THE LANDLORD’S VISIT.—A Drama.
Scene—A room in a farmhouse. Betty, the farmer’s wife; Fanny, a young woman grown up; children of various ages differently employed.
Enter Landlord.
Landlord. Good morning to you, Betty.
Betty. Ah!—is it your honour? How do you do, sir? how are madam and all the good family?
Land. Very well, thank you; and how are you, and all yours?
Bet. Thank your honour—all pretty well. Will you please to sit down? Ours is but a little crowded place, but there is a clean corner. Set out the chair for his honour, Mary.
Land. I think everything is very clean. What, John’s in the field, I suppose?
Bet. Yes, sir, with his two eldest sons, sowing and harrowing.
Land. Well, and here are two, three, four, six; all the rest of your stock, I suppose.—All as busy as bees!
Bet. Ay, your honour! These are not times to be idle in. John and I have always worked hard, and we bring up our children to work too. There’s none of them, except the youngest, but can do something.
Land. You do very rightly. With industry and sobriety there is no fear of their getting a living, come what may. I wish many gentlemen’s children had as good a chance.
Bet. Lord! sir, if they have fortunes ready got for them, what need they care?
Land. But fortunes are easier to spend than to get; and when they are at the bottom of the purse, what must they do to fill it again?
Bet. Nay, that’s true, sir; and we have reason enough to be thankful, that we are able and willing to work, and have a good landlord to live under.
Land. Good tenants deserve good landlords; and I have been long acquainted with your value. Come, little folks, I have brought something for you.
[Takes out cakes.
Bet. Why don’t you thank his honour?
Land. I did not think you had a daughter so old as that young woman.
Bet. No more I have, sir. She is not my own daughter, though she is as good as one to me.
Land. Some relation, then, I suppose?
Bet. No, sir, none at all.
Land. Who is she, then?
Bet. (whispering). When she is gone out, I will tell your honour.—(aloud.) Go, Fanny, and take some milk to the young calf in the stable.
[Exit Fanny.
Land. A pretty modest-looking young woman, on my word!
Bet. Ay, sir—and as good as she is pretty. You must know, sir, that this young woman is a stranger from a great way off. She came here quite by accident, and has lived with us above a twelvemonth. I’ll tell your honour all about it if you choose.
Land. Pray do—I am curious to hear it. But first favour me with a draught of your whey.
Bet. I beg your pardon, sir, for not offering it. Run, Mary, and fetch his honour some fresh whey in a clean basin.
[Mary goes.
Land. Now, pray, begin your story.
Bet. Well, sir—As our John was coming from work one evening, he saw at some distance on the road a carrier’s wagon overturned. He ran up to help, and found a poor old gentlewoman lying on the back much hurt, and this girl sitting beside her, crying. My good man, after he had helped in setting the wagon to rights, went to them, and with a good deal of difficulty got the gentlewoman into the wagon again, and walked by the side of it to our house. He called me out and we got something comfortable for her; but she was so ill that she could not bear to be carried farther. So after consulting a while, we took her into the house, and put her to bed. Her head was sadly hurt, and she seemed to grow worse instead of better. We got a doctor to her, and did our best to nurse her, but all would not do, and we soon found she was likely to die. Poor Fanny, her grand-daughter, never left her day or night; and it would have gone to your honour’s heart, to have heard the pitiful moan she made over her. She was the only friend she had in the world, she said; and what would become of her if she were to lose her? Fanny’s father and mother were both dead, and she was going with her grandmother into the north, where the old gentlewoman came from, to live cheap, and to try to find out some relations. Well—to make my story short, in a few days the poor woman died. There was a little more money about her than would serve to pay her doctor and bury her. Fanny was in sad trouble, indeed. I thought she would never have left her grandmother’s grave. She cried and wrung her hands most bitterly. But I tire your honour.
Land. O no! I am much interested in your story.
Bet. We comforted her as well as we could; but all her cry was, “What will become of me? Where must I go? Who will take care of me?” So after a while, said I to John, “Poor creature! my heart grieves for her. Perhaps she would like to stay with us—though she seems to have been brought up in a way of living different from ours, too; but what can she do, left to herself in the wide world!” So my husband agreed that I should ask her. When I mentioned it to her, poor thing! how her countenance altered! “O,” said she, “I wish for nothing so much as to stay and live with you! I am afraid I can do but little to serve you, but indeed I will learn to do my best.” Said I: “Do no more than you like; you are welcome to stay and partake with us as long as you please.” Well, sir! she stayed with us; and set about learning to do all kind of our work with such good-will, and so handily, that she soon became my best helper. And she is so sweet-tempered, and so fond of us and the children, that I love her as well as if she was my own child. She has been well brought up, I am sure. She can read, and write, and work with her needle, a great deal better than we can, and when work is over, she teaches the children. Then she is extraordinarily well-behaved, so as to be admired by all that see her.—So your honour has now the story of our Fanny.
Land. I thank you heartily for it, my good Betty! It does much credit both to you and Fanny. But pray, what is her surname?
Bet. It is—let me see—I think it is Welford.
Land. Welford! that is a name I am acquainted with. I should be glad to talk with her a little.
Bet. I will call her in then.
[Enter Fanny.
Land. Come hither, young woman; I have heard your story, and been much interested by it. You are an orphan, I find.
