Chapter III: Act III: SCENE I. Mr. Hardy's

_Enter_ Letitia _and Mrs._ Racket.

_Mrs._ Racket.

Come, prepare, prepare; your Lover is coming.

_Letit._ My Lover!--Confess now that my absence at dinner was a severe mortification to him.

_Mrs. Rack._ I can't absolutely swear it spoilt his appetite; he eat as if he was hungry, and drank his wine as though he liked it.

_Letit._ What was the apology?

_Mrs. Rack._ That you were ill;--but I gave him a hint, that your extreme bashfulness could not support his eye.

_Letit._ If I comprehend him, aukwardness and bashfulness are the last faults he can pardon in a woman; so expect to see me transform'd into the veriest maukin.

_Mrs. Rack._ You persevere then?

_Letit._ Certainly. I know the design is a rash one, and the event important;--it either makes Doricourt mine by all the tenderest ties of passion, or deprives me of him for ever; and never to be his wife will afflict me less, than to be his wife and not be belov'd.

_Mrs. Rack._ So you wo'n't trust to the good old maxim--"Marry first, and love will follow?"

_Letit._ As readily as I would venture my last guinea, that good fortune might follow. The woman that has not touch'd the heart of a man before he leads her to the altar, has scarcely a chance to charm it when possession and security turn their powerful arms against her.--But here he comes.--I'll disappear for a moment.--Don't spare me. [_Exit_ Letitia.

_Enter_ Doricourt (_not seeing Mrs._ Racket.)

_Doric._ So! [_Looking at a Picture._] this is my mistress, I presume.--_Ma foi!_ the painter has hit her off.--The downcast eye--the blushing cheek--timid--apprehensive--bashful.--A tear and a prayer-book would have made her _La Bella Magdalena_.--

Give _me_ a woman in whose touching mien
A mind, a soul, a polish'd art is seen;
Whose motion speaks, whose poignant air can move.
Such are the darts to wound with endless love.

_Mrs. Rack._ Is that an impromptu? [_Touching him on the shoulder with her fan._]

_Doric._ (_starting._) Madam!--[_Aside._] Finely caught!--Not absolutely--it struck me during the dessert, as a motto for your picture.

_Mrs. Rack._ Gallantly turn'd! I perceive, however, Miss Hardy's charms have made no violent impression on you.--And who can wonder?--the poor girl's defects are so obvious.

_Doric._ Defects!

_Mrs. Rack._ Merely those of education.--Her father's indulgence ruin'd her.--_Mauvaise honte_--conceit and ignorance--all unite in the Lady you are to marry.

_Doric._ Marry!--I marry such a woman!--Your picture, I hope, is overcharged.--I marry _mauvaise honte_, pertness and ignorance!

_Mrs. Rack._ Thank your stars, that ugliness and ill temper are not added to the list.--You must think her handsome?

_Doric._ Half her personal beauty would content me; but could the Medicean Venus be animated for me, and endowed with a vulgar soul, _I_ should become the statue, and my heart transformed to marble.

_Mrs. Rack._ Bless us!--We are in a hopeful way then!

_Doric._ (_Aside._) There must be some envy in this!--I see she is a coquette. Ha, ha, ha! And you imagine I am persuaded of the truth of your character? ha, ha, ha! Miss Hardy, I have been assur'd, Madam, is elegant and accomplished:----but one must allow for a Lady's painting.

_Mrs. Rack._ (_Aside._) I'll be even with him for that. Ha! ha! ha! and so you have found me out!--Well, I protest I meant no harm; 'twas only to increase the _éclat_ of her appearance, that I threw a veil over her charms.----Here comes the Lady;--her elegance and accomplishments will announce themselves.

_Enter_ Letitia, _running_.

_Let._ La! Cousin, do you know that our John----oh, dear heart!--I didn't see you, Sir. (_Hanging down her head, and dropping behind Mrs._ Racket.)

_Mrs. Rack._ Fye, Letitia! Mr. Doricourt thinks you a woman of elegant manners. Stand forward, and confirm his opinion.

