SCENE III.
A Parlour in Ashfield's House.
Enter Ashfield and Wife.
Ash. I tell ye, I zee'd un gi' Susan a letter, an I dan't like it a bit.
Dame. Nor I: if shame should come to the poor child—I say, Tummas, what would Mrs. Grundy say then?
Ash. Dom Mrs. Grundy; what would my poor wold heart zay? but I be bound it be all innocence.
Enter Henry.
Dame. Ah, Henry! we have not seen thee at home all day.
Ash. And I do zomehow fanzie things dan't go zo clever when thee'rt away from farm.
Henry. My mind has been greatly agitated.
Ash. Well, won't thee go and zee the ploughing match?
Henry. Tell me, will not those who obtain prizes be introduced to the Castle?
Ash. Ees, and feasted in the great hall.
Henry. My good friend, I wish to become a candidate.
Dame. You, Henry!
Henry. It is time I exerted the faculties Heaven has bestowed on me; and though my heavy fate crushes the proud hopes this heart conceives, still let me prove myself worthy of the place Providence has assigned me.—[Aside.] Should I succeed, it will bring me to the presence of that man, who (I know not why) seems the dictator of my fate.—[To them.] Will you furnish me with the means?
Ash. Will I!—Thou shalt ha' the best plough in the parish—I wish it were all gould for thy zake—and better cattle there can't be noowhere.
Henry. Thanks, my good friend—my benefactor—I have little time for preparation—So receive my gratitude, and farewell.
[Exit.
Dame. A blessing go with thee!
Ash. I zay, Henry, take Jolly, and Smiler, and Captain, but dan't ye take thic lazy beast Genius—I'll be shot if having vive load an acre on my wheat land could please me more.
Dame. Tummas, here comes Susan reading the letter.
Ash. How pale she do look! dan't she?
Dame. Ah! poor thing!—If——
Ash. Hauld thy tongue, woolye?
[They retire.
Enter Susan, reading the letter.
Susan. Is it possible! Can the man to whom I've given my heart write thus!—"I am compelled to marry Miss Blandford; but my love for my Susan is unalterable—I hope she will not, for an act of necessity, cease to think with tenderness on her faithful Robert."——Oh man! ungrateful man! it is from our bosoms alone you derive your power; how cruel then to use it, in fixing in those bosoms endless sorrow and despair!—--"Still think with tenderness"—Base, dishonourable insinuation—He might have allowed me to esteem him. [Locks up the letter in a box on the table, and exit weeping.]
[Ashfield and Dame come forward.]
Ash. Poor thing!—What can be the matter—She locked up the letter in thic box, and then burst into tears.
[Looks at the box.
Dame. Yes, Tummas; she locked it in that box sure enough.
[Shakes a bunch of keys that hangs at her side.
Ash. What be doing, Dame? what be doing?
Dame. [With affected indifference.] Nothing; I was only touching these keys.
[They look at the box and keys significantly.
Ash. A good tightish bunch!
Dame. Yes; they are of all sizes.
[They look as before.
Ash. Indeed!—Well—Eh!—Dame, why dan't ye speak? thou canst chatter fast enow zometimes.
Dame. Nay, Tummas—I dare say—if—you know best—but I think I could find——
Ash. Well, Eh!—you can just try you knaw [Greatly agitated.] You can try, just vor the vun on't: but mind, dan't ye make a noise. [She opens it.] Why, thee hasn't opened it?
Dame. Nay, Tummas! you told me!
Ash. Did I?
Dame. There's the letter!
Ash. Well, why do ye gi't to I?—I dan't want it, I'm sure. [Taking it—he turns it over—she eyes it eagerly—he is about to open it.]—She's coming! she's coming! [He conceals the letter, they tremble violently.] No, she's gone into t'other room. [They hang their heads dejectedly, then look at each other.] What mun that feyther an mother be doing, that do blush and tremble at their own dater's coming. [Weeps.] Dang it, has she desarv'd it of us—Did she ever deceive us?—Were she not always the most open hearted, dutifullest, kindest—and thee to goa like a dom'd spy, and open her box, poor thing!
Dame. Nay, Tummas——
Ash. You did—I zaw you do it myzel!—you look like a thief, now—you doe—Hush!—no—Dame—here be the letter—I won't reead a word on't; put it where thee vound it, and as thee vound it.
Dame. With all my heart.
[She returns the letter to the box.
Ash. [Embraces her.] Now I can wi' pleasure hug my wold wife, and look my child in the vace again—I'll call her, and ax her about it; and if she dan't speak without disguisement, I'll be bound to be shot—Dame, be the colour of sheame off my face yet?—I never zeed thee look ugly before——Susan, my dear Sue, come here a bit, woollye?
Enter Susan.
Susan. Yes, my dear father.
Ash. Sue, we do wish to give thee a bit of admonishing and parent-like conzultation.
Susan. I hope I have ever attended to your admonitions.
Ash. Ees, bless thee, I do believe thee hast, lamb; but we all want our memories jogg'd a bit, or why else do parson preach us all to sleep every Zunday—Zo thic be the topic—Dame and I, Sue, did zee a letter gi'd to thee, and thee—bursted into tears, and lock'd un up in thic box—and then Dame and I—we—that's all.
Susan. My dear father, if I concealed the contents of that letter from your knowledge, it was because I did not wish your heart to share in the pain mine feels.
Ash. Dang it, didn't I tell thee zoo?
[To his wife.
Dame. Nay, Tummas, did I say otherwise?
Susan. Believe me, my dear parents, my heart never gave birth to a thought my tongue feared to utter.
Ash. There, the very words I zaid?
Susan. If you wish to see the letter, I will shew it to you.
[She searches for the key.
Dame. Here's a key will open it.
Ash. Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool? [Aside.] No, Susan. I'll not zee it—I'll believe my child.
Susan. You shall not find your confidence ill-placed—it is true the gentleman declared he loved me; it is equally true that declaration was not unpleasing to me—Alas! it is also true, that his letter contains sentiments disgraceful to himself, and insulting to me.
Ash. Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling a bit, I wou'd ha' lapt my stick about his ribs pratty tightish, I wou'd.
Susan. Pray, father, don't you resent his conduct to me.
Ash. What! mayn't I lather un a bit?
Susan. Oh, no! I've the strongest reasons to the contrary!
Ash. Well, Sue, I won't—I'll behave as pratty as I always do—but it be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights—How I do hate the noise of thic dom'd bunch of keys—But bless thee, my child—dan't forget that vartue to a young woman be vor all the world like—like—Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow—I can't talk it—but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade o'wheat, do you zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the eye, and it be called the staff of life; but take that treasure away, and what do remain? why nought but thic worthless straw that man and beast do tread upon.
[Exeunt.