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 IV.
SCENE I.
[A Hall at Lord Priory's. Two Servants discovered sitting—Another enters.]
First Servant.
Do you hear, Mr. Porter, you are to
admit no person but Mr. Bronzely.
Second Servant.
Mr. Bronzely—very well—[a loud
rapping]—and there I suppose he is.
First Servant, looking through the
window.
Yes; that I believe is his carriage.—[to
Third Servant] —Let my Lady know.
[Exit Third Servant.
Enter Bronzely.
Bronzely.
You are sure Lady Priory is at home?
First Servant.
Yes, Sir, and gave order to admit nobody
but you.
Bronzely.
Has she been some time at home?
First Servant.
Yes, Sir; I dare say my Lady came from
Mr. Norberry's half an hour ago.
Bronzely.
Waiting for me half an hour—[aside]—Shew
me to her instantly.
[Exit, following the Servant hastily.
SCENE II.
[An Apartment at Lord Priory's. Enter Bronzely and Lady Priory on opposite sides.]
Bronzely.
My dear Lady Priory, how kind you are
not to have forgotten your promise. /
Lady Priory.
How was it possible I should? I have
been so anxious for the intelligence you have to communicate, that it was
pain to wait till the time arrived.
Bronzely.
Thus invited, encouraged to speak,
I will speak boldly—and I call heaven to witness, that what I am going
to say—
Lady Priory.
No, stay a moment longer—don't tell
me just yet—[listening towards the side of the scenes]—for I wish him
to hear the very beginning.
Bronzely.
Who, hear the very beginning?
Enter Lord Priory.—Bronzely starts.
Lord Priory.
I have not kept you waiting, I hope.
My lawyer stopt me on business, or I should have been here sooner.—My
dear Mr. Bronzely—[going up to him] —I thank you a thousand times
for the interest you take in my concerns; and I come prepared with proper
coolness and composure to hear the secret with which you are going to entrust
us.
Bronzely.
The secret!—yes, Sir—The secret
which I was going to disclose to my Lady Priory—Ha, ha, ha!— but,
my Lord, I am afraid it is of too frivolous a nature for your attention.
Lord Priory.
I account nothing frivolous which concerns
my wife.
Bronzely.
Certainly, my Lord, certainly not.
Lord Priory.
Besides, she told me it was of the
utmost importance. Did not you? [angrily.]
Lady Priory.
He said so.
Bronzely.
And so it was—it was of importance
then—just at the very time I was first speaking to Lady Priory on the
subject.
Lady Priory.
You said so but this very moment.
Lord Priory.
Come, come, tell it immediately, whatever
it is. Come, let us hear it.—[after waiting some time] Why, Sir,
you look as if you were ashamed of it! What can be the meaning of this?
Bronzely.
To be plain, my Lord, my secret will
disclose the folly of a person for whom I have a sincere regard.
Lord Priory.
No matter—let every fool look like
a fool, and every villain be known for what he is—Tell your story.
Lady Priory.
How can you deprive me of the pleasure
you promised? You said it would prevent every future care.
Lord Priory.
Explain, Sir. I begin to feel myself
not quite so composed as I expected. You never, perhaps, saw me in a passion—she has—and if you were
once to see me really angry—
Bronzely.
Then, my Lord, I am apt to be passionate
too— and I boldly tell you, that what I had to reveal, though perfectly
proper, was meant for Lady Priory alone to hear. I entreated your Ladyship
not to mention to my Lord that I had any thing to communicate, and you gave
me a solemn promise you would not.
Lady Priory.
Upon my honour, during our whole coversation
upon that subject, you never named my Lord Priory's name.
Bronzely.
I charged you to keep what I had to
tell you a profound secret.
Lady Priory.
Yes; but I thought you understood I
could have no secrets from my husband.
Bronzely.
You promised no one should know it
but yourself.
Lady Priory.
He is myself.
Lord Priory.
How, Mr. Bronzely, did you suppose
she and I were two? Perhaps you did, and that we wanted a third. Well, I
quite forgive you for your silly mistake, and laugh at you, ha, ha, ha, as
I did at Mr. Mandred.—[seriously]—Did you suppose, Sir, we lived
like persons of fashion of the modern time? Did you imagine that a woman
of her character could have a wish, a desire, even a thought, a secret from
her husband?
Bronzely.
It is amazing to find so much fidelity
the reward of tyranny!
Lady Priory.
Sir—I speak with humility—I would
not wish to give offence—[timidly]—But, to the best of my observation
and understanding, your sex, in respect to us, are all tyrants. I was born
to be the slave of some of you—I make the choice to obey my husband.