_Let._ No, no; keep before me.----He's my Sweetheart; and 'tis impudent to look one's Sweetheart in the face, you know.

_Mrs. Rack._ You'll allow in future for a Lady's painting, Sir. Ha! ha! ha!

_Doric._ I am astonish'd!

_Let._ Well, hang it, I'll take heart.--Why, he is but a Man, you know, Cousin;--and I'll let him see I wasn't born in a Wood to be scar'd by an Owl. [_Half apart; advances, and looks at him through her fingers._] He! he! he! [_Goes up to him, and makes a very stiff formal curtesy._]--[_He bows._]--You have been a great Traveller, Sir, I hear?

_Dor._ Yes, Madam.

_Let._ Then I wish you'd tell us about the fine sights you saw when you went over-sea.--I have read in a book, that there are some countries where the Men and Women are all Horses.--Did you see any of them?

_Mrs. Rack._ Mr. Doricourt is not prepared, my dear, for these enquiries; he is reflecting on the importance of the question, and will answer you----when he can.

_Let._ When he can! Why, he's as slow in speech, as Aunt Margery, when she's reading Thomas Aquinas;--and stands gaping like mum-chance.

_Mrs. Rack._ Have a little discretion.

_Let._ Hold your tongue!--Sure I may say what I please before I am married, if I can't afterwards.--D'ye think a body does not know how to talk to a Sweetheart. He is not the first I have had.

_Dor._ Indeed!

_Let._ Oh, Lud! He speaks!--Why, if you must know--there was the Curate at home:--when Papa was a-hunting, he used to come a suitoring, and make speeches to me out of books.--No body knows what a _mort_ of fine things he used to say to me;--and call me Venis, and Jubah, and Dinah!

_Dor._ And pray, fair Lady, how did you answer him?

_Let._ Why, I used to say, Look you, Mr. Curate, don't think to come over me with your flim-flams; for a better Man than ever trod in your shoes, is coming over-sea to marry me;--but, ifags! I begin to think I was out.--Parson Dobbins was the sprightfuller man of the two.

_Dor._ Surely this cannot be Miss Hardy!

_Let._ Laws! why, don't you know me! You saw me to-day--but I was daunted before my Father, and the Lawyer, and all them, and did not care to speak out:--so, may be, you thought I couldn't;--but I can talk as fast as any body, when I know folks a little:--and now I have shewn my parts, I hope you'll like me better.

_Enter_ Hardy.

_Har._ I foresee this won't do!--Mr. Doricourt, may be you take my Daughter for a Fool; but you are mistaken: she's a sensible Girl, as any in England.

_Dor._ I am convinced she has a very uncommon understanding, Sir. [_Aside._] I did not think he had been such an Ass.

_Let._ My Father will undo the whole.--Laws! Papa, how can you think he can take me for a fool! when every body knows I beat the Potecary at Conundrums last Christmas-time? and didn't I make a string of names, all in riddles, for the Lady's Diary?--There was a little River, and a great House; that was Newcastle.--There was what a Lamb says, and three Letters; that was _Ba_, and _k-e-r_, ker, Baker.--There was--

_Hardy._ Don't stand ba-a-ing there. You'll make me mad in a moment!--I tell you, Sir, that for all that, she's dev'lish sensible.

_Doric._ Sir, I give all possible credit to your assertions.

_Letit._ Laws! Papa, do come along. If you stand watching, how can my Sweetheart break his mind, and tell me how he admires me?

_Doric._ That would be difficult, indeed, Madam.

_Hardy._ I tell you, Letty, I'll have no more of this.----I see well enough----

_Letit._ Laws! don't snub me before my Husband--that is to be.--You'll teach him to snub me too,--and I believe, by his looks, he'd like to begin now.--So, let us go, Cousin; you may tell the Gentleman what a genus I have--how I can cut Watch-papers, and work Cat-gut; make Quadrille-baskets with Pins, and take Profiles in Shade; ay, as well as the Lady at No. 62, South Moulton-street, Grosvenor-square. [_Exit_ Hardy _and_ Letitia.

