SCENE I.
A wooded view of the country.
Enter Susan Ashfield, who looks about with anxiety, and then comes forward.
Susan. I fear my conduct is very imprudent.—Has not Mr. Handy told me he is engaged to another? But 'tis hard for the heart to forego, without one struggle, its only hope of happiness; and, conscious of my honour, what have I to fear? Perhaps he may repent of his unkindness to me—at least I'll put his passion to the proof; if he be worthy of my love, happiness is for ever mine; if not, I'll tear him from my breast, though from the wound my life's blood should follow. Ah! he comes—I feel I am a coward, and my poor alarmed heart trembles at its approaching trial—pardon me, female delicacy, if for a moment I seem to pass thy sacred limits.
[Retires up the stage.
Enter Handy, jun.
Handy, jun. By Heavens! the misfortunes of Sir Philip Blandford weigh so heavily on my spirits, that—but confusion to melancholy! I am come here to meet an angel, who will, in a moment, drive away the blue devils like mist before the sun. Let me again read the dear words; [Reading a letter.] "I confess, I love you still;" [Kisses the letter.] but I dare not believe their truth till her sweet lips confirm it. Ah! she's there—Susan, my angel! a thousand thanks. A life of love can alone repay the joy your letter gave me.
Susan. Do you not despise me?
Handy, jun. No; love you more than ever.
Susan. Oh! Robert, this is the very crisis of my fate.——From this moment we meet with honour, or we meet no more. If we must part, perhaps, when you lead your happy bride to church, you may stumble over your Susan's grave. Well, be it so.
Handy, jun. Away with such sombre thoughts!
Susan. Tell me my doom—yet hold—you are wild, impetuous—you do not give your heart fair play—therefore promise me (perhaps 'tis the last favour I shall ask), that before you determine whether our love shall die or live with honour, you will remain here alone a few moments, and that you will give those moments to reflection.
Handy, jun. I do—I will.
Susan. With a throbbing heart I will wait at a little distance. May virtuous love and sacred honour direct his thoughts!
[Aside.—Exit.
Handy, jun. Yes, I will reflect, that I am the most fortunate fellow in England. She loves me still—what is the consequence?—that love will triumph—that she will be mine—mine without the degradation of marriage—love, pride, all gratified—how I shall be envied when I triumphantly pass the circles of fashion! One will cry, "Who is that angel?"—another, "Happy fellow!" then Susan will smile around—will she smile? oh yes—she will be all gaiety—mingle with the votaries of pleasure, and—what! Susan Ashfield the companion of licentious women!—Damnation!—no! I wrong her—she would not—she would rather shun society—she would be melancholy—melancholy! [Sighs, and looks at his watch.]—would the time were over!—Pshaw! I think of it too seriously—'Tis false—I do not.—Should her virtue yield to love, would not remorse affect her health? should I not behold that lovely form sicken and decay—perhaps die?—die! then what am I?—a villain, loaded with her parents' curses and my own.—Let me fly from the dreadful thought.—But how fly from it?—[Calmly.]—By placing before my imagination a picture of more honourable lineaments.—I make her my wife.—Ah! then she would smile on me—there's rapture in the thought;—instead of vice producing decay, I behold virtue emblazoning beauty; instead of Susan on the bed of death, I behold her giving to my hopes a dear pledge of our mutual love. She places it in my arms—down her father's honest face runs a tear—but 'tis the tear of joy. Oh, this will be luxury! paradise!—Come, Susan!—come, my love, my soul—my wife.
Enter Susan—she at first hesitates—on hearing the word wife, she springs into his arms.
Susan. Is it possible?
Handy, jun. Yes, those charms have conquered.
Susan. Oh! no; do not so disgrace the victory you have gained—'tis your own virtue that has triumphed.
Handy, jun. My Susan! how true it is that fools alone are vicious. But let us fly to my father, and obtain his consent. On recollection, that may not be quite so easy. His arrangements with Sir Philip Blandford are—are—not mine, so there's an end of that. And Sir Philip, by misfortune, knows how to appreciate happiness. Then poor Miss Blandford—upon my soul I feel for her.
Susan. [Ironically.] Come, don't make yourself miserable. If my suspicions be true, she'll not break her heart for your loss.