Lord Priory.
Yes, Mr. Bronzely; and I believe it
is more for her happiness to be my slave, than your friend—to live in fear
of me, than in love with you.—Lady Priory, leave the room.
[Exit Lady Priory.
Lord Priory.
Do you see—did you observe the glow
of truth and candour which testifies that woman's faith? and do you not blush
at having attempted it? Call me a tyrant! Where are the signs? Oh, if every
married man would follow my system in the management of his wife, every impertinent
lover would look just as foolish as you!
Bronzely.
This is all boasting, my Lord—you
live in continual fear—for (without meaning any offence to Lady Priory's
honour) you know you dare not trust her for one hour alone with any man
under sixty.
Lord Priory.
I dare trust her at any time with a
coxcomb.
Bronzely.
That is declaring I am not one—for
I am certain you dare not trust her alone with me.
Lord Priory [in a passion.]
Yes, with fifty such.
Bronzely.
But not with one—and you are right—it
might be dangerous.
Lord Priory [angrily.]
No, it would not.
Bronzely [significantly.]
Yes, it would.
Lord Priory.
Have not you had a trial?
Bronzely.
But you were present. You constantly
follow all her steps, watch all she says and does. But I believe you are
right—wives are not to be trusted.
Lord Priory.
Mine is.
Bronzely.
No, my dear Lord Priory, you must first
become gentle, before you can positively confide in her affection—before
you can trust her in a house, or in any place, alone.
Lord Priory [hastily.]
To prove you are mistaken, I'll instantly
go back to my friend Norberry's, and leave you here to tell her the secret
you boasted. Pay your addresses to her, if that is the secret—you have
my free consent.
Bronzely.
My dear friend, I'll accept it.
Lord Priory.
Ay, I see you have hopes of supplanting
me, by calling me your friend.—But can you conceive now that she'll listen
to you?
Bronzely.
You have given me leave to try, and
can't recall it.
Lord Priory.
But depend upon it, you will meet with
some terrible humiliation.
Bronzely.
Either you or I shall.
Lord Priory.
I shall laugh to hear you tumbled down
stairs.
Bronzely.
You are not to remain on the watch
here; you are to return to Mr. Norberry's.
Lord Priory.
Was that the bargain?
Bronzely.
Don't you remember? You said so.
Lord Priory.
Well, if that will give you any satisfaction—
Bronzely.
—It will give me great satisfaction.
Lord Priory.
Heaven forgive me, but your confidence
makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha!
Bronzely.
And yours makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha!
Enter Oliver.
Lord Priory.
Hah! What brings you here, Oliver?
Lady Priory and I are only come home for a few hours.
Oliver.
I know it, my Lord. I thought nevertheless
I might be wanted.
Bronzely.
And so you are, good Mr. Oliver. Your
Lord desires you to conduct me to your Lady in the next room, and acquaint
her it is with his permission I am come to conclude the conversation which
was just now interrupted.—Is not that right, my Lord? Are not those words exactly corresponding
with your kind promise?
Lord Priory.
I believe they are.
Oliver.
—I am "to take Mr. Bronzely to my
lady, and tell her you sent him."
[Exit Oliver.
Bronzely.
Now this is perfect fashion: and while
I step to Lady Priory, do you go and comfort my intended wife, Lady Mary.
Lord Priory.
I hate the fashion—and were I not
sure you would now be received in a very unfashionable manner—
Bronzely.
No rough dealings, I hope?
Lord Priory.
Oh, you begin to be afraid, do you?
Bronzely.
No—but I have met with an accident
or two lately—and I am not so well acquainted with ancient usages as to
know in what manner a man of my pursuits would have been treated in former
times.
Lord Priory.
A man of your pursuits, Mr. Bronzely,
is of a very late date; and to be shamed out of them by a wife like mine.
Bronzely.
Then we shall all three be old-fashioned.
[Exit, following Oliver.
Lord Priory [returning and looking
anxiously after Bronzely.]
I am passionate—I am precipitate—I
have no command over my temper.—However, if a man cannot govern himself,
yet he will never make any very despicable figure, as long as he knows how
to govern his wife.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
[Sir William's Apartment at Mr. Norberry's.—Several trunks and travelling boxes. —Sir William discovered, packing writings into a port-folio.]
Sir William.
