RAT. But what?
POS. (grasping RATCLIFFE’S hand and assuming a desperate tone and manner) The dreadful truth must be spoken! I’m a rascal—I love another—the interesting widow of a large straw bonnet maker. When I say large, I don’t allude to the bonnet maker, but the business—and shall I basely forsake the confiding woman who has placed all her straw bonnets—I mean all her happiness in my hands?—No! though my cousin will soon have her £15,000 again.
RAT. That’s very doubtful.
POS. No such thing. I’m certain of it, and so are you; still, never, never shall it be said of Postlethwaite, that he was actuated by the love of filthy lucre—so you’ll wish her good bye for me, won’t you?
RAT. Stay. Suppose you write a few lines to her, stating your reasons for renouncing her hand, and I’ll deliver the letter to her.
POS. I’ll do it at once, (aside) and considering that there’s very little chance of Cousin Somerton’s seeing a shilling of her money again, and a very considerable chance of my getting into trouble; the sooner I make my way back to Arabella Row, Pimlico, the better. (goes into room, R. 2 E.)
RAT. (anxiously) Will he write to her? will he, indeed, renounce her hand?
Enter MRS. SOMERTON, L.
MRS. S. (aside) Still here, ’tis well; and now, Captain Ratcliffe, it is my turn to frighten you.
RAT. (resuming his official manner) Well, madam, have you found this important paper?