[Levy's Room. Enter Lady Raymond, sola.]
Well, my dear father is surely very good to give me the money,—I do believe, had I not loved my Lord so tenderly, I might have been happier the wife of an honest citizen;—yet in general, they have such strange antediluvian sentiments—such prejudices, and anxiety about this vile money—it deadens all their sprightly feelings: "Yet how much worse are Follies of Fashion?—Wou'd to Heaven, they'd only blend their overstock of prudence, with the follies and fopperies of the gay world—they'd both be improved."—But here comes honest Levy, the Israelite without guile.
[Enter Levy.]
LEVY.
Your Ladyship's
most humblest servant.
LADY
RAYMOND.
I have got a
little business for you, Mr. Levy; but you must not tell my Lord.
LEVY.
Oh, 'pon mine
honors, Ben Levy tells nobody—he have de secrets of many {great}
ladies in his hands;—but he never tell de husban.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Well then, here
are my diamonds, that cost ten thousand pounds:—get paste set in the
place of them—sell the diamonds, and lend my Lord the money as from yourself.
LEVY.
And
send de money to what Lord?
LADY RAYMOND.
To Lord Raymond to be sure:—but
don't tell is mine.
LEVY. [Aside.]
Oh, oh! she turn broker on her husban!—he make little oh her monies den.—Oh,
my Lady, it be bad dealing wit de diamonds now-a-days, dey sells very bad.—der
be great quantity on hand.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Pray get as
much for them as you can; and here is two thousand more;—he needs both
sums—and make him give you his note for it.
LEVY.
Oh, dat not
be de good security.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Well, do it
as you think right—only don't mention my name.
[Exit.
LEVY.
Oh! it is very
well!—Levy will have a good premium.—She be foolish woman to lend
it to her husban—but it be ver good for Levy—ver good indeed!
[Enter Macpharo.]
MACPHARO.
Well, Levy,
my boy—have you lent Raymond the seven thousand I gave you?—I won
some more from him last night—here it is:—get me a good premium—and
mum—you shall have half.
LEVY.
Only de half
of it?—Shir, you deals like the Christian—no bowels—but you
be good customer—I will ask no more, no more, except de expence of the
attorney; and dat be one quarter more.
MACPHARO.
Oh, these attornies
make their quarters good wherever they go:—but be sure you give
my lord plenty of money, that I may win it back again.
LEVY.
Oh, no fear!
but it will stitch to my fingers, some how or t'other.—Consider, Shir,
de Jew must live as well as de Christian, and have some profit.
MACPHARO.
[Aside.]
And if he is paid in proportion to his rascality, he shou'd at least have
a hundred per cent.
[Exit.
LEVY.
Oh de damn greedy
dog!—He wou'd have all from poor Levy, dat get it in an honest way, trusting
de monies on de bad securities—and dis rogue go steal it all from de
poor gentleman at gaming.—Oh, dere be sad tives in dis world!
[Exit.
{SCENE [II], Lady Raymond's House.}
[Enter Macpharo and Lady Raymond.]
MACPHARO.
Positively,
Lady Raymond, you are an angel of light; but a most cruel creature.—It
is very strange that so lovely a woman shou'd be angry at hearing
such a truth.
LADY
RAYMOND.
[Laughing.]
People, Sir, must have some little consequence with me, before they can
make me angry. "It requires no such arms in my opinion, to command silence
on a subject which is an insult."
MACPHARO.
Ah! now faith,
I don't wish to have so much consequence at all, at all, as to anger your
Ladyship. All I wish is to have enough to please you.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Do you forget,
Mr. Macpharo, that you are Lord Raymond's friend?—My bearing this insult,
may tell you that I do not; but respect him
in hearing you.
MACPHARO.
To be sure I
am proud of the honor of being his particular friend;—and the best proof
I can give him of my friendship, is loving his wife.—Men of fashion are
obliged to any one that will amuse their wives, so that they be freed from
their fondness.—Oh, indeed, now Lady Raymond, you must not be so fond
of him, else you will make poor Clara jealous.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Clara!—who
is this Clara, pray?