And here is the end of my voyage to
England!— a voyage, which, for years, my mind has dwelt on with delight!—I
pictured to myself my daughter grown to womanhood, beautiful! and so she
is.— Accomplished! and so she is.—Virtuous! and so she is.—Am I of
a discontented nature then, that I am not satisfied?—Am I too nice?—Perhaps
I am. —Soothing thought!—I will for a moment cherish it, and dwell with
some little gratitude upon her late anxiety for my safety. [He walks about
in a thoughtful musing manner.
A loud thrusting and rapping is heard at his chamber door.
Enter Miss Dorrillon hastily and in affright.
Miss Dorrillon.
Oh Mr. Mandred, I beg your pardon—I
did not know this was your apartment. But suffer me to lock the door: [she
locks it] and conceal me for a moment, for heaven's sake.
Sir William.
What's the matter? Why have you locked
my door?
Miss Dorrillon [trembling.]
I dare not tell you.
Sir William.
I insist upon knowing.
Miss Dorrillon.
Why then—I am pursued by a—I cannot
name the horrid name—
Nabson [without.]
She went into this room.
Miss Dorrillon [to Sir William.]
Go to the door, and say I did not.
Sir William.
How!
Nabson [without.]
Please to open the door.
Miss Dorrillon.
Threaten to beat him if he won't go
away.
Sir William.
Give me the key, and let me see from
whom you want to hide.—[commandingly]—Give me the key.
Miss Dorrillon [collecting firmness.]
I will not.
Sir William [starting.]
"Will not"—"Will not," when I desire
you!
Miss Dorrillon.
No—since you refuse me protection,
I'll protect myself.
Sir William.
But you had better not have made use
of that expression to me—you had better not. Recall it by giving me the
key.
Miss Dorrillon.
If I do, will you let me conceal myself
behind that book-case, and say I am not here?
Sir William.
Utter a falsehood?
Miss Dorrillon.
I would for you.
[A hammering at the door.
Sir William.
They are breaking open the door.—Give
me the key, I command you.
Miss Dorrillon.
"Command me!" "command me!" However,
there it is. [Gives it him.] And now, if you are a gentleman, give
me up if you dare!
Sir William.
"If I am a gentleman!" Hem, hem—"If
I am a gentleman!" "Dares" me too!
[Going slowly towards the door.
Miss Dorrillon.
Yes. I have now thrown myself upon
your protection: and if you deliver me to my enemies—
Sir William.
What enemies? What business have you
with enemies?
Miss Dorrillon.
'Tis they have business with me.
Sir William [to them without.]
I am coming. The door shall be opened.
Miss Dorrillon [follows and lays
hold of him.]
Oh, for heaven's sake, have pity on
me—they are merciless creditors—I shall be dragged to a prison. Do not
deliver me up—I am unfortunate—I am overwhelmed with misfortune—have
compassion on me!
[She falls on her knees.
Sir William [in great agitation.]
Don't kneel to me!—I don't mean you
to kneel to me!—What makes you think of kneeling to me?— I must do my
duty.
[He unlocks the door.
Enter Nabson—Miss Dorrillon steals behind the book-case.
Sir William.
What did you want, Sir?
Nabson.
A lady, that I have just this minute
made my prisoner; but she ran from me, and locked herself in here.
Sir William [with surprise.]
Arrested a lady!
Nabson.
Yes, Sir; and if you mean to deny her
being here, I must make bold to search the room.
Sir William.
Let me look at your credentials.—[takes
the writ.] —"Elizabeth Dorrillon for six hundred pounds." Pray, Sir, is
it customary to have female names on pieces of paper of this denomination?
Nabson.
Oh yes, Sir, very customary. There
are as many ladies who will run into tradesmen's books, as there are gentlemen;
and when one goes to take the ladies, they are a thousand times more slippery
to catch than the men.
Sir William.
Abominable!—Well Sir, your present
prisoner shall not slip through your hands, if I can prevent it. I scorn
to defend a worthless woman, as much as I should glory in preserving a good
one: and I give myself joy in being the instrument of your executing justice.—[He
goes and leads Miss Dorrillon from the place where she was concealed—she
casts down her head.] —What! do you droop? Do you tremble? You, who
at the ball to-night would have danced lightly, though your poor creditor
had been perishing with want! You, who never asked yourself if your extravagance
might not send an industrious father of a family to prison, can you feel
on the prospect of going thither yourself?
Miss Dorrillon.
For what cause am I the object of your
perpetual persecution?
Nabson.
Lor! Madam, the gentleman means to
bail you after all: I can see it by his looks.
Sir William.
How, rascal, dare you suppose, or imagine,
or hint, such a thing? [going up to him in anger.]
