Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor», страница 7
Abel Grouse. (without) What ho! is the lawyer within?
Sir Row. Who interrupts us?
O’Ded. ’Tis the strange man that lives on the common – his name is Abel Grouse – he’s coming up.
Sir R. I’ll wait till you dismiss him, for I cannot encounter any one at present. Misfortunes crowd upon me; and one act of guilt has drawn the vengeance of Heaven on my head, and will pursue me to the grave. [Exit to an inner room.
O’Ded. Och! if a small gale of adversity blows up such a storm as this, we shall have a pretty hurricane by and by, when you larn a little more of your hopeful nephew, and see his new matrimonial scheme fall to the ground, like buttermilk through a sieve.
Enter Abel Grouse
Abel Grouse. Now, sir, you are jackall, as I take it, to lord Austencourt.
O’Ded. I am his man of business, sure enough; but didn’t hear before of my promotion to the office you mention.
Ab. Gr. You are possessed of all his secret deeds.
O’Ded. That’s a small mistake – I have but one of them, and that’s the deed of settlement on Miss Helen Worret, spinster.
Ab. Gr. Leave your quibbling, sir, and speak plump to the point – if habit hasn’t hardened your heart, and given a system to your knavery, answer me this: lord Austencourt has privately married my daughter?
O’Ded. Hush!
Ab. Gr. You were a witness.
O’Ded. Has any body told you that thing?
Ab. Gr. Will you deny it?
O’Ded. Will you take a friend’s advice?
Ab. Gr. I didn’t come for advice. I came to know if you will confess the fact, or whether you are villain enough to conceal it.
O’Ded. Have done wid your bawling – sir Rowland’s in the next room!
Ab. Gr. Is he? then sir Rowland shall hear me – Sir Rowland! – he shall see my daughter righted – Ho there! Sir Rowland!
O’Ded. (aside) Here’ll be a devil of a dust kicked up presently about the ears of Mr. Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law!
Enter sir Rowland
Sir Row. Who calls me?
Ab. Gr. ’Twas I!
Sir Row. What is it you want, friend?
Ab. Gr. Justice!
Sir Row. Justice! then you had better apply there, (pointing to O’Dedimus.)
Ab. Gr. That’s a mistake – he deals only in law– ’tis to you that I appeal – Your nephew, lord Austencourt, is about to marry the daughter of sir Willoughby Worret.
Sir Row. He is.
Ab. Gr. Never! I will save him the guilt of that crime at least!
Sir Row. You are mysterious, sir.
Ab. Gr. Perhaps I am. Briefly, your nephew is privately married to my daughter – this man was present at their union – will you see justice done me, and make him honourably proclaim his wife?
Sir Row. Your tale is incredible, sir – it is sufficient, however, to demand attention, and I warn you, lest by your folly you rouse an indignation that may crush you.
Ab. Gr. Hear me, proud man, while I warn you! My daughter is the lawful wife of lord Austencourt – double is the wo to me that she is his wife: but as it is so, he shall publicly acknowledge her – to you I look for justice and redress – see to it, sir, or I shall speedily appear in a new character, with my wrongs in my hand, to hurl destruction on you. [Exit.
Sir Row. What does the fellow mean?
O’Ded. That’s just what I’m thinking —
Sir Row. You, he said, was privy to their marriage.
O’Ded. Bless ye, the man’s mad!
Sir Row. Ha! you said you had a secret respecting my nephew.
O’Ded. Sir, if you go on so, you’ll bother me!
Sir Row. The fellow must be silenced – can you not contrive some means to rid us of his insolence?
O’Ded. Sir, I shall do my duty, as my duty should be done, by Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law.
Sir Row. My nephew must not hear of this accursed loss – be secret on that head, I charge you! but in regard to this man’s bold assertion, I must consult him instantly – haste and follow me to his house.
O’Ded. Take me wid ye, sir; for this is such a dirty business, that I’ll never be able to go through it unless you show me the way. [Exeunt.
End of act I
ACT II
SCENE I. – A library at Sir Willoughby’s. Enter Helen with Servant
Helen. Lord Austencourt – true – this is his hour for persecuting me – very well, desire lord Austencourt to come in. (exit servant) I won’t marry. They all say I shall. Some girls, now, would sit down and sigh, and moan, as if that would mend the matter – that will never suit me! Some indeed would run away with the man they liked better – but then the only man I ever liked well enough to marry – is – I believe, run away from me. Well! that won’t do! – so I’ll e’en laugh it off as well as I can; and though I wont marry his lordship, I’ll teaze him as heartily as if I had been his wife these twenty years.