MACPHARO.
Only his favorite
Sultana.—He is very fond of the dear little woman, and to say the truth
of it, she is a charming girl;—but he is not generous to females.—If
his wife finds him as little so as poor Clara, she had better be after securing
a lover to console her. Prithee then, sweet creature, take pity on him who
adores—[Kneels, lays hold of her hand—she struggles.]
LADY
RAYMOND.
Tho' I feel
as I ought—this daring insolence, Lord Raymond's sanction silences my
reproaches:—Since contempt requires no utterance—but leave me, Sir,—begone!—and
till you can respect a woman of honor, never dare to approach me.
MACPHARO.
Oh, then for
pity's sake don't tell my Lord!—He will laugh and jeer me for want of
address.—But I suppose the Prince of Puppies, Captain
Daffodil, has been more successful. Ha, ha, ha!
LADY
RAYMOND.
Insolent!—but
it is beneath me to be moved—know, Sir, that if I don't acquaint Lord
Raymond with this insult, it is because I too much despise you, and
respect his safety. "I am secure in my own rectitude, and never
can forget what I owe him and myself, even should he cruelly forsake me."
[Enter Lord Raymond.]
LORD
RAYMOND.
What is the
matter, Fanny? you seem discomposed—has my friend Macpharo been praising
hazard, which you so much dislike?
LADY
RAYMOND.
My dislike of
gaming, my Lord, is only shewn when it teizes you by a bad run;—or when,
more selfishly, I repine that your time is so totally devoted to it.
LORD
RAYMOND.
Pshaw! Madam,
don't expect me to give up play: and as to being at home,—you cannot
think how cursedly tired we shou'd be of each other, were we to mope so much
together.—Why don't you amuse yourself like other gay women.—You
never can want amusement whilst Bonton house is opened to every pleasure.
Don't you go to the masquerade to-night?—Macpharo and Mrs. Tender will
attend you.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Mrs. Tender
is no friend of mine, my Lord—she defames all my acquaintance—besides,
however grave you may think me, I don't relish a dish of religion by way of
an introduction to scandal—but perhaps I may find a smart fellow—and
go to the Masquerade, and so become the envy of the women and a fashionable
wife at last.
LORD RAYMOND.
[yawning.]
Ah! pray do.
Come, my friend, let us to the club. Seven's the main, my boy!—Good bye,
Fan! If you don't disguise yourself very much, perhaps I may have a peep at
you at the masquerade.
MACPHARO.
Oh, you'll be
sure to find her out; a man always knows when his wife is near him, by a coldness
coming over him.
[Exeunt Lord Raymond and Macpharo.
LADY
RAYMOND.
What a monster
this Macpharo is!—yet he is a fashionable friend. How miserable
I am about Clara! Can it be possible he so tenderly loves her?—How cold
he seemed to me!—When I tried to express an intention of coquetting,
he felt it not—perhaps, should I really try it—but no,—that
were more ungenerous than to be really guilty. I should equally forfeit his
esteem, and destroy his quiet, yet give him no possible chance to get rid
of me. A woman, if seduced by passion, is surely less depraved than the wife
that only appears to do so, to teize her husband.
[Enter Mrs. Tender.]
MRS.
TENDER.
How do you do,
my dear Lady Raymond?—You can't imagine how miserable so long an absence
from you has made me!—but attending prayers, and a sick friend, has taken
up all that time, which (Heaven forgive me) I had almost said, would have
been more agreeably devoted to my sweet friend.—Have you seen Lord Ormond
to-day?
LADY
RAYMOND.
No—I can't
conceive what is the matter—he acts strangely;—yet he is very amiable.
MRS.
TENDER.
Yes, if he were
of the gay world; but one meets him no where.
LADY
RAYMOND.
Why, he is elegant,
nonchalant, and handsome as an Adonis.
MRS.
TENDER.
