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ACT III
SCENE I. – O’Dedimus’s office. Ponder discovered
Ponder. So! having executed my commission, let me think a little (sits down,) for certain I and my master are two precious rogues (pauses.) I wonder whether or not we shall be discovered, as assistants in this sham marriage (pauses.) If we are, we shall be either transported or hanged, I wonder which: – My lord’s bribe, however, was convenient; and in all cases of conscience versus convenience, ’tis the general rule of practice to nonsuit the plaintiff. Ha! who’s here? The poor girl herself. (Enter Fanny.) I pity her; but I’ve been bribed; so I must be honest.
Fanny. Oh, sir! I’m in sad distress – my father has discovered my intercourse with lord Austencourt, and says, he is sure my lord means to deny our marriage; but I have told him, as you and your master were present, I am sure you will both be ready to prove it, should my lord act so basely.
Pon. I must mind my hits here, or shall get myself into a confounded scrape – ready to do what, did you say, ma’am, to prove your marriage?
Fan. Yes, as you both were present.
Pon. Present! me! Lord bless me, what is it you mean? Marriage! prove! me! present!
Fan. Why do you hesitate? come, come, you do but jest with me – you cannot have forgotten it —
Pon. Hey? why no! but I can’t say I remember it —
Fan. Sure, sure, you cannot have the barbarity to deny that you were a witness to the ceremony!
Pon. I may be mistaken – I’ve a remarkably short memory; but to the best of my recollection I certainly —
Fan. Ay, you recollect it —
Pon. I certainly never was present —
Fan. Cruel! you were – indeed, indeed you were.
Pon. But at one wedding in my life.
Fan. And that was mine —
Pon. No, that was mine.
Fan. Merciful Heaven! I see my fate – it is disgrace and misery!
Pon. Bless you, if I could remember it; but I can’t – however I’ll speak to my master about it, and if he recollects it I dare say I shall.
Fan. I have then no hope, and the fate of the hapless Fanny is decided.
Pon. Ha! yonder I see comes my master and his lordship. I wonder what they are thinking of – they’re coming this way. I think we had better retire.
Fan. O hide me! hide me! In any corner let me hide my head, from scorn, from misery, and, most of all, from him —
Pon. You can’t escape that way, so you must come this. They wont think of coming here. (puts her into another room) Poor girl! I’ve a great mind to confess the whole affair. What shall I get by that? Nothing! nothing! Oh! that’s contrary to law! [Exit.
Enter lord Austencourt and O’Dedimus
Lord A. Are you certain no one can overhear us?
O’Ded. There’s nobody can hear us except my ould housekeeper, and she’s as deaf as St. Dunstan’s clock-strikers.
Lord A. There is no time to be lost. You must immediately repair to Fanny – tell her my affection is unabated – tell her I shall ever love her, and make her such pecuniary offers, as shall convince her of my esteem and affection; but we must meet no more. (Fanny utters a cry behind.)
O’Ded. What’s that?
Lord A. We are betrayed!
O’Ded. Och! ’tis only my ould housekeeper.
Lord A. Your housekeeper! I thought you told me she was deaf.
O’Ded. Yes; but she isn’t dumb. Devil a word can she hear for sartin; but she’s apt to say a great many, and so we may proceed.
Lord A. You will easily accomplish this business with Fanny.
O’Ded. I’m afraid not. To tell you the truth, my lord, I don’t like the job.
Lord A. Indeed! and why, sir?
O’Ded. Somehow, when I see a poor girl with her pretty little eyes brim full of tears, which I think have no business to be there, I’m more apt to be busy in wiping them away, than in saying cruel things that will make them flow faster; you had better tell her all this yourself, my lord.
Lord A. That, sir, is impossible. If you decline it, I shall find some one less delicate.
O’Ded. There’s reason in that, and if you send another to her, he may not be quite so delicate, as you say: so I’ll even undertake it myself.
Lord A. The poor girl disposed of, if the old fool, her father, will be thus clamorous, we must not be nice as to the means of silencing him – money, I suppose, is his object.
O’Ded. May be not – If a rich man by accident disables a poor man from working, money may make him easy; but when his feelings are deliberately tortured, devil fly away with the mercenary miser, if he will take shining dirt as a compensation for cruelty.
