentine is only gone to town, to escape from a person who is come down into
the Country to arrest him.
Hilaria.
That's the very man, then, I have
seen dodging about! Dear unhappy Lord Exbury!—And can Valentine too,—even
Valentine—O Sir Archy!—
Sir Archy.
You will have a thousand opportunities
to serve them all when Lady Ardville; but you can only encrease their distress
in any other capacity.
Hilaria.
Give me, then, the Jewels! [seizing
the case] Beautiful as they are, I will but possess to devote them to the
aid of my beloved & excellent Guardian, to whom of right they ought to belong!
Sir Archy.
You accept them?
Hilaria.
Alas—Yes!—I do!—
Sir Archy.
Lord Ardville will be at your feet,
then, in ten minutes.
Hilaria.
Well—it can't be helped!—I'll
never allow myself to think again—that's all! [Exit abruptly.]
Sir Archy [laughing].
Shew me the Woman who can resist a case of Jewels, &—Egad, & I'll
look out for a Gamester who'll decline to hold a Pharo Table! [Exit.]
END OF ACT IV