Yes; but he
don't distinguish himself with the plumes of fashion;—he don't lose money
at the clubs—has never yet had address enough to get the credit of an
affair with a friend's wife—never sported a new fashion—or
even a mistress in a splendid vis-a-vis. I don't believe the vulgar wretch
is even in debt; and let a man be every thing charming and clever, if he don't
signalize himself in the annals of Fashion—lord! one is asham'd to be
seen talking to him.—But you seem thoughtful, child; what's the matter?
LADY
RAYMOND.
Amongst the
scandals which you hourly deplore, pray, Mrs. Tender, did you never hear of
Lord Raymond and a girl named Clara?
MRS.
TENDER.
Lord! to be
sure, my dear.—But who could tell you a story, which proves your caro sposo so ungenerous?
LADY
RAYMOND.
Macpharo did;
but I assure you with no honorable intention—Oh! Mrs. Tender, how false
are the friendships of the great world!
MRS.
TENDER.
Think not so,
my dear creature! The feelings of my heart for you, attests its warmth
and sincerity.—But, in truth, I am free from all its vices. Macpharo,
you know, rattles like a dice-box; and I do believe, seldomer knows what he
is going to say, than the chance he is about to throw.
LADY
RAYMOND.
He
is a vile fellow! But who is this Clara?
MRS.
TENDER.
Only the wife
of one of your Lord's school-fellows, whom he has seduced; and I am told,
she pretends to too much sentiment, to live with him any longer—because
he is now your Ladyship's husband.
LADY
RAYOND.
Poor girl!—she
must have an honest, generous heart.
[Daffodil peeps in.]
DAFFODIL.
Oh, here they
are! Let me hear what is going on.
MRS.
TENDER.
And your Lord,
angry at her leaving him, has let her depart, without a shilling to keep her
from starving.
LADY
RAYMOND.
How cruel!—Where
is she?—she must not be thus driven by fortune.
MRS.
TENDER.
A good old gentlewoman,
Madame Commode, who lets lodgings, was kind enough to give her an asylum.
DAFFODIL.
A
very decent house, to be sure, Madame Commode's!
LADY
RAYMOND.
"Ungenerous
men! they look on us, poor unfortunate females, as devoted victims to their
vanity and perfidy, and repaid for ruined peace and honor, by that tenderness
which tortures and undoes us." How I pity her situation!—I will
go and relieve her from want, I'm resolved on it.
DAFFODIL.
Aye, do go there,
and I will have some rare sport.
MRS.
TENDER.
Pray do, my
dear,—she will tell you all—you had better fix on an hour, and send
her notice. [Aside.] Then I'll be reveng'd on her pert Ladyship.
LADY
RAYMOND.
I'd rather not
go as Lord Raymond's wife, as it might distress her.—Will you allow me
to use your name?
DAFFODIL.
A very proper
one for the place! he, he, he.
MRS.
TENDER.
By all means—I
shall be highly flattered. [Aside.] I must speak against her, to
avoid being suspected.—But, to protect such characters, is very wrong;
it is what religion—
LADY
RAYMOND.
Approves,—else
one oftener will be cruel, ungenerous, and unjust.
MRS.
TENDER.
Indeed, when
one sees the adoration which is paid to the most avowed frail ones—
LADY
RAYMOND.
One is tempted
to pity a poor girl, who is abandoned by all, from one step of misguided tenderness,
or unguarded virtue, of which they often are only taught the name.
MRS.
TENDER.
And which they
are tempted to believe is but a name, since they see the most profligate
courted and carest when rich; by the keenest persecutors of the virtuous
if denied the goods of fortune. [Aside.] The devil's in it, if this
morality don't make her think me a saint!
LADY
RAYMOND.
Possessed of
the man of my heart, young, exalted, and able to indulge in my natural vivacity,
I hoped that I should tread on roses, and breathe nought but innocence and
joy:—but now I am convinced, that unmerited reproach may wound the honest
heart; wither every glowing blossom of thoughtless pleasure, and leave behind
nought but the thorns of regret.
[Exeunt.
[Enter
Daffodil, solus.]
