Inchbald, Elizabeth. Wives as They Were, and Maids as They Are. Eds. Gioia Angeletti and Thomas C. Crochunis. British Women Playwrights around 1800. 15 May 2003.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
[Another Apartment at Mr. Norberry's. Enter two Porters from an upper Entrance, bringing in Trunks; Lord Priory and Mr. Norberry following.]
Mr. Norberry.
Here, Stephens, why are you out of the
way? Shew the men with these boxes into the dressing-room appointed for my
Lord Priory.
[A Servant enters on the opposite side, and the Porters follow him off at a lower entrance on that side. Enter Sir William Dorrillon.]
Sir William.
My Lord, I hope I see you well this
evening.
Lord Priory.
Yes, Sir—and you find I have literally
accepted Mr. Norberry's invitation, and am come to him with all my luggage.
[Enter Oliver with a small box in each hand.]
Lord Priory.
Follow those men with the trunks, Oliver.
Mr. Norberry.
Ah, Mr. Oliver, how do you do?
Oliver.
Pretty well—tolerably well, I thank
you, Sir.
[Exit. Enter Servant.]
Servant
Lady Priory.
[Enter Lady Priory.]
Lord Priory [to her.]
Mr. Norberry, our worthy host; and Mr.
Mandred.
[She curtsies.]
Mr. Norberry.
I hope your ladyship will find my house
so little inconvenient to you, as to induce you to make no very short visit.
Lady Priory.
I have no doubt, Sir, but I shall find,
from your friendship, every comfort in this house which it is possible for
me to enjoy out of my own.
[Enter Lady Mary Raffle and Miss Dorrillon.]
Mr. Norberry [introducing them.]
Lady Priory—Lady Mary Raffle—Miss
Dorrillon —Lord Priory.
Lady Mary.
Permit me, Lady Priory, to take you
to the next room: we are going to have tea immediately.
Lady Priory.
I have drank tea, Madam.
Miss Dorrillon.
Already! It is only nine o'clock.
Lady Priory.
Then it is near my hour of going to
bed.
[Lord Priory, Sir William, and Mr. Norberry, retire to the back of the stage, and talk apart.]
Lady Mary.
Go to bed already! In the name of wonder,
what time did you rise this morning?
Lady Priory.
Why, I do think it was almost six o'clock.
Lady Mary [in amaze.]
And were you up at six this morning?
Lady Priory.
Yes.
Miss Dorrillon.
At six in the month of January!
Lady Mary.
It is not light till eight: and what
good, now, could you possibly be doing for two hours by candle-light?
Lady Priory.
Pray, Lady Mary, at what time did you
go to bed?
Lady Mary.
About three this morning.
Lady Priory.
And what good could you possibly be
doing for eleven hours by candle-light?
Lady Mary.
Good! It's as much as can be expected
from a woman of fashion, if she does no harm.
Lady Priory.
But I should fear you would do a great
deal of harm to your health, your spirits, and the tranquillity of your mind.
[Mr. Norberry goes off—Lord Priory and Sir William come forward.]
Lady Mary.
Oh, my Lord Priory, I really find all
the accounts I have heard of your education for a wife to be actually true!—and
I can't help laughing to think, if you and I had chanced to have married
together, what a different creature you most likely would have made of me,
to what I am at present!
Lord Priory.
Yes; and what a different creature you
most likely would have made of me, to what I am at present.
Sir William.
Lady Priory, I am not accustomed to pay
compliments, or to speak my approbation, even when praise is a just tribute;
but your virtues compel me to an eulogium.—That wise submission to a
husband who loves you, that cheerful smile so expressive of content, and that
plain dress which indicates the elegance as well as the simplicity, of your
mind, are all symbols of a heart so unlike to those which the present fashion
of the day has misled—
Miss Dorrillon.
Why look so stedfastly on me, Mr. Mandred?
Do you pretend to see my heart? /
Sir William.
Have you any?
Miss Dorrillon.