_Mrs. Rack._ What think you of my painting, now?

_Doric._ Oh, mere water-colours, Madam! The Lady has caricatured your picture.

_Mrs. Rack._ And how does she strike you on the whole?

_Doric._ Like a good Design, spoiled by the incapacity of the Artist. Her faults are evidently the result of her Father's weak indulgence. I observed an expression in her eye, that seemed to satyrise the folly of her lips.

_Mrs. Rack._ But at her age, when Education is fixed, and Manner becomes Nature--hopes of improvement--

_Doric._ Would be as rational, as hopes of Gold from a Jugler's Crucible.--Doricourt's Wife must be incapable of improvement; but it must be because she's got beyond it.

_Mrs. Rack._ I am pleased your misfortune sits no heavier.

_Doric._ Your pardon, Madam; so mercurial was the hour in which I was born, that misfortunes always go plump to the bottom of my heart, like a pebble in water, and leave the surface unruffled.--I shall certainly set off for Bath, or the other world, to-night;--but whether I shall use a chaise with four swift coursers, or go off in a tangent--from the aperture of a pistol, deserves consideration; so I make my _adieus_. (_Going._)

_Mrs. Rack._ Oh, but I intreat you, postpone your journey 'till to-morrow; determine on which you will--you must be this night at the Masquerade.

_Doric._ Masquerade!

_Mrs. Rack._ Why not?--If you resolve to visit the other world, you may as well take one night's pleasure first in this, you know.

_Doric._ Faith, that's very true; Ladies are the best Philosophers, after all. Expect me at the Masquerade. [_Exit_ Doricourt.

_Mrs. Rack._ He's a charming Fellow!--I think Letitia sha'n't have him. (_Going._)

_Enter_ Hardy.

_Hardy._ What's he gone?

_Mrs. Rack._ Yes; and I am glad he is. You would have ruined us!--Now, I beg, Mr. Hardy, you won't interfere in this business; it is a little out of your way. [_Exit Mrs._ Racket.

_Hardy._ Hang me, if I don't though. I foresee very clearly what will be the end of it, if I leave ye to yourselves; so, I'll e'en follow him to the Masquerade, and tell him all about it: Let me see.--What shall my dress be? A Great Mogul? No.--A Grenadier? No;--no, that, I foresee, would make a laugh. Hang me, if I don't send to my favourite little Quick, and borrow his Jew Isaac's dress:--I know the Dog likes a glass of good wine; so I'll give him a bottle of my Forty-eight, and he shall teach me. Aye, that's it--I'll be Cunning Little Isaac! If they complain of my want of wit, I'll tell 'em the cursed Duenna wears the breeches, and has spoilt my parts. [_Exit_ Hardy.

SCENE II.----_Courtall_'s.

_Enter_ Courtall, Saville, _and three others, from an Apartment in the back Scene_. (_The last three tipsey._)

_Court._ You shan't go yet:--Another catch, and another bottle!

_First Gent._ May I be a bottle, and an empty bottle, if you catch me at that!--Why, I am going to the Masquerade. Jack----, you know who I mean, is to meet me, and we are to have a leap at the new lustres.

_Second Gent._ And I am going too--a Harlequin--(_hiccups_) Am not I in a pretty pickle to make Harlequinades?----And Tony, here--he is going in the disguise--in the disguise--of a Gentleman!

_First Gent._ We are all very disguised; so bid them draw up--D'ye hear! [_Exeunt the three Gentlemen._

_Sav._ Thy skull, Courtall, is a Lady's thimble:--no, an egg-shell.

_Court._ Nay, then you are gone too; you never aspire to similes, but in your cups.

_Sav._ No, no; I am steady enough--but the fumes of the wine pass directly through thy egg-shell, and leave thy brain as cool as----Hey! I am quite sober; my similes fail me.

_Court._ Then we'll sit down here, and have one sober bottle.--Bring a table and glasses.