Lord A. I can dispense with moral reflections – It may serve your purpose elsewhere, but to me, who know your practice, your preaching is ridiculous – What is it you propose? If the fellow wont be satisfied by money he must be removed.
O’Ded. Faith, ’tis a new way, sure enough, to make reparation to the feelings of a father, after having seduced daughter under the plea of a false marriage, performed by a sham priest, and a forged licence!
Fanny (behind.) Oh, heaven! let me pass – I must and will see him (enters.) Oh, my lord! my lord! my husband! (she falls at his feet, he raises her) Surely my ears deceived me – you cannot, cannot mean it! a false marriage! a pretended priest! What is to become of me! In mercy kill me! Let me not live to see my broken-hearted father expire with grief and shame, or live to curse me! Spare me but this, my lord, and I will love, forgive, will pray for you —
Lord A. This is a plot against me – You placed her there on purpose to surprise me in the moment of unguarded weakness.
O’Ded. By St. Patrick, how she came there is a most mysterious mystery to Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law.
Lord A. Fanny, I entreat you, leave me.
Fanny. Oh, do not send me from you! Can you, my lord, abandon thus to shame and wretchedness the poor deluded victim of your treachery!
Lord A. Ha! leave me, I charge you!
Fanny. No, no, my dearest lord! I cannot leave you! Whither shall I fly, if these arms deny me refuge! Am I not yours? What if these wicked men refuse me justice! There is another witness who will rise in dreadful evidence against you! ’Tis Heaven itself! ’tis there your vows were heard! ’tis there where Truth resides, your vows are registered! then oh! reflect before you plunge too deep in guilt for repentance and retreat! reflect that we are married!
Lord A. I cannot speak at present; leave me, and we will meet again.
Fanny. Do not command me from you; I see your heart is softened by my tears; cherish the stranger Pity in your breast; ’tis noble, excellent! Such pity in itself is virtue! Oh, cherish it, my lord! nor let the selfish feelings of the world step in to smother it! Now! now, while it glows unstifled in your heart! now, ere it dies, to be revived no more, at once proclaim the triumph of your virtue, and receive into your arms a fond and an acknowledged wife!
Lord A. Ha! impossible! Urge me no more! I cannot, will not hear you – My heart has ever been your own, my hand must be another’s; still we may love each other; still we may sometimes meet.
Fanny. (after a struggle) I understand you! No, sir! Since it must be, we will meet no more! I know that there are laws; but to these laws I disdain to fly! Mine is an injury that cannot be redressed; for the only mortal witnesses to our union you have suborned: the laws, therefore, cannot do me justice, and I will never, inhuman as you are, I will never seek them for revenge. [Exit.
O’Ded. (aside) I’m thinking, that if I was a lord, I should act in a clean contrary way; by the powers now, that man has got what I call a tough constitution; his heart’s made of stone like a brick wall – Oh! that a man should have the power of a man, and not know how to behave like a man!
Lord A. What’s to be done? speak, advise me!
O’Ded. That’s it: have you made up your mind already, that you ask me to advise you?
Lord A. I know not how to act.
O’Ded. When a man’s in doubt whether he should act as an honest man or a rogue, there are two or three small reasons for choosing the right side.
Lord A. What is’t you mean, sir?
O’Ded. I mean this thing – that as I suppose you’re in doubt whether to persecute the poor souls, or to marry the sweet girl in right earnest.
Lord A. Marry her! I have no such thoughts – idiot!
O’Ded. Idiot! That’s no proof of your lordship’s wisdom to come and ask advice of one. – Idiot, by St. Patrick! an idiot’s a fool, and that’s a Christian name was never sprinkled upon Cornelius O’Dedimus, attorney at law!
Lord A. I can feel for the unfortunate girl as well as you; but the idea of marrying her is too ridiculous.
O’Ded. The unfortunate girl never knew misfortune till she knew you, my lord; and I heartily wish your lordship may never look more ridiculous than you would do in performing an act of justice and mercy.
Lord A. You presume strangely, sir, on my confidence and condescension!