Yes; and one large enough to hold—even
my enemy.
Enter Servant.
Servant.
Mr. Bronzely.
Miss Dorrillon.
Shew him into the other room. [Exit
Servant.] Come, Lady Priory, we must introduce you to Mr. Bronzely: he is
one of the most fashionable, agreeable, pleasant, whimsical, unthinking, and
spirited creatures in all the world: you'll be charmed—
Lady Priory.
I dare say it's near ten o'clock. I
am afraid I shan't be able to keep awake.
Miss Dorrillon.
You must—We are going to have a little
concert —'Twill be impossible to sleep.
[Exit Miss Dorrillon, leading off Lady Priory.
Lady Mary.
Upon my word, my Lord, your plan of management
has made your wife unfit for company.
Lord Priory.
So much more fit to be a wife.
Lady Mary.
She is absolutely fatigued with hard
labour—for shame!—How does household drudgery become her hand?
Lord Priory.
Much better than cards and dice do yours.
[Exit Lady Mary followed by Lord Priory— Sir William is left on the stage alone.]
Sir William.
She "has a heart large enough to receive
her enemy."—And by that enemy she means her father.
[He sits down, and shews marks of inquietude.
Enter Sir George Evelyn.
Sir George.
I beg your pardon, Mr. Mandred—I hope
I don't interrupt you—I only wished to speak to Miss Dorrillon.
Sir William.
She is just gone into the next room.
Sir George.
To the concert?
Sir William.
Are not you invited?
Sir George.
Yes; but before I go in, I wish to know
who are the company.—Can you tell whether—a Mr. Bronzely is there?
Sir William.
I know he is.
Sir George.
Are you acquainted with him?
Sir William.
I have met him here frequently.
Sir George.
And are you certain he is here at present?
Sir William.
I have reason to be certain.
Sir George.
Any particular reason?
Sir William.
Your mistress, when his name was announced,
went out to him, exclaiming, "he was the most charming and accomplished man
in the world."
Sir George [greatly agitated.]
She loves him, Sir—I have reason to
believe—to know she loves him. Thus she gives up my happiness and her own,
to gratify the vanity of a man who has no real regard for her; but whose
predominant passion is to enjoy the villanous name of a general seducer.
Sir William [rising.]
Why do you suffer it?
Sir George.
Hush! Don't repeat what I have said,
or I lose her for ever. I am at present under her resentment; and have just
sent into the next room, to ask, if she were there, to speak with her.
Enter Miss Dorrillon.
Miss Dorrillon.
And is it possible I was sent for by
you?
Sir George.
Don't be offended, that I should be uneasy,
and come to atone—
Miss Dorrillon.
I can't forgive you, Sir; 'tis impossible.
[Going.
Sir George.
You pardon those, Maria, who offend
you more.
Sir William.
But an ungrateful mind always prefers
the unworthy.
Miss Dorrillon.
Ah! Mr. Mandred, are you there? [playfully]
And have you undertaken to be sir George's counsel? If you have, I believe
he must lose his cause. To fit you for the tender task of advocate in love,
—have you ever been admitted an honourable member of that court? Have you,
with all that solemn wisdom of which you are master, studied Ovid, as our
great lawyers study Blackstone? If you have—shew cause—why plaintiff has
a right to defendant's heart.
Sir William.
A man of fortune, of family, and of
character, ought at least to be treated with respect, and with honour.
Miss Dorrillon.
You mean to say, "That if A is beloved
by B, why should not A be constrained to return B's love?" Counsellor for
defendant—"Because, moreover, and besides B who has a claim on defendant's
heart, there are also, C, D, E, F, and G; all of whom put in their separate
claims— and what, in this case, can poor A do? She is willing to part and
divide her love, share and share alike; but B will have all or none: so poor
A must remain A by herself A."
Sir George.
Do you think I would accept a share of
your heart?
Miss Dorrillon.