_Sav._ I'll not swallow another drop; no, though the juice should be the true Falernian.

_Court._ By the bright eyes of her you love, you shall drink her health.

_Sav._ Ah! (_sitting down_.) Her I loved is gone (_sighing._)--She's married!

_Court._ Then bless your stars you are not her Husband! I would be Husband to no Woman in Europe, who was not dev'lish rich, and dev'lish ugly.

_Sav._ Wherefore ugly?

_Court._ Because she could not have the conscience to exact those attentions that a Pretty Wife expects; or, if she should, her resentments would be perfectly easy to me, nobody would undertake to revenge her cause.

_Sav._ Thou art a most licentious fellow!

_Court._ I should hate my own wife, that's certain; but I have a warm heart for those of other people; and so here's to the prettiest Wife in England--Lady Frances Touchwood.

_Sav._ Lady Frances Touchwood! I rise to drink her. (_drinks_) How the devil came Lady Frances in your head? I never knew you give a Woman of Chastity before.

_Court._ That's odd, for you have heard me give half the Women of Fashion in England.--But, pray now, what do you take a Woman of Chastity to be? (_sneeringly._)

_Sav._ Such a woman as Lady Frances Touchwood, Sir.

_Court._ Oh, you are grave, Sir; I remember you was an Adorer of her's--Why didn't you marry her?

_Sav._ I had not the arrogance to look so high--Had my fortune been worthy of her, she should not have been ignorant of my admiration.

_Court._ Precious fellow! What, I suppose you would not dare tell her now that you admire her?

_Sav._ No, nor you.

_Court._ By the Lord, I have told her so.

_Sav._ Have! Impossible!

_Court._ Ha! ha! ha!--Is it so?

_Sav._ How did she receive the declaration?

_Court._ Why, in the old way; blushed, and frowned, and said she was married.

_Sav._ What amazing things thou art capable of! I could more easily have taken the Pope by the beard, than prophaned her ears with such a declaration.

_Court._ I shall meet her at Lady Brilliant's to-night, where I shall repeat it; and I'll lay my life, under a mask, she'll hear it all without blush, or frown.

_Sav._ (_rising_) 'Tis false, Sir!--She won't.

_Court._ She will! (_rising_) Nay, I'd venture to lay a round sum, that I prevail on her to go out with me----only to taste the fresh air, I mean.

_Sav._ Preposterous vanity! From this moment I suspect that half the victories you have boasted, are false and slanderous, as your pretended influence with Lady Frances.

_Court._ Pretended!--How should such a Fellow as you, now, who never soared beyond a cherry-cheeked Daughter of a Ploughman in Norfolk, judge of the influence of a Man of my Figure and Habits? I could shew thee a list, in which there are names to shake thy faith in the whole sex!--and, to that list I have no doubt of adding the name of Lady----

_Sav._ Hold, Sir! My ears cannot bear the profanation;--you cannot--dare not approach her!--For your soul you dare not mention Love to her! Her look would freeze the word, whilst it hovered on thy licentious lips!

_Court._ Whu! whu! Well, we shall see--this evening, by Jupiter, the trial shall be made--if I fail--I fail.

_Sav._ I think thou darest not!--But my life, my honour on her purity. [_Exit_ Saville.

_Court._ Hot-headed fool! But since he has brought it to this point, by Gad I'll try what can be done with her Ladyship (_musing_)--(_rings_) She's frost-work, and the prejudices of education yet strong: _ergo_, passionate professions will only inflame her pride, and put her on her guard.--For other arts then!

_Enter_ Dick.

Dick, do you know any of the servants at Sir George Touchwood's?

_Dick._ Yes, Sir; I knows the Groom, and one of the House-maids: for the matter-o'-that, she's my own Cousin; and it was my Mother that holp'd her to the place.

_Court._ Do you know Lady Frances's Maid?

_Dick._ I can't say as how I know she.

_Court._ Do you know Sir George's Valet?

_Dick._ No, Sir; but Sally is very thick with Mr. Gibson, Sir George's Gentleman.

