_Scene continues._
_Enter_ HASTINGS _and_ SERVANT.
HAST. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say?
SERV. Yes, your honour; they went off in a post-coach, and the young
'squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by this time.
HAST. Then all my hopes are over.
SERV. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He and the old gentleman of
the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half-hour.
They are coming this way.
HAST. Then I must not be seen. So, now to my fruitless appointment, at
the bottom of the garden. This is about the time.
_Exit._
_Enter_ SIR CHARLES _and_ HARDCASTLE.
HARD. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth his
sublime commands!
SIR CHARLES. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your
advances!
HARD. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common
inn-keeper too.
SIR CHARLES. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an uncommon inn-keeper,
ha! ha! ha!
HARD. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but joy. Yes,
my dear friend, this union of our families will make our personal
friendships hereditary; and though my daughter's fortune is but small——
SIR CHARLES. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to _me_? My son is
possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a
good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they
like each other, as you say they do——
HARD. _If_, man! I tell you they _do_ like each other. My daughter as
good as told me so.
SIR CHARLES. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know.
HARD. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself; and here
he comes to put you out of your _ifs_, I warrant you.
_Enter_ MARLOW.
MARL. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct. I
can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion.
HARD. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too gravely. An hour or two's
laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again.—She'll never
like you the worse for it.
MARL. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation.
HARD. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow: if I am not deceived,
you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You take me.
MARL. Really, sir, I have not that happiness.
HARD. Come boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what, as well as you
that are younger. I know what has passed between you; but mum.
MARL. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us, but the most profound
respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You don't
think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest of the
family.
HARD. Impudence! No, I don't say that—Not quite impudence—Though girls
like to be played with, and rumpled a little too sometimes. But she has
told no tales I assure you.
MARL. I never gave her the slightest cause.
HARD. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But this is
over-acting, young gentleman. You _may_ be open. Your father and I will
like you the better for it.
MARL. May I die, sir, if I ever——
HARD. I tell you, she don't dislike you; and as I'm sure you like her——
MARL. Dear sir—I protest, sir——
HARD. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as the
parson can tie you.
MARL. But hear me, sir——
HARD. Your father approves the match, I admire it, every moment's delay
will be doing mischief, so——
MARL. But why won't you hear me? By all that's just and true, I never
gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even the
most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one interview,
and that was formal, modest and uninteresting.
HARD. (_Aside._). This fellow's formal modest impudence is beyond
bearing.
SIR CHARLES. And you never grasped her hand, or made any protestations?
MARL. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your
commands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without
reluctance. I hope you'll exact no further proofs of my duty, nor
prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many
mortifications.
_Exit._
SIR CHARLES. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he
parted.
HARD. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his
assurance.
SIR CHARLES. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth.
HARD. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness upon her
veracity.
_Enter_ MISS HARDCASTLE.
HARD. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely, and without
reserve: has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and affection?
MISS HARD. The question is very abrupt, sir! But since you require
unreserved sincerity, I think he has.
HARD. (_To_ SIR CHARLES.) You see.
SIR CHARLES. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one
interview?
MISS HARD. Yes, sir, several.
HARD. (_To_ SIR CHARLES.) You see.
SIR CHARLES. But did he profess any attachment?
MISS HARD. A lasting one.
SIR CHARLES. Did he talk of love?
MISS HARD. Much, sir.
SIR CHARLES. Amazing! and all this formally?
MISS HARD. Formally.
HARD. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied?
SIR CHARLES. And how did he behave, madam?
MISS HARD. As most professed admirers do. Said some civil things of my
face: talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine;
mentioned his heart; gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with
pretended rapture.
SIR CHARLES. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his
conversation among women to be modest and submissive. This forward,
canting, ranting manner by no means describes him, and I am confident
he never sat for the picture.
MISS HARD. Then what, sir, if I should convince you to your face of my
sincerity? If you and my papa, in about half-an-hour, will place
yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his passion
to me in person.