Do you think I could afford to give it
you all? "Besides," says defendant's counsellor, "I will prove that plaintiff
B has no heart to give defendant in return—he has, indeed, a pulsation
on the left side; but as it never beat with any thing but suspicion and jealousy;
in the laws of love, it is not termed, admitted, or considered a heart."
[Going.
Sir George.
Where are you going?
Miss Dorrillon.
To the music-room, to be sure: and if
you follow me, it shall be to see me treat every person there better than
yourself—and Mr. Bronzely, whom you hate, to see me treat him best of all.
[Exit.
Sir George.
I must follow you, though to death.
[Exit.
Sir William.
Fool! And yet am not I nearly as weak
as he is? Else why do I linger in this house? Why feed my hopes with some
propitious moment to waken her to repentance? Why still anxiously wish to
ward off some dreaded fate?—If she would marry Sir George, now—if she
would give me only one proof of discretion, I think I would endeavour to
take her to my heart.
Enter Mr. Bronzely, in great haste.
Bronzely.
My dear Sir, will you do me the greatest
favour in the world?—you must do it in an istant too. Do, my dear Sir, ask
no questions; but lend me your coat for a single moment, and take mine—only
for a moment—I cannot explain my reasons now, my impatience is so great;—but,
the instant you have complied,
I will inform you of the whole secret; and you will for ever rejoice that
you granted my request.
[Pulling off his coat.
Sir William [aside, with great scorn.]
And this very contemptible fellow is
the favoured lover of my daughter!—I'll—[after a struggle]—yes —I'll
make myself master of his secret—it may possibly concern her—my child—my
child's safety may depend upon it.
Bronzely.
Dear Mr. Mandred, no time is to be lost!
Sir William.
This is rather a strange request, Mr.
Bronzely. However, your fervency convinces me you must have some very forcible
reason.—There's my coat, Sir.
[Gives it him.
Bronzely.
Thank you, dear Sir, a thousand times.—This
goodness I shall for ever remember—this binds me to you for ever!—[putting
it on.] Thank you, Sir a thousand times! [Bowing, dressed, and composed.]
Sir William [after putting on the
other coat.]
And now, Sir, explain the cause of this
metamorphosis —let me have the satisfaction to know what advantage will
acrue from it; and in what I have to rejoice.
Bronzely.
Will you promise me not to reveal the
secret, if I trust you with it?
Sir William.
Would you add conditions after the bargain
is made? I must know your secret instantly.
[Threatening.
Bronzely.
Then I will disclose it to you voluntarily;
and rely on your honour to keep it.
Sir William [attentively.]
Well, Sir.
Bronzely.
Hark! I thought I heard somebody coming!
[Offers to go.
Sir William.
I insist upon the information.
[Laying hold of him.
Bronzely.
Well, then, Sir—well—you shall—you
shall.— Then, Sir—in the small gallery, which separates the music-room
from the rest of these apartments—in that little gallery, the lamp is just,
unfortunately, gone out.—I was (as unfortunately) coming along, when the
whisking of a woman's gown made me give a sudden start!—I found a person
was in the gallery with me, and in the dark.
Sir William.
Well, Sir!
Bronzely.
And so, confidently assuring myself,
that it was Miss Dorrillon's waiting-maid, or Lady Mary's waiting-maid, I
most unluckily clasped my arms around her, and took one kiss.
Sir William.
Only one?
Bronzely.
There might be half a dozen! I won't pretend
to swear to one. We'll say half a dozen, before I knew who she was. My rapidity
would not let her breathe at first, and she was fairly speechless.—But
the moment she recovered her breath, she cry'd, "Villain! whoever you are,
you shall repent this:" —and I found it was the voice of a lady to whom
I had just been introduced in the concert-room, one Lady Priory! It seems,
she was stealing to bed at the time we unhappily met.
Sir William.
But what has this to do with your coat?
Bronzely.