_Court._ Then go there directly, and employ Sally to discover whether her Master goes to Lady Brilliant's this evening; and, if he does, the name of the shop that sold his Habit.

_Dick._ Yes, Sir.

_Court._ Be exact in your intelligence, and come to me at Boodle's: [_Exit_ Dick.] If I cannot otherwise succeed, I'll beguile her as Jove did Alcmena, in the shape of her Husband. The possession of so fine a Woman--the triumph over Saville, are each a sufficient motive; and united, they shall be resistless. [_Exit_ Courtall.

SCENE III.----_The Street._

_Enter_ Saville.

_Sav._ The air has recover'd me! What have I been doing! Perhaps my petulance may be the cause of _her_ ruin, whose honour I asserted:--his vanity is piqued;--and where Women are concerned, Courtall can be a villain.

_Enter_ Dick. _Bows, and passes hastily._

Ha! that's his Servant!----Dick!

_Dick._ [_returning_] Sir.

_Sav._ Where are you going, Dick?

_Dick._ Going! I am going, Sir, where my Master sent me.

_Sav._ Well answer'd;--but I have a particular reason for my enquiry, and you must tell me.

_Dick._ Why then, Sir, I am going to call upon a Cousin of mine, that lives at Sir George Touchwood's.

_Sav._ Very well.--There, [_gives him money_] you must make your Cousin drink my health.--What are you going about?

_Dick._ Why, Sir, I believe 'tis no harm, or elseways I am sure I would not blab.--I am only going to ax if Sir George goes to the Masquerade to-night, and what Dress he wears.

_Sav._ Enough! Now, Dick, if you will call at my lodgings in your way back, and acquaint me with your Cousin's intelligence, I'll double the trifle I have given you.

_Dick._ Bless your honour, I'll call----never fear. [Exit _Dick._

_Sav._ Surely the occasion may justify the means:--'tis doubly my duty to be Lady Frances's Protector. Courtall, I see, is planning an artful scheme; but Saville shall out-plot him. [_Exit_ Saville.

SCENE IV.----_Sir_ George Touchwood_'s._

_Enter_ Sir George _and_ Villers.

_Vill._ For shame, Sir George! you have left Lady Frances in tears.--How can you afflict her?

_Sir Geo._ 'Tis I that am afflicted;--my dream of happiness is over.--Lady Frances and I are disunited.

_Vill._ The Devil! Why, you have been in town but ten days: she can have made no acquaintance for a Commons affair yet.

_Sir Geo._ Pho! 'tis our minds that are disunited: she no longer places her whole delight in me; she has yielded herself up to the world!

_Vill._ Yielded herself up to the World! Why did you not bring her to town in a Cage? Then she might have taken a peep at the World!--But, after all, what has the World done? A twelvemonth since you was the gayest fellow in it:--If any body ask'd who dresses best?--Sir George Touchwood.--Who is the most gallant Man? Sir George Touchwood.--Who is the most wedded to Amusement and Dissipation? Sir George Touchwood.--And now Sir George is metamorphosed into a sour Censor; and talks of Fashionable Life with as much bitterness, as the old crabbed Fellow in Rome.

_Sir Geo._ The moment I became possessed of such a jewel as Lady Frances, every thing wore a different complexion: that Society in which I liv'd with so much _éclat_, became the object of my terror; and I think of the manners of Polite Life, as I do of the atmosphere of a Pest-house.--My Wife is already infected; she was set upon this morning by Maids, Widows, and Bachelors, who carried her off in triumph, in spite of my displeasure.

_Vill._ Aye, to be sure; there would have been no triumph in the case, if you had not oppos'd it:--but I have heard the whole story from Mrs. Racket; and I assure you, Lady Frances didn't enjoy the morning at all;--she wish'd for you fifty times.

_Sir Geo._ Indeed! Are you sure of that?

_Vill._ Perfectly sure.

_Sir Geo._ I wish I had known it:----my uneasiness at dinner was occasioned by very different ideas.