Enter lord Austencourt
Lord A. Helen! too lovely Helen! once more behold before you to supplicate for your love and pity, the man whom the world calls proud, but whom your beauty alone has humbled.
Helen. They say, my lord, that pride always has a fall some time or other. I hope the fall of your lordship’s hasn’t hurt you.
Lord A. Is it possible that the amiable Helen, so famed for gentleness and goodness, can see the victim of her charms thus dejected stand before her.
Helen. Certainly not, my lord – so pray sit down.
Lord A. Will you never be for one moment serious?
Helen. Oh, yes, my lord! I am never otherwise when I think of your lordship’s proposals – but when you are making love and fine speeches to me in person, ’tis with amazing difficulty I can help laughing.
Lord A. Insolent vixin. (aside) I had indulged a hope, madam, that the generosity and disinterested love I have evinced —
Helen. Why as to your lordship’s generosity in condescending to marry a poor solitary spinster, I am certainly most duly grateful – and no one can possibly doubt your disinterestedness, who knows I am only heiress to 12,000l. a year – a fortune which, as I take it, nearly doubles the whole of your lordship’s rent roll!
Lord A. Really, madam, if I am suspected of any mercenary motives, the liberal settlements which are now ready for your perusal, must immediately remove any such suspicion.
Helen. Oh, my lord, you certainly mistake me – only as my papa observes, our estates do join so charmingly to one another!
Lord A. Yes: – that circumstance is certainly advantageous to both parties (exultingly.)
Helen. Certainly! – only, as mine is the biggest, perhaps yours would be the greatest gainer by the bargain.
Lord A. My dear madam, a title and the advantages of elevation in rank amply compensate the sacrifice on your part.
Helen. Why, as to a title, my lord (as Mr. O’Dedimus, your attorney, observes) there’s no title in my mind better than a good title to a fine estate – and I see plainly, that although your lordship is a peer of the realm – you think this title of mine no mean companion for your own.
Lord A. Nay, madam – believe me – I protest – I assure you – solemnly, that those considerations have very little – indeed no influence at all with me.
Helen. Oh, no! – only it is natural that you should feel (as papa again observes) that the contiguity of these estates seem to invite a union by a marriage between us.
Lord A. And if you admit that fact, why do you decline the invitation?
Helen. Why, one doesn’t accept every invitation that’s offered, you know – one sometimes has very disagreeable ones; and then one presents compliments, and is extremely sorry that a prior engagement obliges us to decline the honour.
Lord A. (aside) Confound the satirical huzzy – But should not the wishes of your parents have some weight in the scale?
Helen. Why, so they have; their wishes are in one scale, and mine are in the other; do all I can, I can’t make mine weigh most, and so the beam remains balanced.
Lord A. I should be sorry to make theirs preponderate, by calling in their authority as auxiliaries to their wishes.
Helen. Authority! – Ho! what, you think to marry me by force! do ye my lord?
Lord A. They are resolute, and if you continue obstinate —
Helen. I dare say your lordship’s education hasn’t precluded your knowledge of a very true, though rather vulgar proverb, “one man may lead a horse to the water, but twenty can’t make him drink.”
Lord A. The allusion may be classical, madam, though certainly it is not very elegant, nor has it even the advantage of being applicable to the point in question. However I do not despair to see this resolution changed. In the mean time, I did not think it in your nature to treat any man who loves you with cruelty and scorn.
Helen. Then why don’t you desist, my lord? If you’d take an answer, you had a civil one: but if you will follow and teaze one, like a sturdy beggar in the street, you must expect at last a reproof for your impertinence.
Lord A. Yet even in their case perseverance often obtains what was denied to poverty.
Helen. Yes, possibly, from the feeble or the vain; but genuine Charity, and her sister, Love, act only from their own generous impulse, and scorn intimidation.
Enter Tiffany
Tiffany. Are you alone, madam?
Helen. No; I was only wishing to be so.
Tiff. A young woman is without, inquiring for sir Willoughby, ma’am; I thought he had been here.
Helen. Do you know her?
Tiff. Yes, ma’am; ’tis Fanny, the daughter of the odd man that lives on the common.
Helen. I’ll see her myself – desire her to walk up. [Exit Tiffany.
Lord A. (seems uneasy) Indeed! what brings her here?
Helen. Why, what can be the matter now? your lordship seems quite melancholy on a sudden.
Lord A. I, madam! oh no! – or if I am – ’tis merely a head ach, or some such cause, or perhaps owing to the influence of the weather.
Helen. Your lordship is a very susceptible barometer – when you entered this room your countenance was set fair; but now I see the index points to stormy.
Lord A. Madam, you have company, or business – a good morning to you.