A great deal, Sir—you will find, a
great deal.— As I perceived she did not know me, I carefully held my tongue—but
she, with her prudish notions, called "Help!" and "murder!" On which, I flew
to the door, to get away before the lights could be brought—she flew after
me; and, as I went out, exclaimed—"Don't hope to conceal yourself; I shall
know your among the whole concert-room; for I carry scissors hanging at my
side, and I have cut a piece off your coat."—[Sir William looks hastily
at his coat—on which Bronzely holds up the part cut.]—And, sure enough,
so she had!
Sir William [in anger.]
And what, Sir, am I to have the disgrace—
Bronzely.
Either you or I must.
Sir William.
And do you dare—
Bronzely.
Consider, my dear Sir, how much less
the fault is, if perpetrated by you, than by me! This is the first offence
of the kind which, I dare say, you have committed this many a year; and it
will be overlooked in you. But I have been suspected of two or three things
of the same sort within a very short time; and I should never be forgiven.
Sir William.
Nor ought you to be forgiven—it would
be scandalous in me to connive—
Bronzely.
But would it not be more scandalous
to reveal the secret of a person who confided in you?—who flew to you in distress, as his friend, the
partner of his cares?
Sir William.
Your impertinence to me, but more your
offence to a woman of virtue, deserves punishment. Yet I think the punishment
of death, in the way that a man of my Lord Priory's temper might inflict
it, much too honourable for your deserts; so I save your life for some less
creditable end. I lend you my coat, to disgrace you by existence; and will
go to my chamber, and put on another myself. [Passes Bronzely, in order
to retire to his chamber.]
Enter Lord Priory, who meets him. Sir William starts.
Bronzely [going up to Lord Priory.
Ah, my Lord! is the concert over? charming
music! that solo was divine.
[Sir William steals to a chair, and sits down to hide his coat.]
Lord Priory [after looking inquisitively
at Bronzely's dress.]
It is time the concert should be over—it
had been better it had never begun; for there have been some very improper
persons admitted. [In great anger.]
Bronzely [affecting surprise.]
Indeed!
Lord Priory [trembling with rage.]
I am at a loss how to act. [Draws
a chair with violence, and places himself down by Sir William—Sir William
appears disconcerted and uneasy.] But if I could find the man to whom
this piece of cloth belongs—
Bronzely.
What! this small piece of woollen cloth?
Lord Priory.
Yes, then I should know how to act. In
the mean time, Mr. Mandred, as I know you are a great admirer of my wife [Sir
William starts], and a grave prudent man of honour, I come to ask your advice,
how I am the most likely to find out the villain who has dared to insult her;
for a gross insult she has received from one of Mr. Norberry's visitors, wearing
a coat of which this is a part.
Bronzely.
The villain, no doubt, stole out of
the house immediately.
Lord Priory.
I ordered the street door to be guarded
that instant—and you, Mr. Bronzely, are now the last man whose habit I
have examined.
Bronzely.
And you see I am perfectly whole.
[Turning round.
Lord Priory.
I do see—I do see. [Sir William
moves about on his chair, and appears greatly embarrassed. Lord Priory starts
up in a violent passion—Sir William starts up with him.]
Lord Priory.
I'll find him out if he is on earth—I'll
find him out if—My passion carries me away—I have not coolness to detect
him myself—I'll employ another—I'll send Oliver in search. Oliver! [calling]
Oliver! here, Oliver! Why don't you answer when you are called, you stupid,
dull, idle, forgetful, blundering, obstinate, careless, self-sufficient—
[Exit in a fury.
Sir William [rising with great dignity.]
And now, Mr. Bronzely, how do you think
you are to repay me, for having felt one transitory moment of shame? Understand, Sir, that shame
is one of the misfortunes to which I have never—
Enter Lady Mary.
Bronzely [aside to Sir William.]
Sit down, sit down, sit down—hold
your tongue, and sit down.
[Sir William reluctantly retires to his chair.
Lady Mary.
Well, I do most cordially rejoice, when
peevish, suspicious, and censorious people, meet with humiliation! I could
die with laughing at the incident which has put both my Lord and my Lady
Priory into the greatest terror, grief, and rage.