Miss Dorrillon.
That's right, beat him out of the house.
Sir William.
No, Madam, he shall not go out of the
house without taking you along with him. Punishment may effect in your disposition
what indulgence has no hope of producing.—There is your prisoner [handing
her over to him]—and you may take my word, that she will not be released
by me, or by any one: and it will be only adding to a debt she can never pay,
to take her to any place previous to a prison. [with the emotion of resentment,
yet deep sorrow.]
Nabson.
Is that true, my Lady?
Miss Dorrillon [after a pause.]
Very true. I have but one friend—but
one relation in the world—and he is far away. [Weeps.]
[Sir William wipes his eyes.]
Nabson.
More's the pity.
Sir William.
No, Sir, no—no pity at all—for
if fewer fine ladies had friends, we should have fewer examples of profligacy.
[She walks to the door, then turns to Sir William.]
Miss Dorrillon.
I forgive you.
[Exit, followed by Nabson.
Sir William [looking after her.]
And perhaps I could forgive you. But
I must not. No, this is justice—this is doing my duty—this is strength
of mind—this is fortitude—fortitude— fortitude. [He walks proudly
across the room, then stops, takes out his handkerchief, throws his head
into it, and is going off.]
Enter Lady Mary—a man following at a distance.
Lady Mary.
Mr. Mandred, Mr. Mandred. [He turns.]
Sir— Mr. Mandred—Sir—[in a supplicating tone] I presume —I presume,
Sir—
Sir William.
What, Madam? what?
Lady Mary.
I came, Sir, to request a favour of
you.
Sir William.
So it should seem, by that novel deportment.
Lady Mary.
If you would for once consider with
lenity, the frailty incidental to a woman who lives in the gay world—
Sir William.
Well, Madam!
Lady Mary.
—How much she is led away by the
temptation of fine cloaths, fne coaches, and fine things.
Sir William.
Come, to the business.
Lady Mary.
You are rich, we all know, though you
endeavour to disguise the truth.
Sir William.
I can't stay to hear you, if you don't
proceed.
Lady Mary.
My request is—save from the dreadful
horrors of a jail, a woman who has no friend near her—a woman who may
have inadvertently offended you, but who never—
Sir William.
'Tis in vain for you to plead on her
account—she knows my sentiments upon her conduct—she knows the opinion
I have formed of her; and you cannot prevail on me to change it.
Lady Mary.
Do you suppose I come to plead for
Miss Dorrillon?
Sir William.
Certainly.
Lady Mary.
No, I am pleading for myself. I am
unfortunately involved in similar circumstances—I have a similar debt to
the self-same tradesman, and we are both at present in the self-same predicament.
Sir William.
And upon what pretence did you suppose
I would be indulgent to you, more than to her?
Lady Mary.
Because you have always treated me
with less severity; and because I overheard you just now say, you "should
glory in delivering from difficulty a good woman."
Sir William.
And so I should.
Lady Mary.
How unlike the world!
Sir William.
No—whatever the discontented may
please to say, the world is affectionate, is generous, to the good; more
especially to the good of the female sex; for it is only an exception to
a general rule when a good woman is in pecuniary distress.
[Exit Sir William.
Enter Lord Priory humming a tune, but
with a very serious face: he pulls out his watch with evident marks of anxiety—coughs—rubs
his forehead—and gives various other marks of discontent and agitation.
Lady Mary observes him with attention, then sidles up to him.
Lady Mary.
By the good humour you appear in, my
Lord, I venture to mention to you my distresses. I know the virtues of Lady
Priory make my failings conspicuous; but then consider the different modes
to which we have been habituated—she excluded from temptation—
Lord Priory.
No—she shuns temptation. Has she
not in this very house been compelled to make exertions? Has she not detected
and exposed both Mr. Mandred and Mr. Bronzely?
Lady Mary.
Bronzely! Bronzely! How! [Aside.]
Another rival?
Lord Priory.
She has not done with him yet, I believe;
for, to tell the truth, he is now with her at my house in Park-street. He
taxed me with being jealous of my
wife—to prove in what contempt I held the accusation, I left them together,
and bid him make love to her.
Lady Mary.
Is that possible?
Lord Priory.
I can't say I would have done so rash
an action, had I been married to some women—to you, for instance—but
I have not a doubt of Lady Priory's safety: her mind, I know, is secure,
and I have servants in the house to protect her from personal outrage. The
only fear is, lest he should have received one; for 'tis now near two hours
[looking at his watch] since I came away, and I have neither seen nor heard
any thing of either of them!—But to your Ladyship's concerns.