Fanny. Yes, sir; a poor orphan.
Land. Your name is Welford?
Fan. It is, sir.
Land. Where did your parents live?
Fan. In London, sir; but they died when I was very young, and I went to my grandmother’s in Surrey.
Land. Was she your father’s mother? You will excuse my questions. I do not ask from idle curiosity.
Fan. She was, sir; and had been long a widow.
Land. Do you know what her maiden name was?
Fan. It was Borrowdale, sir.
Land. Borrowdale!—And pray, whither were you going when the unfortunate accident happened?
Fan. To Kendal in Westmoreland, sir, near which my grandmother was born.
Land. Ah! ‘tis the very same—every circumstance corresponds! My dear Fanny (taking her hand), you have found a relation when you little thought of it. I am your kinsman. My mother was a Borrowdale, of Westmoreland, and half-sister to your grandmother. I have heard of all your parentage; and I remember the death of your poor father, who was a very honest ingenious artist: and of your mother soon after, of a broken heart. I could never discover what family they left, nor what was become of my kinswoman. But I rejoice I have found you out in this extraordinary manner. You must come and live with me. My wife and daughters will be very glad to receive one whose conduct has done her so much credit.
Fan. I am much obliged to you, sir, for your kindness; but I am too mean a person to live as a relation in a family like yours.
Land. O no! you will not find us of that sort who despise worthy people for being low in the world; and your language and actions show that you have been well brought up.
Fan. My poor grandmother, sir, was so kind as to give me all the education in her power; and if I have not somewhat benefited by her example and instructions, it must have been my own fault.
Land. You speak very well, and I feel more attached to you, the more I hear you.—Well, you must prepare to come home with me. I will take care to make proper acknowledgments to the good people here who have been so kind to you.
Bet. My dear Fanny, I am heartily glad of your good fortune, but we shall all be sorry to part with you.
Fan. I am sure, my dear friend and mistress, I shall be sorry too. You received me when I had no other friend in the world, and you treated me like your own child. I can never forget what I owe you.
Enter John, and his eldest son Thomas.
John. Is your honour here?
Land. Yes, John; and I have found something worth coming for.
John. What is that, sir?
Land. A relation, John. This young woman whom you have so kindly entertained, is my kinswoman.
John. What—our Fanny?
Thomas. Fanny!
Land. Yes, indeed. And, after thanking you for your kindness to her and her poor grandmother, I mean to take her home for a companion to my wife and daughters.
John. This is wonderful news, indeed! Well, Fanny, I am very glad you have got such a home to go to—you are worthy of it—but we shall miss you much here.
Bet. So I have been telling her.
Thom. (aside to Fanny). What, will you leave us, Fanny? Must we part?
Fan. (aside to him). What can I do, Thomas?
Land. There seems some unwillingness to part, I see, on more sides than one.
Bet. Indeed, sir, I believe there is. We have lived very happily together.
Thom. (aside to Fanny). I see we must part with you, but I hope—Surely you won’t quite forget us?
Fan. (to him). You distress me, Thomas. Forget you! O no!
Land. Come, I see there is something between the young folks that ought to be spoken about plainly. Do you explain it, Betty.
Bet. Why, your honour knows, we could not tell that Fanny was your relation. So, as my son Thomas and she seemed to take a liking to one another, and she was such a clever girl, we did not object to their thinking about making a match of it, as soon as he should be settled in a farm.
John. But that must be over now.
Thom. Why so, father?
John. Why; you can’t think of his honour’s kinswoman.
Land. Come, Fanny, do you decide this affair.
Fan. Sir, Thomas offered me his service when he thought me a poor friendless girl, and I might think myself favoured by his notice. He gained my good will, which no change of circumstances can make me withdraw. It is my determination to join my lot with his, be it what it may.
Thom. My dearest Fanny!
[Taking her hand.
Land. You act nobly, my dear girl, and make me proud of my relation. You shall have my free consent, and something handsome into the bargain.
Bet. Heaven bless your honour! I know it would have been a heartbreaking to my poor boy to have parted with her. Dear Fanny!
[Kisses her.
Land. I have a farm just now vacant. Thomas shall take it, and Fanny’s portion shall stock it for him.
Thom. I humbly thank your honour.
John. I thank you too, sir, for us all.
Fan. Sir, since you have been so indulgent in this matter, give me leave to request you to be satisfied with my paying my duty to the ladies, without going to live in a way so different from what I have been used to, and must live in hereafter. I think I can be nowhere better than with my friends and future parents here.
Land. Your request, Fanny, has so much propriety and good sense in it, that I cannot refuse it. However, you must suffer us to improve our acquaintance. I assure you it will give me particular pleasure.
Fan. Sir, you will always command my most grateful obedience.
Land. Well—let Thomas bring you to my house this afternoon, and I will introduce you to your relations, and we will talk over matters. Farewell, my dear! Nay, I must have a kiss.
Fan. I will wait on you, sir.
[Exit Landlord.
Bet. My dear Fanny—daughter I may now call you—you cannot think how much I feel obliged to you.
Thom. But who is so much obliged as I am?
Fan. Do you not all deserve everything from me?
John. Well, who could have thought when I went to help up the wagon, that it would have brought so much good luck to us?
Bet. A good deed is never lost they say.
Fan. It shall be the business of my life to prove that this has not been lost.