Sir William [rising.]
I am out of all patience. The malicious
depravity of persons in a certain sphere of life is not to be borne. [With
firmness and solemnity.] Lady Mary—Mr. Bronzely—
Bronzely [in a half whisper to him.]
Go away—don't expose yourself—steal
out of the room—take my advice, and go to-bed—hide yourself. So great
is my respect for you, I would not have you detected for the world.
Sir William.
I am going to retire, Sir. I would not
throw my friend's house into confusion and broils; therefore I am as well
pleased not to be detected as you can be. [Goes to the door, then turns.]
But before I quit the room, I am irresistibly impelled to say— Mr. Bronzely!
Lady Mary! while you continue to ridicule all that is virtuous, estimable,
dignified, your vices most assuredly will plunge you into that very disgrace—
[Enter Oliver, and places the piece of cloth against Sir William's coat.]
Oliver.
'Tis as exact a match as ever was—it
fits to a thread. Ha, ha, ha!—Ha, ha, ha!
Sir William.
Rascal!
Bronzely.
Did not I entreat you to go to-bed?
Lady Mary.
Oh! this is the highest gratification
I ever knew. My Lord! my Lord! [calling.]
Bronzely.
Hush, hush!—hold, for heaven's sake.
Oliver.
But mercy and goodness defend us! who
would have thought of this grave gentleman? Ha, ha, ha! —I can tell you
what, Sir; my Lord will be in a terrible passion with you. This house won't
hold you both; and I am sure I hate to make mischief. —Mum—I'll say nothing
about it. [clapping Sir William on the shoulder] And so make yourself
easy.
Bronzely [on the other side of Sir
William.]
Yes, make yourself easy.
Oliver.
A good servant should sometimes be a
peacemaker —for my part, I have faults of my own, and so, I dare say, has
that gentleman—and so, I dare say, has that gentlewoman. But of all the
birds in the wood, how came you to make up to my Lady? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Bronzely.
No jests—no jests. Mr. Mandred is
my friend —my very good friend—and he is not so much to blame as you
think, for—Good night, my dear Sir. Heaven bless you. I thank you a thousand times. Good night. [Shaking hands with Sir
William, and leading him towards the door.]
Sir William [with steady composure.]
Good night. Good night, Lady Mary.
[Exit.
Oliver.
Why, he never so much as once said he
was obliged to me.
Lady Mary.
I am sure, if you do not discover this
to your master, I will.
Oliver.
Oh! as that old gentleman had not manners
to say "thank you for your kindness," I'll go tell my Lord directly.
[Exit.
Bronzely [running after him.]
No, no, no—stop, Oliver. He is gone!
Lady Mary.
What makes you thus anxious and concerned,
Bronzely? Now, I wish I may suffer death, if, till I came into this room,
I did not think you were the offender.
Bronzely.
I! I indeed!—No, if I could have been
tempted to offend any woman in this house in a similar manner, it could have
been none but you.
[Bowing.
Lady Mary.
No, Bronzely, no; I have been too partial
to you, to have any remaining claims—Hark! don't I hear Lord Priory's voice
in a dreadful rage?
Bronzely.
Then Oliver has accused him. What shall
I do to prevent mischief? Dear Lady Mary, as it is not proper for me to stay
here any longer uninvited, do you run and try to pacify my Lord Priory. Tell him Mandred does not sleep here to-night; and
in the morning you are sure he will make an apology.
Lady Mary.
I will do as you desire—but I know
Mr. Mandred so well, that I am sure he will not.
[Exit.
Bronzely.
Then I will for him. Early in the morning,
I'll wait on Lady Priory, and beg pardon in his name without his knowing
it. Yes, I have got poor Mandred into a difficulty, and it is my duty to
get him out of it. And then, I shall not only serve him, but have one interview
more with that heavenly woman.
[Exit.
End of Act II