Helen. Stay, stay, my lord.
Lord A. Excuse me at present, I have an important affair – another time.
Helen. Surely, my lord, the arrival of this innocent girl does not drive you away!
Lord A. Bless me, madam, what an idea! certainly not; but I have just recollected an engagement of consequence – some other time – Madam, your most obedient – [Exit.
Enter Fanny
Fan. I beg pardon, madam, I’m fearful I intrude; but I inquired for sir Willoughby, and they showed me to this room. I wished to speak with him on particular business – your servant, madam.
Hel. Pray stay, my good girl – I rejoice in this opportunity of becoming acquainted with you – the character I have heard of you has excited an affectionate interest – you must allow me to become your friend.
Fanny. Indeed, indeed, madam, I am in want of friends; but you can never be one of them.
Helen. No! Why so?
Fan. You, madam! Oh no – you are the only enemy I ever had.
Hel. Enemy! This is very extraordinary! I have scarce ever seen you before – Assuredly I never injured you.
Fan. Heaven forbid I should wish any one to injure you as deeply.
Hel. I cannot understand you – pray explain yourself.
Fan. That’s impossible, madam – my lord would never forgive me.
Hel. Your lord! Let me entreat you to explain your meaning.
Fan. I cannot, madam; I came hither on business of importance, and no trifling business should have brought me to a house inhabited by one who is the cause of all my wretchedness.
Hel. This is a very extraordinary affair! There is a mixture of cultivation and simplicity in your manner that affects me strongly – I see, my poor girl, you are distressed; and though what you have said leaves on my mind a painful suspicion —
Fan. Oh heavens, madam! stay, I beseech you! – I am not what you think me, indeed I am not – I must not, for a moment, let you think of me so injuriously: yet I have promised secrecy! but sure no promise can be binding, when to keep it we must sacrifice all that is valuable in life – hear me, then madam – the struggle is violent; but I owe it to myself to acknowledge all.
Hel. No, no, my dear girl! I now see what it would cost you to reveal your secret, and I will not listen to it; rest assured, I have no longer a thought to your disadvantage: curiosity gives place to interest: for though ’tis cruelty to inflict a wound, ’tis still more deliberate barbarity to probe when we cannot hope to heal it. (going.)
Fan. Stay, madam, stay – your generosity overpowers me! oh madam! you know not how wretched I am.
Hel. What is it affects you thus? – come, if your story is of a nature that may be revealed, you are sure of sympathy.
Fan. I never should have doubted; but my father has alarmed me sadly – he says my lord Austencourt is certainly on the point of marriage with you.
Hel. And how, my dear girl, if it were so, could that affect you? Come, you must be explicit.
Fan. Affect me! merciful Heaven! can I see him wed another? He is my husband by every tie sacred and human.
Hel. Suffering, but too credulous girl! have you then trusted to his vows?
Fan. How, madam! was I to blame, loving as I did, to trust in vows so solemn? could I suppose he would dare to break them, because our marriage was performed in secret?
Hel. Your marriage, child! Good Heavens, you amaze me! but here we may be interrupted – this way with me. If this indeed be so all may be well again: for though he may be dead to feeling be assured he is alive to fear: the man who once descends to be a villain is generally observed to be at heart a coward. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. – The door of a country inn. – Ponder sitting on a portmanteau
Ponder. I’ve heard that intense thinking has driven some philosophers mad! – now if this should happen to me, ’twill never be the fate of my young patron, Mr. Charles Austencourt, whom I have suddenly met on his sudden return from sea, and who never thinks at all. Poor gentleman, he little thinks what —
Enter Charles Austencourt
Charles. Not gone yet? How comes it you are not on the road to my father? Is the fellow deaf or dumb. Ponder! are ye asleep?
Pon. I’m thinking, whether I am or not.
Charles. And what wise scheme now occupies your thoughts?
Pon. Sir, I confess the subject is beneath me (pointing to the portmanteau.)
Char. The weight of the portmanteau, I suppose, alarms you.
Pon. If that was my heaviest misfortune, sir, I could carry double with all my heart. No, sir, I was thinking that as your father, sir Rowland, sent you on a cruize, for some cause best known to himself; and as you have thought proper to return for some cause best known to yourself, the chances of war, if I may be allowed the expression, are, that the contents of that trunk will be your only inheritance, or, in other words, that your father will cut you off with a shilling – and now I’m thinking —
Char. No doubt – thinking takes up so many of your waking hours, that you seldom find time for doing. And so you have, since my departure, turned your thinking faculties to the law.