SIR CHARLES. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my
happiness in him must have an end.
_Exit._
MISS HARD. And if you don't find him what I describe—I fear my
happiness must never have a beginning.
_Exeunt._
_Scene changes to the back of the garden._
_Enter_ HASTINGS.
HAST. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who probably takes
a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual, and I'll
wait no longer. What do I see? It is he, and perhaps with news of my
Constance.
_Enter_ TONY, _booted and spattered_.
HAST. My honest 'squire! I now find you a man of your word. This looks
like friendship.
TONY. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world,
if you knew but all. This riding by night, by-the-by, is cursedly
tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach.
HAST. But how? Where did you leave your fellow travellers? Are they in
safety! Are they housed?
TONY. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad
driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it. Rabbet me, but I'd rather
ride forty miles after a fox, than ten with such _varment_.
HAST. Well, but where have you left the ladies? I die with impatience.
TONY. Left them? Why where should I leave them but where I found them.
HAST. This is a riddle.
TONY. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes round the house, and round
the house and never touches the house?
HAST. I'm still astray.
TONY. Why that's it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo, there's not
a pond or slough within five miles of the place, but they can tell the
taste of.
HAST. Ha, ha, ha! I understand: you took them in a round, while they
supposed themselves going forward. And so you have at last brought them
home again.
TONY. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed-lane, where we
stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of
Up-and-down Hill—I then introduced them to the gibbet, on Heavy-tree
Heath; and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in
the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden.
HAST. But no accident, I hope.
TONY. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks
herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey, and the cattle can
scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with
cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow
you.
HAST. My dear friend, how can I be grateful?
TONY. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now, it was all
idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn _your_ way of fighting, I
say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be
friends. But, if you had run me through the guts, then I should be
dead, and you might go kiss the hangman.
HAST. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss Neville; if
you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of the young
one.
_Exit_ HASTINGS.
TONY. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. She's got from the pond,
and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid.
_Enter_ MRS. HARDCASTLE.
MRS. HARD. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook. Battered to death. I shall
never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the quickset
hedge, has done my business.
TONY. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for running
away by night, without knowing one inch of the way.
MRS. HARD. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many accidents
in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch,
stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way!
Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony?
TONY. By my guess we should be upon Crackskull Common, about forty
miles from home.
MRS. HARD. O lud! O lud! the most notorious spot in all the country. We
only want a robbery to make a complete night on't.
[Illustration:
TONY.—"_Don't be afraid, mamma._"—_p._ 371.
]
TONY. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that
kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be
afraid. Is that a man that's galloping behind us? No; it's only a tree.
Don't be afraid.
MRS. HARD. The fright will certainly kill me.
TONY. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the thicket?
MRS. HARD. O death!
TONY. No, it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma: don't be afraid.
MRS. HARD. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us. Ah! I'm
sure on't. If he perceives us we are undone.
TONY (_Aside._) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one
of his night walks. (_To her._) Ah! it's a highwayman, with pistols as
long as my arm. A damn'd ill looking fellow.
MRS. HARD. Good Heaven defend us! He approaches.
TONY. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage him.
If there be any danger I'll cough, and cry—hem! When I cough, be sure
to keep close.
MRS. HARDCASTLE _hides behind a tree, in the back scene_.
_Enter_ HARDCASTLE.
HARD. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of help. O,
Tony, is that you? I did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother
and her charge in safety?
TONY. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem!
MRS. HARD. (_From behind._). Ah, death! I find there's danger.
HARD. Forty miles in three hours; sure that's too much, my youngster.
TONY. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say.
Hem!
MRS. HARD. (_From behind._) Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm.
HARD. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know from whence it
came.
TONY. It was I, sir; talking to myself, sir. I was saying, that forty
miles in three hours, was very good going—hem! As, to be sure, it
was—hem! I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go
in, if you please—hem!
HARD. But if you talked to yourself, you did not answer yourself. I am
certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (_Raising his voice_) to
find the other out.
