Mrs. Cod. Tell me—what is this matter that has so suddenly disconcerted you?
Cod. Ah—she don’t know—I breathe again.
Mrs. Cod. Answer me, Sir; what have you done?
Cod. I—I—left off my life-preserving under-waistcoat, yesterday.
Mrs. Cod. Base equivocator—you shall have no rest, depend upon it, till I am perfectly acquainted with the cause of your agitation. I have watched your actions, Sir, more than you are aware of; ’tis something in which Mr. Lynx is concerned; I observed you, when you returned from his house yesterday, you came home quite an altered man—you that were not to be roused by any thing that did not interfere with your own immediate comfort, seemed suddenly to have changed your nature: the servant left your room door open, unchecked; a broken pane close to your ear escaped your notice—you ate no supper—you ordered no fire in your bed-room—and your sleep was disturbed by sighs and groans, and words of guilt.—Ha!—I have made you tremble—now, Sir, I shall leave you, and in the meantime you will do well to prepare for a confession that I am resolved to wring from you.—(Aside.)—I have shaken him from his lethargy at last.
[Exit, L. H.
Cod. I am a lost man—I knew my day of reckoning would arrive. Mary suspects something, that’s clear—um!—and I’m going out to dinner too—what a dinner it will be to me; it must be a feast of poison, and a flow of woe—if my secret is preserved, my promise to Lynx must lead to a commotion.—Who can this girl be that I undertake to own? Ha! ha!—now I think of it, I am safe; he dare not betray me, he is as much in my power as I am in his—yet how could he have discovered my unhappy situation? He won’t acknowledge that. No—no; he considers that mystery adds to his strong hold upon me. I have borrowed a book of criminal jurisprudence, from my attorney.—I want to learn the utmost penalty of the law for my offence.—(He takes a book from his pocket and turns over the leaves.)—Here it is—bigamy!—(Reads.)—“If guilty,”—what? “transportation for life.” Oh!—(Falling in a chair.)—Think of my being at Botany Bay—working night and day—summer and winter—in trousers without lining—only a shirt on my back—and a chain round my leg; no umbrella to put up when it rains, no such thing as a yard of Welch flannel within a thousand miles of me, and nothing aired for me—I should die—the first damp night would send me to the tomb of the Coddles—oh!—(Shuddering.)
Re-enter MRS. CODDLE, introducing MR. and MRS. DISMAL.
Mrs. Cod. Come in, come in; there is nobody here but Coddle.