O’Ded. What! are you coming over me now with the pride of your condescension. That for your condescension! When a great man, my lord, does me the honour to confide in me, he’ll find me trusty and respectful; but when he condescends to make me an agent and a partner in his iniquity, by your leave from that moment there’s an end of distinction between us.
Lord A. There’s no enduring this! Scoundrel!
O’Ded. Scoundrel! ditto, my lord, ditto! If I’m a scoundrel, it was you that made me one, and by St. Patrick, there’s a brace of us.
Lord A. (aside) The fellow has me in his power at present – you see me irritated, and you ought to bear with me – let us think of this no more. The father and daughter must both be provided for out of that money which sir Rowland still holds in trust for me.
O’Ded. And if you depend upon that money to silence the old man, you might as well think to stop a mouse-hole with toasted cheese.
Lord A. Pray explain, sir.
O’Ded. Devil a penny of it is there left. Sir Rowland ventured it in a speculation, and all is lost – Oh! blister my tongue, I’ve let out the secret, sure enough!
Lord A. Indeed! and what right had sir Rowland to risk my property? Be assured I will exact every guinea of it.
O’Ded. That’s just what I told him. Sir, says I, his lordship is one of the flinty-hearted ones, and devil a thirteener will he forgive you – but, my lord, it will utterly ruin sir Rowland to replace it.
Lord A. Sir Rowland should have thought of that before he embarked my property in a hazardous enterprise. Inform him, sir, from me that I expect an instant account of it.
O’Ded. I shall do that thing, sir: but please to reflect a little – the money so laid out was honestly intended for your advantage.
Lord A. Another word sir, and I shall think it necessary to employ another attorney.
O’Ded. Sir, that’s a quietus – I’ve done – only remember that if you proceed to extremities, I warrant you’ll repent it.
Lord A. You warrant —
O’Ded. Ay, sir, and a warrant of attorney is reckoned decent good security.
Lord A. Since my uncle has so far forgotten his duty as a guardian, I have now an opportunity, which I shall not neglect, to bring him to a proper recollection – you have nothing to do but to obey my orders; and these are that the fourteen thousand pounds, of which he has defrauded my estate, shall be immediately repaid. Look to it, sir, and to the other affair you are entrusted with, and see that the law neglects no measures to recover what is due to me. [Exit.
O’Ded. And by St. Patrick, if the law gives you what is due to you, that’s what I’m too polite to mention. You’ve had your swing in iniquity long enough, and such swings are very apt to end in one that’s much too exalted for my notions. [Exit.
SCENE II. – an apartment at sir Willoughby’s. – Enter sir Willoughby, and William meeting him, the latter delivers a letter
Will. The gentleman desired me to say he is below, sir.
Sir W. Hey! (reads) “My dear Worret, I hope that a long absence from my native land has not obliterated the recollection of our friendship. I have thought it right to adopt this method of announcing my return, lest my too sudden appearance should hurt your feelings, by deranging the delicate nerves of your amiable lady” Hey!
“Ever yours,“FREDERICK FALKNER.”
Bless my soul! Falkner alive? show the gentleman up.
Will. He’s here, sir.
Enter Falkner
Falk. My old friend, I rejoice to see you.
Sir W. Friend Falkner, I shan’t attempt to say how welcome your return is. We all thought you dead and buried. Where have you been all these years?
Falk. A wanderer. Let that suffice.
Sir W. I see you still retain your old antipathy to answering questions, so I shall ask none – Have you been in France, or among the savages? Hey! I remember you had a daughter at school – is she alive? is she merry or miserable? Is she married?
Falk. Zounds what a medley! France and savages! marriage and misery!
Sir W. Ods life, I’m happy to see you! I haven’t been so cheerful or happy for many a day.
Falk. How’s your wife?
Sir W. Hey! thank ye, sir! why that excellent good woman is in high health, in astonishing health! by my troth I speak it with unspeakable joy, I think she’s a better life now than she was when I married her! (in a melancholy tone.)
Falk. That must be a source of vast comfort to you. I don’t wonder at your being so cheerful and happy.
Sir W. True – but it isn’t that– that is, not altogether so: no, ’tis that I once more hold my friend Falkner by the hand, and that my daughter – you remember your little favourite Helen —
Falkner. I do indeed!