MRS. HARD. (_From behind._) Oh! he's coming to find me out. Oh!
TONY. What need you go, sir, if I tell you—hem! I'll lay down my life
for the truth—hem! I'll tell you all, sir.
_Detaining him._
HARD. I tell you, I will not be detained. I insist on seeing. It's in
vain to expect I'll believe you.
MRS. HARD. (_Running forward from behind._) O lud, he'll murder my poor
boy, my darling. Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my
money, my life; but spare that young gentleman, spare my child, if you
have any mercy.
HARD. My wife! as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come, or what
does she mean?
MRS. HARD. (_Kneeling._) Take compassion on us, good Mr. Highwayman.
Take our money, our watches, all we have; but spare our lives. We will
never bring you to justice; indeed we won't, good Mr. Highwayman.
HARD. I believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy, don't you
know _me_?
MRS. HARD. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! My fears blinded me. But who,
my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this frightful place,
so far from home? What has brought you to follow us?
HARD. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits? So far from home,
when you are within forty yards of your own door? (_To him._) This is
one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue you. (_To her._) Don't you
know the gate, and the mulberry-tree? and don't you remember the
horse-pond, my dear?
MRS. HARD. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I live: I
have caught my death in it. (_To_ TONY.) And is it to you, you
graceless varlet, I owe all this? I'll teach you to abuse your mother,
I will.
TONY. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so you
may take the fruits on't.
MRS. HARD. I'll spoil you, I will.
_Follows him off the stage._ _Exit._
HARD. There's morality, however, in his reply.
_Exit._
_Enter_ HASTINGS _and_ MISS NEVILLE.
HAST. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus? If we delay a
moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we
shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity.
MISS NEV. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the
agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger.
Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness.
HAST. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly, my
charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish
fortune. Love and content will increase what we possess, beyond a
monarch's revenue. Let me prevail.
MISS NEV. No, Mr. Hastings; no. Prudence once more comes to my relief,
and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be
despised; but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I am resolved to
apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for redress.
HAST. But though he had the will, he has not the power, to relieve you.
MISS NEV. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to rely.
HAST. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly obey
you.
_Exeunt._
_Scene changes._
_Enter_ SIR CHARLES _and_ MISS HARDCASTLE.
SIR CHARLES. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I shall
then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then lose one
that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter.
MISS HARD. I am proud of your approbation, and to show I merit it, if
you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit
declaration. But he comes.
SIR CHARLES. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment.
_Exit_ SIR CHARLES.
_Enter_ MARLOW.
MARL. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take leave;
nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the separation.
MISS HARD. (_In her own natural manner._) I believe these sufferings
cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or two
longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the little
value of what you now think proper to regret.
MARL. (_Aside._) This girl every moment improves upon me. (_To her._)
It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart.
My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of
education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my
equals, begin to lose their weight, and nothing can restore me to
myself, but this painful effort of resolution.
MISS HARD. Then go, sir. I'll urge nothing more to detain you. Though
my family be as good as hers you came down to visit; and my education,
I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages, without equal
affluence? I must remain contented with the slight approbation of
imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while
all your serious aims are fixed on fortune.
_Enter_ HARDCASTLE _and_ SIR CHARLES, _from behind_.
SIR CHARLES. Here, behind this screen.
HARD. Ay, ay, make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him with
confusion at last.
MARL. By heavens, madam, fortune was ever my smallest consideration.
Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without
emotion? But every moment that I converse with you, steals in some new
grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at
first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What
seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous
innocence and conscious virtue.
SIR CHARLES. What can it mean? He amazes me!
HARD. I told you how it would be. Hush!
MARL. I am now determined to stay, madam; and I have too good an
opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his
approbation.
MISS HARD. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think
I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest room for
repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient
passion, to load you with confusion? Do you think I could ever relish
that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours?
MARL. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your
power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but in not having
seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your wishes; and
though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful
assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.