Pon. Yes, sir; when you gave me notice to quit, I found it so hard to live honestly, that lest the law should take to me, I took to the law: and so articled my self to Mr. O’Dedimus, the attorney in our town: but there is a thought unconnected with law that has occupied my head every moment since we met.
Char. Pr’ythee dismiss your thought, and get your legs in motion.
Pon. Then, sir, I have really been thinking, ever since I saw you, that you are a little – (going off to a distance) a little odd hereabouts, sir; (pointing to his head) a little damned mad, if I may be allowed the expression!
Char. Ha! ha! very probably. My sudden return, without a motive, as you suppose, has put that wise notion in your head.
Pon. Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well the motive – the old story, sir, ha! love!
Char. Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose, that I – that I can be guilty of such a folly – I should be glad to know how you dare venture to think that I —
Pon. Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.
Char. Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?
Pon. The old symptoms, sir – in the first place, frequent fits of my complaint.
Char. Your complaint?
Pon. Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs, fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counter orders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of your senses, if I may be allowed the expression.
Char. No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression – ’tis impertinent, ’tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never had the fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and, heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!
Pon. Nor I, sir; though I’ve been married these three years, I never once sighed for my dear wife in all that time – heigho!
Char. I mustn’t be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for an unobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.
Pon. Then, sir, you mis-took me. I fancy it was in one of your most decided unobserving fits that you took me for a blockhead.
Char. Well, sir; I see you have discovered my secret. Act wisely, and it may be of service to you.
Pon. Sir, I haven’t studied the law for nothing. I’m no fool, if I may be allowed the expression.
Char. I begin to suspect you have penetration enough to be useful to me.
Pon. And craving your pardon, sir, I begin to suspect your want of that faculty, from your not having found out that before.
Char. I will now trust you, although once my servant, with the state of my heart.
Pon. Sir, that’s very kind of you, to trust your humble servant with a secret he had himself discovered ten months ago.
Char. Keep it with honour and prudence.
Pon. Sir, I have kept it. Nobody knows of it, that I know of, except a few of your friends, many of your enemies, most travelling strangers, and all your neighbours.
Char. Why, zounds! you don’t mean to say that any body, except yourself, suspects me to be in love.
Pon. Suspects! no, sir; suspicion is out of the question; it is taken as a proved fact in all society, a bill found by every grand jury in the county.
Char. The devil it is! Zounds! I shall never be able to show my face – this will never do – my boasted disdain of ever bowing to the power of love – how ridiculous will it now render me – while the mystery and sacred secrecy of this attachment constituted the chief delight it gave to the refinement of my feelings – O! I’ll off to sea again – I won’t stay here – order a post-chaise – no – yes – a chaise and four, d’ye hear?
Pon. Yes, sir; but I’m thinking —
Char. What?
Pon. That it is possible you may alter your mind.
Char. No such thing, sir; I’ll set off this moment; order the chaise, I say.
Pon. Think of it again, sir.
Char. Will you obey my orders, or not?
Pon. I think I will. (aside) Poor gentleman! now could I blow him up into a blaze in a minute, by telling him that his mistress is just on the point of marriage with his cousin, but though they say “ill news travels apace,” they shall never say that I rode postillion on the occasion. [Exit into inn.
Char. Here’s a discovery! all my delicate management destroyed! known all over the country! I’m off! and yet to have travelled so far, and not to have one glimpse of her! but then to be pointed at as a poor devil in love, a silly inconsistent boaster! no, that wont do – but then I may see her – yes, I’ll see her once – just once – for three minutes, or three minutes and a half at most – no longer positively – Ponder, Ponder! (enter Ponder) Ponder, I say —
Pon. I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, for I’m thinking —
Char. Damn your thinking, sir!
Pon. I was only thinking that you may have altered your mind already.
Char. I have not altered my mind: but since I am here, I should be wanting in duty not to pay my respects to my father; so march on with the trunk, sir.
Pon. Yes, sir: but if that’s all you want to do, sir, you may spare yourself the trouble of going further, for, most fortunately, here he comes; and your noble cousin, lord Austencourt, with him —
Char. The devil!
Pon. Yes, sir; the devil, and his uncle, your father, if I may be allowed the expression. [Exit.
Enter sir Rowland and lord Austencourt
Char. My dear father, I am heartily glad to see you —
Sir R. How is this, Charles! returned thus unexpectedly?
Char. Unexpected pleasure, they say, sir, is always most welcome – I hope you find it so.
Sir R. This conduct, youngster, requires explanation.
Char. Sir, I have it ready at my tongue’s end – My lord, I ask your pardon – I’m glad to see you too.
Lord A. I wish, sir, I could return the compliment; but this extraordinary conduct —
Char. No apologies, my lord, for your civil speech – you might easily have returned the compliment in the same words, and, believe me, with as much sincerity as it was offered.