Handy, jun. Nay, don't say so; she will be unhappy.
Ash. [Without.] There he is. Dame, shall I shoot at un?
Dame. No.
Susan. My father's voice.
Ash. Then I'll leather un wi' my stick.
Enter Ashfield and Dame.
Ash. What do thee do here with my Sue, eh?
Handy, jun. With your Sue!—she's mine—mine by a husband's right.
Ash. Husband! what, thee Sue's husband?
Handy, jun. I soon shall be.
Ash. But how tho'?—What! faith and troth?—What! like as I married Dame?
Handy, jun. Yes.
Ash. What! axed three times!
Handy, jun. Yes; and from this moment I'll maintain, that the real temple of love is a parish church—Cupid is a chubby curate—his torch is the sexton's lantern—and the according pæan of the spheres is the profound nasal thorough bass of the clerk's Amen.
Ash. Huzza! only to think now—my blessing go with you, my children!
Dame. And mine.
Ash. And Heaven's blessing too. Ecod, I believe now, as thy feyther zays, thee canst do every thing!
Handy, jun. No; for there is one thing I cannot do—injure the innocence of woman.
Ash. Drabbit it! I shall walk in the road all day to zee Sue ride by in her own coach.
Susan. You must ride with me, father.
Dame. I say, Tummas, what will Mrs. Grundy say then?
Ash. I do hope thee will not be asham'd of thy feyther in laa, wool ye?
Handy, jun. No; for then I must also be ashamed of myself, which I am resolved not to be again.
Enter Sir Abel Handy.
Sir Abel. Heyday, Bob! why an't you gallanting your intended bride? but you are never where you ought to be.
Handy, jun. Nay, sir, by your own confession I am where I ought to be.
Sir Abel. No! you ought to be at the Castle—Sir Philip is there, and Miss Blandford is there, and Lady Handy is there, and therefore—
Handy, jun. You are not there. In one word, I shall not marry Miss Blandford.
Sir Abel. Indeed! who told you so?
Handy, jun. One who never lies—and, therefore, one I am determined to make a friend of—my conscience.
Sir Abel. But zounds! sir, what excuse have you?
Handy, jun. [Taking Susan's hand.] A very fair one, sir—is not she?
Sir Abel. Why, yes, sir, I can't deny it—but, 'sdeath, sir, this overturns my best plan!
Handy, jun. No, sir; for a parent's best plan is his son's happiness, and that it will establish. Come, give us your consent. Consider how we admire all your wonderful inventions.
Sir Abel. No, not my plough, Bob—but 'tis a devilish clever plough.
Handy, jun. I dare say it is. Come, sir, consent, and perhaps, in our turn, we may invent something that may please you.
Sir Abel. He! he! he! well—but hold—what's the use of my consent without my wife's—bless you! I dare no more approve, without—
Enter Gerald.
Gerald. Health to this worthy company!
Sir Abel. The same to you, sir.
Handy, jun. Who have we here, I wonder?
Gerald. I wish to speak with Sir Abel Handy.
Sir Abel. I am the person.
Gerald. You are married?
Sir Abel. Damn it! he sees it in my face.—Yes, I have that happiness.
Gerald. Is it a happiness?
Sir Abel. To say the truth—why do you ask?
Gerald. I want answers, not questions—and depend on't 'tis your interest to answer me.
Handy, jun. An extraordinary fellow this!
Gerald. Would it break your heart to part with her!
Sir Abel. Who are you, sir, that——
Gerald. Answers—I want answers—would it break your heart, I ask?
Sir Abel. Why, not absolutely, I hope. Time, and philosophy, and——
Gerald. I understand—what sum of money wou'd you give to the man, who would dissolve your marriage contract?
Handy, jun. He means something, sir.
Sir Abel. Do you think so, Bob?
Gerald. Would you give a thousand pounds?
Sir Abel. No!
Handy, jun. No!
Sir Abel. No; I would not give one; but I would give five thousand pounds.
Gerald. Generously offered—a bargain—I'll do it.
Sir Abel. But, an't you deceiving me?
Gerald. What should I gain by that?
Sir Abel. Tell me your name?
Gerald. Time will tell that.