_Vill._ Here then she comes, to receive your apology; but if she is true Woman, her displeasure will rise in proportion to your contrition;--and till you grow careless about her pardon, she won't grant it:----however, I'll leave you.----Matrimonial Duets are seldom set in the style I like. [_Exit_ Villers.

_Enter Lady_ Frances.

_Sir Geo._ The sweet sorrow that glitters in these eyes, I cannot bear (_embracing her_). Look chearfully, you Rogue.

_Lady Fran._ I cannot look otherwise, if you are pleas'd with me.

_Sir Geo._ Well, Fanny, to-day you made your _entrée_ in the Fashionable World; tell me honestly the impressions you receiv'd.

_Lady Fran._ Indeed, Sir George, I was so hurried from place to place, that I had not time to find out what my impressions were.

_Sir Geo._ That's the very spirit of the life you have chosen.

_Lady Fran._ Every body about me seem'd happy--but every body seem'd in a hurry to be happy somewhere else.

_Sir Geo._ And you like this?

_Lady Fran._ One must like what the rest of the World likes.

_Sir Geo._ Pernicious maxim!

_Lady Fran._ But, my dear Sir George, you have not promis'd to go with me to the Masquerade.

_Sir Geo._ 'Twould be a shocking indecorum to be seen together, you know.

_Lady Fran._ Oh, no; I ask'd Mrs. Racket, and she told me we might be seen together at the Masquerade--without being laugh'd at.

_Sir Geo._ Really?

_Lady Fran._ Indeed, to tell you the truth, I could wish it was the fashion for married people to be inseparable; for I have more heart-felt satisfaction in fifteen minutes with you at my side, than fifteen days of amusement could give me without you.

_Sir Geo._ My sweet Creature! How that confession charms me!--Let us begin the Fashion.

_Lady Fran._ O, impossible! We should not gain a single proselyte; and you can't conceive what spiteful things would be said of us.--At Kensington to-day a Lady met us, whom we saw at Court, when we were presented; she lifted up her hands in amazement!----Bless me! said she to her companion, here's Lady Francis without Sir Hurlo Thrumbo!--My dear Mrs. Racket, consider what an important charge you have! for Heaven's sake take her home again, or some Enchanter on a flying Dragon will descend and carry her off.--Oh, said another, I dare say Lady Frances has a clue at her heel, like the peerless Rosamond:--her tender swain would never have trusted her so far without such a precaution.

_Sir Geo._ Heav'n and Earth!----How shall Innocence preserve its lustre amidst manners so corrupt!--My dear Fanny, I feel a sentiment for thee at this moment, tenderer than Love--more animated than Passion.----I could weep over that purity, expos'd to the sullying breath of Fashion, and the _Ton_, in whose latitudinary vortex Chastity herself can scarcely move unspotted.

_Enter_ Gibson.

_Gib._ Your Honour talk'd, I thought, something about going to the Masquerade?

_Sir Geo._ Well.

_Gib._ Isn't it?--hasn't your Honour?--I thought your Honour had forgot to order a Dress.

_Lady Fran._ Well consider'd, Gibson.--Come, will you be Jew, Turk, or Heretic; a Chinese Emperor, or a Ballad-Singer; a Rake, or a Watchman?

_Sir Geo._ Oh, neither, my Love; I can't take the trouble to support a character.

_Lady Fran._ You'll wear a Domino then:--I saw a pink Domino trimm'd with blue at the shop where I bought my Habit.--Would you like it?

_Sir Geo._ Any thing, any thing.

_Lady Fran._ Then go about it directly, Gibson.----A pink Domino trimm'd with blue, and a Hat of the same--Come, you have not seen my Dress yet--it is most beautiful; I long to have it on.

[_Exeunt_ Sir George _and_ Lady Frances.

_Gib._ A pink Domino trimm'd with blue, and a Hat of the same----What the devil can it signify to Sally now what his Dress is to be?--Surely the Slut has not made an assignation to meet her Master! [_Exit_ Gibson.

END OF THE THIRD ACT.