Sir R. This is no time for dissention, sir —
Lord A. My cousin forgets, sir Rowland, that although united by ties of consanguinity, birth and fortune have placed me in a station which commands some respect.
Char. No, my lord, for I also am in a station where I too command respect, where I respect and am respected. I therefore well know what is due to my superiors; and this duty I never forget, till those above me forget what they owe to themselves.
Lord A. I am not aware, good cousin, that I have ever yet forfeited my title to the respect I claim.
Char. You have, my lord: for high rank forfeits every claim to distinction when it exacts submissive humility from those beneath it, while at the same time it refuses a graceful condescension in exchange.
Sir R. Charles, Charles, these sentiments but ill become the dependent state in which Fortune has placed you.
Char. Dependent state! Dependent upon whom! What, on him! my titled, tawdry cousin there? What are his pretensions, that he shall presume to brand me as a poor dependent! – What are his claims to independence? How does he spend the income Fortune has allotted to him? Does he rejoice to revive in the mansion of his ancestors the spirit of old English hospitality? Do the eyes of aged tenants twinkle with joy when they hope his coming? do the poor bless his arrival? I say no. He is the lord of land – and is also, what he seems still more proud of, a lord of parliament; but I will front him in both capacities, and frankly tell him, that in the first he is a burthen to his own estate, and not a benefactor; and in the second, a peer but not a prop.
Sir R. Charles, how dare you thus persevere! You cannot deny, rash and foolish boy, that you are in a dependant state. Your very profession proves it.
Char. O, father, spare that insult! The profession I glory to belong to, is above dependence – yes! while we live and fight, we feel, and gratefully acknowledge, that our pay depends on our king and country, and therefore you may style us dependant; but in the hour of battle we wish for nothing more than to show that the glory and safety of the nation depends on us; and by our death or blood to repay all previous obligation.
Sir R. Dismiss this subject.
Char. With all my heart – My cousin was the subject, and he’s a fatiguing one.
Sir R. Though you do not love your cousin, you ought to pay that deference to his rank which you refuse to his person.
Char. Sir, I do; like a fine mansion in the hands of a bad inhabitant. I admire the building, but despise the tenant.
Lord A. This insolence is intolerable, and will not be forgotten. You may find, hot sir, that Where my friendship is despised, my resentment may be feared. I well know the latent motives for this insult. It is the language of a losing gamester, and is treated with deserved contempt by a successful rival. [Exit.
Char. Ha! a successful rival! Is this possible?
Sir. R. It is. The treaty of marriage between lord Austencourt and Helen is this morning concluded.
Char. And does she consent?
Sir R. There can be little doubt of that.
Char. But little doubt! False Helen! Come, come, I know my Helen better.
Sir R. I repeat my words, sir. It is not the curse of every parent to have a disobedient child.
Char. By Heaven, sir, that reflection cuts me to the heart. You have ever found in me the obedience, nay more, the affection of a son, till circumstance on circumstance convinced me, I no longer possessed the affection of a father.
Sir R. Charles, we are too warm. I feel that I have in some degree merited your severe reproof – give me your hand, and to convince you that you undervalue my feelings towards you, I will now confess that I have been employed during your absence, in planning an arrangement which will place you above the malice of fortune – you know our neighbour, Mrs. Richland —
Char. What, the gay widow with a fat jointure? What of her?
Sir R. She will make not only a rich, but a good wife. I know she likes you – I’m sure of it.
Char. Likes me!
Sir R. I am convinced she does.
Char. But – what the devil – she doesn’t mean to marry me surely!
Sir R. That will, I am convinced, depend upon yourself.
Char. Will it? then by the Lord, though I sincerely esteem her, I shall make my bow, and decline the honour at once. No, sir; the heart is my aim, and all the gold I care for in the hand that gives it, is the modest ring that encompasses the finger, and marks that hand as mine forever.
Sir R. Thus I see another of my prospects blighted! Undutiful, degenerate boy! your folly and obstinacy will punish themselves. Answer me not; think of the proposal I have made you; obey your father’s will, or forever I renounce you! [Exit.
Char. Whoo! here’s a whirligig! I’ve drifted on to a pleasant lee shore here! Helen betrothed to another! Impossible. – Oh Helen! Helen! Zounds! I’m going to make a soliloquy! this will never do! no, I’ll see Helen; upbraid her falsehood; drop one tear to her memory; regain my frigate; seek the enemy; fight like a true sailor; die like a Briton; and leave my character and memory to my friends – and my blessing and forgiveness to Helen. [Exit.