Lady Mary.
I am at this instant, my Lord, in the
power of an implacable creditor; and without a friend who will give bond for
a certain sum, I must—I blush to name it—be taken to a prison.
Lord Priory.
I am not at all surprised at the circumstance,
Madam: but it amazes me that you should apply to me for deliverance. You have
a brother in town; why not send to him?
Lady Mary.
He was my friend the very last time
a distress of this kind befell me.
[Weeps.
Lord Priory.
Ask Mr. Norberry.
Lady Mary.
He was my friend the time before.
Lord Priory.
Mr. Bronzely, then.
Lady Mary.
And Bronzely the time before that.
Enter Oliver.
Lord Priory.
Ah, Oliver! I am glad to see you, my
good fellow. Ha! what have you done with Mr. Bronzely?
Oliver.
Nay, my Lord, that I can't tell. I can't
tell what he has done with himself.
Lord Priory.
How long has he been gone from my house?
Oliver.
He is not gone yet as I know of; for
none of the servants let him out.
Lord Priory.
Not gone! and you can't tell where
he is!
Oliver.
No, that we can't: we have looked in
every room for him, and can't find him any where.
Lord Priory.
Not find him! [recollecting himself]
Ho! ho! I thought how it would be—I thought he'd have some trick played
him. Where's your Lady?
Oliver.
That I can't tell neither. We have
looked in every room, and can't find her.
Lord Priory.
How!
Oliver.
'Tis as sure as I am alive. I and the
butler, two footmen, and all the maids, have been looking in parlours, chambers,
and garrets, every crick and corner, and no where can we find either Mr. Bronzely or my Lady: but, wherever they are, there's
no doubt but they are together. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Lady Mary.
Ha, ha, ha! No doubt at all, Mr. Oliver.
Lord Priory.
Together! together! and not in my house!
You tell a falsehood. I'll go myself and find them.
Oliver.
You must look sharp, then.
Lord Priory.
How came you to miss them?
Oliver.
I chanced to go into the next room,
to see if there was a proper fire to get it well aired; I knew I had taken
Mr. Bronzely to my Lady in the inner room, and I had heard them both laughing
not a quarter of an hour before; but now, all on a sudden, there was neither
laughing nor talking, nor any noise at all—every thing was so quiet, you
might have heard a pin drop.
Lord Priory [anxiously.]
Well!
Oliver.
And so I thought to myself, thought
I, I'll sit down here; for my Lady will be ringing soon: however, there
was no ringing for a whole half hour; and so then I thought I would e'en
rap at the door; but nobody called "Come in." So then I went in of my own
accord; and there I found—
Lord Priory.
What?
Oliver.
Nobody! not a soul to be seen!
Lord Priory [affecting indifference.]
Oh! she has been playing Bronzely some
trick! She has been hiding him;
and in some miserable place!
Oliver.
But why need she hide herself along
with him?
Enter Mr. Norberry.
Mr. Norberry.
My dear friend, my dear Lord Priory,
let me speak with you alone.—I come upon business that—
Lord Priory.
You look pale! What is your business?
Tell it me at once.
Mr. Norberry.
It is of so delicate a nature—
Lord Priory.
I know my wife is with Mr. Bronzely—I
left them together. I know he is a licentious man; but I know she is an
innocent woman.—Now, what have you to tell me?
Mr. Norberry.
What I have just learnt from one of
your servants. About a quarter of an hour after you left them, they stole
softly out at the back of your house, ran to a post-chaise and four that was
in waiting, and drove off together full speed.
Lord Priory.
Gone! eloped! run away from me! left
me! left the tenderest, kindest, most indulgent husband, that ever woman
had!
Lady Mary.
That we can all witness.
Lord Priory.
I was too fond of her—my affection
ruined her —women are ungrateful—I did not exert a husband's authority—I
was not strict enough—I humoured and spoiled her!—Bless me! what a thick
mist is come over my eyes!
Lady Mary.
No, my Lord, it is clearing away.
Lord Priory.
Lead me to my room. [He is led off
by Mr. Norberry, exhausted with grief and anger.]
Oliver looks after Lord Priory, then takes out his handkerchief, and follows him off, crying.
Lady Mary.
Ha, ha, ha! Oh, how I enjoy this distress!
Ha, ha, ha!
[The officer who has attended her
during the scene, and kept at the farther part of the stage, now comes forward,
and bows to her. She starts on seeing him—takes out her handkerchief,
and goes crying off at the opposite side.]
End of Act IV