Lady H. [Without.] Sir Abel, where are you?
Gerald. That's your wife's voice—I know it.
Sir Abel. So do I.
Gerald. I'll wait without—Cry, "Hem!" when you want me.
Sir Abel. Then you need not go far—
[Exit Gerald.
I dare not believe it—I should go out of my wits—and then if he fail, what a pickle I shall be in! Here she is.
Enter Lady Handy.
Lady H. So, sir, I have found you at last?
Handy, jun. My honoured mamma, you have just come in time to give your consent to my marriage with my sweet Susan.
Lady H. And do you imagine I will agree to such degradation?
Ash. Do'e, Lady Nelly, do'e be kind hearted to the young loviers.—Remember how I used to let thee zit up all night a sweethearting.
Lady H. Silence! and have you dared to consent?
[To Sir Abel.
Sir Abel. Oh, no, my Lady!
Handy, jun. Sir, you had better cry—"Hem."
Sir Abel. I think it's time, Bob—Hem!
Handy, jun. Hem!
Lady H. What do you mean by—Hem!
Sir Abel. Only, my dear, something troublesome I want to get rid of—Hem!
Enter Gerald.
There he is—never was so frightened in all my life.
[Gerald advances.]
Lady H. [Shrieks and exclaims.] Gerald!
Gerald. Yes.
Lady H. An't you dead, Gerald? Twenty years away and not dead?
Gerald. No, wife.
Sir Abel. Wife! did you say, wife?
Gerald. Yes.
Sir Abel. Say it again.
Gerald. She is my wife.
Sir Abel. Once more.
Gerald. My lawful, wedded wife.
Sir Abel. Oh, my dear fellow!—Oh, my dear boy! Oh, my dear girl!—[Embraces Gerald and the rest.] Oh, my dear! [Running to Mrs. Gerald.] No—yes, now she an't my wife, I will—well—how will you have the five thousand? Will you have it in cash, or in bank notes—or stocks, or India bonds, or lands, or patents, or——
Gerald. No—land will do—I wish to kill my own mutton.
Sir Abel. Sir, you shall kill all the sheep in Hampshire.
Gerald. Sir Abel, you have lost five thousand pounds, and with it, properly managed, an excellent wife, who, though I cannot condescend to take again as mine—you may depend on't shall never trouble you. Come! this way [Beckoning to Mrs. Gerald.]—important events now call on me, and prevent my staying longer with this company. Sir Abel, we shall meet soon. Nay, come, you know I'm not used to trifle; Come, come—[She reluctantly, but obediently, crosses the stage, and runs off—Gerald follows.]
Sir Abel. [Imitating.] Come, come—That's a damn'd clever fellow! Joy, joy, my boy! Here, here, your hands—The first use I make of liberty, is to give happiness—I wish I had more imitators—Well, what will you do? [Walks about exultingly.] Where will you go? I'll go any where you like—Will you go to Bath, or Brighton, or Petersburgh, or Jerusalem, or Seringapatam? all the same to me—we single fellows—we rove about—nobody cares about us—we care for nobody.
Handy, jun. I must to the Castle, father.
Sir Abel. Have with you Bob. [Singing.] "I'll sip every flower—I'll change every hour."—[Beckoning.]—Come, come—[Exeunt Sir Abel, Handy, jun. and Susan. Susan kisses her hand to Ashfield and Dame.]
Ash. Bless her! how nicely she do trip it away with the gentry!
Dame. And then, Tummas, think of the wedding.
Ash. [Reflecting.] I declare I shall be just the zame as ever—may be I may buy a smartish bridle, or a zilver backy stopper, or the like o' that.
Dame. [Apart.] And, then, when we come out of church, Mrs. Grundy will be standing about there—
Ash. I shall shake hands agreeably wi' all my friends. [Apart.]
Dame. [Apart.] Then I just look at her in this manner.
Ash. [Apart.] How dost do, Peter—Ah, Dick,—glad to zee thee wi' all my zoul. [Bows towards the centre of the stage.]
Dame. [Apart.] Then, with a kind of half curt'sy, I shall—[She advances to the centre also, and their heads meet.]
Ash. What an wold fool thee be'st, Dame—Come along, and behave pratty, do'e.
[Exeunt.