DAFFODIL.
This was a most
lucky visit to Ma'mselle—had I not learned this, I had no chance of getting
Lady Raymond by her conduct to have convinced the world, that I am well with
her.—She has no vanity, the only passion which tempts a woman to appearances
with men.—I will fly to Madame Commode's, where I will conceal myself;
and her going there, under a borrowed name, will establish it as a certain
fact, and every circle will resound with my success.
[Exit.
SCENE [III], A Music Room at Lady Clairville's.
[Discovers Lady Clairville and her Maid playing on the Harp, and singing.]
MAID.
[Scotch Air.]
"A gentle
dove, o'erwhelm'd with grief,
"Perch'd
trembling on yon myrtle grove,
"In plaintive
notes seek soft relief,
"Expecting
soon to meet her love;
"But ah!
false hope! vain airy shade!
"Like gaudy
glow-worms, brought to light,
"From sad
reality you fade,
"Your joys
for ever shun our sight:
"You paint
in glowing, vivid rays,
"The charms
of love and promis'd bliss;
"Fond expectation
falsely raise,
"To sink
us deeper in th' abyss.
"False
Philomel! gay, fluttering round,
"Indulging
wild new-born desires;
"Unmindful
of the bleeding wound
"With which
her faithful heart expires."
[Enter Trusty and Lady Clairville.]
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
Well,
Trusty, where is your answer? Have you none—is my Lord well?
TRUSTY.
Yes, my Lady,
he is well—but there is no answer.
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
No
answer?—Is it possible?
TRUSTY.
No—and
I was glad of it—as I suspect it would not have been a pleasant one.—Pardon
an old man's advice—trust him no more, Madam.—A man who deceives
me once, it is his fault, but if he deceives me twice, it is mine.
[Enter Villiers, (hastily.)]
[Exit Trusty.
VILLIERS.
I come, anxious
for the peace and happiness of Lady Clairville, at the entreaty of Lord Ormond:—Alas!
it distresses me to say, I come to tell her of misery and Ormond!
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
If my Ormond
is well, why join his name with misery?—Speak, Mr. Villiers—Trusty
has alarmed me beyond measure!—What misery can Ormond know, that his
Augusta will not be transported to alleviate?
VILLIERS.
I too well know
the tenderness which you feel for my friend—wou'd to Heaven it were less!—since
fate forbids him to unite himself with you!
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
What do I hear?
does he then no longer love his Augusta? Does he repent those vows which seem'd
to spring from such a feeling tenderness!
VILLIERS.
Too much for
his peace, he loves—
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
Has he lost
money?—If so, my fortune has no charms for me.—Happy with
my Ormond—I'll be content—let him take my all—Sixty thousand,
I trust, will clear his debts—and I should pass a solitary life, satisfied
in having made happy the man, who so perfectly merits to be so.—
VILLIERS.
Generous,
noble Lady Clairville, talk not thus, you rend my heart!
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
The happiness
that I expected so soon to enjoy, all—every thing, I contented shall
resign—
VILLIERS.
Indeed he has
had no losses—he bid me restore you those [gives her notes]
which you so generously sent him.—He bid me—Oh! how shall I pronounce
my friend so vile a name!—but, alas! Madam, you must prepare to find
him a villain!
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
Ormond a villain?—'tis
false!—My Ormond has a heart, the most benevolent that ever blessed humanity!—no
deed, no thought e'er sprung from it, could sully his fair honor—no—the
vivacity of his passions may have led him to some folly; to which his
delicacy gives too harsh a name;—but a villain! [Weeps.]
Oh Heavens! have I liv'd to hear my Ormond called a villain!
VILLIERS.
Be calm, I beg—I
have a tale to tell, must force you, even you, to own that he's a
villain, sunk deep in falsehood and dishonor.
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
[Calmly.]
If so, he's dead to me for ever—for, so firmly did I revere his truth
and honor:—destroy but these, and every feeling of partiality is changed
to cold contempt. Oh, speak!—yet do not traduce him—forgive so harsh
an expression—but, ah! Villiers! a doubt of Ormond must render all his
sex suspected.