Sir W. You are arrived at a critical moment: I mean shortly to marry her —
Falkner. I forbid the banns!
Sir W. The devil you do!
Falkner. Pshaw! (aside) my feelings o’erstep my discretion. Take care what you’re about – If you’re an honest man, you’d rather see her dead than married to a villain.
Sir W. To be sure I would; but the man I mean her to marry —
Falkner. Perhaps will never be her husband.
Sir W. The devil he wont! why not?
Falkner. Talk of something else – you know I was always an eccentric being —
Sir W. What the devil does he mean? yes, yes you was always eccentric; but do you know —
Falkner. I know more than I wish to know; I’ve lived long enough in the world to know that roguery fattens on the same soil where honesty starves; and I care little whether time adds to information which opens to me more and more the depravity of human nature.
Sir W. Why, Falkner, you are grown more a misanthrope than ever.
Falkner. You know well enough I have had my vexations in life; in an early stage of it I married —
Sir W. Every man has his trials!
Falkner. About two years afterwards I lost my wife.
Sir W. That was a heavy misfortune! however you bore it with fortitude.
Falkner. I bore it easily; my wife was a woman without feelings: she had not energy for great virtue, and she had no vice, because she had no passion: life with her was a state of stagnation.
Sir W. How different are the fates of men!
Falkner. In the next instance, I had a friend whom I would have trusted with my life – with more – my honour – I need not tell you then I thought him the first of human beings; but I was mistaken – he understood my character no better than I knew his: he confided to me a transaction which proved him to be a villain, and I commanded him never to see me more.
Sir W. Bless me! what was that transaction?
Falkner. It was a secret, and has remained so. Though I should have liked to hang the fellow, he had trusted me, and no living creature but himself and me at this day is possessed of it.
Sir W. Strange indeed; and what became of him.
Falkner. I have not seen him since, but I shall see him in a few hours.
Sir W. Indeed, is he in this neighbourhood?
Falkner. That circumstance of my friend, and a loss in the West Indies, which shook the fabric of my fortune to its foundation, drove me from the world – I am now returned to it with better prospects – my property, which I then thought lost, is doubled – circumstances have called me hither on an important errand, and before we are four and twenty hours older, you may see some changes which will make you doubt your own senses for the remainder of your days —
Sir W. You astonish me mightily.
Falkner. Yes, you stare as if you were astonished: but why do I stay chattering here? I must be gone.
Sir. W. Nay, pr’ythee now —
Falkner. Pshaw! I have paid my first visit to you, because you are the first in my esteem: don’t weaken it by awkward and unseasonable ceremony – I must now about the business that brings me here: no interruption, if you wish to see me again let me have my own way, and I may, perhaps, be back in half an hour.
Sir W. But I want to tell you that —
Falkner. I know – I know – you want to prove to me that you are the least talker, and the best husband in the county: but both secrets must keep till my return, when I shall be happy to congratulate you – and so farewell – [Exit.
Sir W. Bless my soul! what can he mean? ‘I forbid the banns’ – ‘lost my wife’ – ‘horrid transaction’ – ‘back again in half an hour’ – dear me – John – Thomas! lady Worret! Helen! [Exit.
SCENE III. – A room in sir Willoughby’s house – Helen and Charles meeting – Helen screams – they run towards each other, as if to embrace – Charles stops suddenly
Helen. Charles! is it you, or is it your spirit?
Char. ’Tis I, madam, and you’ll find I have brought my spirit with me.
Helen. Hey! why what the deuce ails the man?
Char. My presence here, no doubt astonishes you.
Helen. Yes, sir, your presence does astonish me, but your manner still more.
Char. I understand you – you would still keep a poor devil in your toils, though in his absence you have been sporting with nobler game.
Helen. My good friend, will you descend from your heroical stilts, and explain your meaning in plain English?
Char. There needs no explanation of my conduct – call it caprice – say, if you please, that I am altered– say I have changed my mind, and love another better —
Helen. Indeed! and is it come to this! he shall not see he mortifies me, however – (aside) Since you are in this mind, sir, I wish you had been pleased to signify the same by letter, sir —
Char. By letter?