MISS HARD. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our acquaintance
began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have given an hour or
two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever
submit to a connexion where _I_ must appear mercenary, and _you_
imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses
of a secure admirer?
MARL. (_Kneeling._) Does this look like security? Does this look like
confidence? No, madam; every moment that shows me your merit, only
serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue—
SIR CHARLES. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou
deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting
conversation?
HARD. Your cold contempt; your formal interview? What have you to say
now?
[Illustration:
MARLOW.—"_Does this look like security?_"—_p._ 374.
]
MARL. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean?
HARD. It means, that you can say and unsay things at pleasure. That you
can address a lady in private, and deny it in public; that you have one
story for us, and another for my daughter.
MARL. Daughter!—this lady your daughter!
HARD. Yes, sir, my only daughter. My Kate, whose else should she be?
MARL. Oh, the devil!
MISS HARD. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, squinting lady you were
pleased to take me for. (_Curtseying._) She that you addressed as the
mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward,
agreeable rattle of the ladies' club; ha, ha, ha!
MARL. Zounds, there's no bearing this; it's worse than death.
MISS HARD. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to
address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that
speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud confident
creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss Biddy
Buckskin, till three in the morning? ha, ha, ha!
MARL. O, curse on my noisy head! I never attempted to be impudent yet,
that I was not taken down. I must be gone.
HARD. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a
mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you.
I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll all
forgive you. Take courage, man.
_They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene._
_Enter_ MRS. HARDCASTLE. TONY.
MRS. HARD. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not.
HARD. Who gone?
MRS. HARD. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings, from town.
He who came down with our modest visitor here.
SIR CHARLES. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as
lives; and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.
HARD. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion.
MRS. HARD. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her
fortune; that remains in this family to console us for her loss.
HARD. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary.
MRS. HARD. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. But you know, if your son,
when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at
her own disposal.
HARD. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait
for his refusal.
_Enter_ HASTINGS _and_ MISS NEVILLE.
MRS. HARD. (_Aside._) What, returned so soon? I begin not to like it.
HAST. (_To_ HARDCASTLE.) For my late attempt to fly off with your
niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back,
to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent,
I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded on
duty.
MISS NEV. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to
dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready
even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered
from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what is denied me
from a nearer connexion.
MRS. HARD. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a modern
novel.
HARD. Be it what it will, I'm glad they are come back to reclaim their
due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand whom I now
offer you?
TONY. What signifies my refusing? You know I can't refuse her till I'm
of age, father.
HARD. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce
to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire, to keep it
secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now
declare, you have been of age these three months.
TONY. Of age! Am I of age, father?
HARD. Above three months.
TONY. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. (_Taking_
MISS NEVILLE'S _hand_.) Witness all men by these presents, that I,
Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of _blank_ place, refuse you, Constantia
Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So
Constantia Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his
own man again.
SIR CHARLES. O brave 'squire!
HAST. My worthy friend!
MRS. HARD. My undutiful offspring!
MARL. Joy, my dear George; I give you joy sincerely. And could I
prevail upon my little tyrant here, to be less arbitrary, I should be
the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.
HAST. (_To_ MISS HARDCASTLE.) Come, madam, you are now driven to the
very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure
he loves you, and you must and shall have him.
HARD. (_Joining their hands._) And I say so too. And, Mr. Marlow, if
she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll
ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather
all the poor of the parish about us; and the mistakes of the night
shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her; and as you
have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be
mistaken in the wife.
EPILOGUE,
BY DR. GOLDSMITH.
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY,
Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, composed to please:
"We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of everything afraid;
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action,
"I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."
Her second act displays a livelier scene,—
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling _connoisseurs_:
On 'squires and cuts she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts;
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
E'en common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries _caro!_
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro:
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinelle of Cheapside:
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such through our lives the eventful history—
The fifth and last act still remains for me:
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Punctuation has been normalized.
Variations in hyphenation have been retained as they were in the
original publication.
Italicized words and phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
_underscores_.