VILLIERS.
What,
if Ormond should become the husband of another?
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
[Reflecting.]
The husband of another!—Impossible!—Such wanton falehood is a crime
of too black a dye.
VILLIERS.
Yet, to-morrow—to-morrow—he
weds the sister of Lord Raymond.
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
It is well—had
he acted worthy of my esteem, I ever should, with tender anguish, have deplored
his loss—Why then this perfidy?—but I respect myself too much to
say more of one, who only merits my contempt.
VILLIERS.
Let me entreat
you, palliate my friend's conduct—sure some insanity has involved him
in ruin.
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
To court, and
win my tenderest confidence—to fix our marriage—and pass whole days
in painting future scenes of joy—to weep at every absence—and then
laugh at the wretch that his treachery has made—this is worse that being
perfidious—it is being a barbarian!
VILLIERS.
Alas!
he is most wretched!—your contempt will distract him!
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
Why, why can
the deceiver deck with every charm of truth the invenomed falshood which,
alas! I found nothing in my own heart that could tempt me to suspect, till
he thus murdered my peace, with the coolness of an assassin!
VILLIERS.
There must be
some strange, cruel mystery—let me implore you not to judge hardly of
him.
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
Hush—never
more offend my ears by mentioning him—for I must ever hold that person
my enemy, that shall name him in my presence.—Force me not to
express those sentiments which he merits.
VILLIERS.
Pity!
oh, pity, and, if possible, forgive him!
LADY
CLAIRVILLE.
My heart is
not formed for reproach—Oh, may he never know its value!—else I
shall be too much avenged—it is even generous enough to wish him happy;—for
the object who has so totally forfeited my esteem, can never awaken in my
bosom any emotion:—not even that of resentment.—My tears may flow,
to think that I have made such an ingrate—but my soul must ever exult
in the probity, which has alone rendered my heart a bleeding victim to his
perfidy.
[Exit.
VILLIERS.
What dignity
and tenderness!—Oh, Ormond! what can justify such perfidy to her?
[Exit.
SCENE [IV], The Park.
[Enter Mrs. Tender and Macpharo.]
MRS.
TENDER.
I rejoice, my
dear fellow, to have met you, to tell me what you have settled with Lord Bonton.—Oh,
you dear wicked one, we shall make precious mischief!
MACPHARO.
I have persuaded
him, that Clara will yield, if he gets concealed, so as to pop upon her, when
alone:—and he has got the woman she lodges with to promise to conceal
him in her chamber at seven o'clock.
MRS.
TENDER.
Glorious!—and
I have persuaded Lady Raymond that she is in a decent woman's house, and the
sentimental fool is going to relieve her at seven.
MACPHARO.
Now, my dear
old Tender, go and write the anonymous letter to Lord Raymond, telling that
she is to meet her lover at a house of bad fame at that hour.
MRS.
TENDER.
That
I will. Oh, it will charmingly destroy this proud, virtuous minx!
MACPHARO.
Thou art a dear
witch of invention, by my soul!—Now, she surely will be my own after
this.
MRS. TENDER.
And if not,
at least she will be ruined—her high spirit will fire at being accused—when
only generously serving him; and she is more than mortal, if resentment
don't make her yours. Come, let us hasten to execute our scheme.—But
has Lady Bonton paid you the five thousand?
MACPHARO.
Not yet,—but
she has promised it.—I made her a kind offer, and said, I'd excuse it
for personal security; but she laughed at me; said she knew I did not care
two-pence for her;—but as to Lady Raymond, that she should be good-natur'd
enough always to ask us together.
MRS.
TENDER.
Well, you'll
benefit by that—the Soupešs at Bonton House are the best seconds a man
can have.
MACPHARO.
Yes, we have
compressed those parties into that particular gay set;—the old, who cannot
play the fool, and the young who will not, are equally excluded;
and no female is welcome, except conducted by a favor'd hero.
[Exeunt.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