Helen. Yes, sir, – for this personal visit being rather unexpected, does not promise to be particularly pleasant —
Char. I believe so, madam – you did not calculate, I fancy, on this sudden return.
Helen. No, indeed, sir – and should have shown all Christian patience if this sudden return hadn’t happened these twelve months.
Char. The devil you would! madam! – but I’ll be cool – I’ll cut her to the heart with a razor of ice – I’ll congeal her with indifference – you must know, madam —
Helen. Bless me, Charles, how very strangely you look – you’re pale and red, and red and pale, in the same moment! why you can scarcely breathe! and now you tremble so! I’m afraid you are very ill.
Char. Sarcastic!
Helen. You move all over like a ship in a storm!
Char. Vastly well, madam – and now —
Helen. Your teeth chatter! —
Char. Fire and fagots, madam, I will speak!
Helen. Do, dear Charles, while your are able – your voice will be gone in a minute or two, and then —
Char. I will be heard! (bawling)
Helen. That you will, indeed, and all over the house, too.
Char. Madam, will you hear me or not?
Helen. I am glad to find there’s no affection of the lungs!
Char. Death and torments! may I be allowed to speak – yes, or no?
Helen. Yes, but gently; and make haste before they call the watch.
Char. Madam, madam – I wish to keep my temper – I wish to be cool.
Helen. Perhaps this will answer the purpose (Fanning him).
Char. (In confusion, after a pause, aside) Is she laughing at me now, or trying to wheedle me into a good humour? I feel, Miss Worret, that I am expressing myself with too much warmth – I must therefore inform you, that being ordered home with despatches, and having some leisure time on my hands on my return, I thought it but proper as I passed the house to call at your door – just to say – a – a – just civilly to say – false! cruel! perfidious girl! you may break the tough heart of a sailor, but damn me if he will ever own it broke for love of you!
Helen. On my honour, sir, I do not understand what all this means.
Char. You don’t?
Helen. No, sir – if your purpose here is insult, you might, methinks, have found some fitter object than one who has so limited a power to resent it! [Going.
Char. Stay, madam, stay – what a face is there! a smile upon it too: oh, Helen, spare those smiles! they once could wake my soul to ecstasy! but now they rouse it into madness: save them, madam, for a happier lover – save them for lord Austencourt.
Helen. Charles, Charles, you have been deceived: but come, sit down and hear me.
Char. I am all attention, and listen to you with all that patience which the subject demands.
Helen. As you know the world, Charles, you cannot wonder that my father (in the main a very good father, but in this respect like all other fathers) should wish to unite his daughter to a man whose rank and fortune —
Char. (Rising in anger) Spare yourself the trouble of further explanation, madam; I see the whole at once – you are now going to tell me about prudence, duty, obedience, filial affection, and all the canting catalogue of fine phrases that serve to gloss over the giddy frailty of your sex, when you sacrifice the person and the heart at the frequented shrine of avarice and ambition!
Helen. (Rising also) When I am next inclined to descend to explanation, sir, I hope you will be better disposed to attend to me. [Going.
Char. A moment, madam! The whole explanation lies in a word – has not your father concluded a treaty of marriage between you and lord Austencourt?
Helen. He has—
Char. There – ’tis enough! you have confessed it —
Helen. (Stifling her tears) Confessed what? you monster! I’ve confessed nothing.
Char. Haven’t you acknowledged that you are to be the wife of another?
Helen. No.
Char. No! won’t you consent then?
Helen. Half an hour ago nothing on earth should have induced me to consent – but since I see, Charles, of what your temper is capable, I shall think it more laudable to risk my happiness by obedience to my father, than by an ill-judged constancy to one who seems so little inclined to deserve it. [Exit.
Char. Hey! where am I! zounds, I see my whole error at once! Oh, Helen, Helen – for mercy’s sake one moment more! – She’s gone – and has left me in anger! but I will see her again, and obtain her forgiveness – fool, idiot, dolt, ass, that I am, to suffer my cursed temper to master reason and affection at the risk of losing the dearest blessing of life – a lovely and an amiable woman! [Exit.
