A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Two/The Second Marriage Act 4
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Seabright's library. Enter Seabright, as if from a short journey, and the Eldest Boy running after him.
Boy. O papa, papa! I'm glad you've come back again! And have you said over your speech to the Parliament? and did they say any fine speeches back again to you?
Sea. Go away, George: I'm fatigued, I can't speak to you now.
(Enter Robert.)
Rob. Won't your honour have some refreshment after your journey? My Lady is gone out an airing; you had better have something.
Sea. No, nothing, Robert.—A glass of water, if you please. (sits down grave and dispirited, whilst Robert fetches the water, and the Boy plays about the room.)
Rob. (presenting the water.) I'll warrant now that you have had a power of fine talking in this Parliament house; and I warrant your honour's speech was as well regarded as any of it.
Sea. I thank you, Robert: I am fatigued, and would be alone for a little: take that boy away in your hand. (Exeunt Rob. and the Boy, and Sea. remains sometime musing with a dissatisfied face; then speaking to himself.) "The conciseness with which the Honourable Baronet who spoke last has treated this question." Ah! but I was,—I was too concise! The whole train of connecting and illustrative thoughts, which I had been at so much pains, before hand, to fix and arrange in my head, vanish'd from me as I rose to speak; and nothing of all that I had prepared presented itself before me, but the mere heads of the subject, standing up barren and bare, like so many detach'd rocks in a desert land, (starting up.) This will never do! I'm sure I have not spared myself: I have labour'd night and day at this speech: I have work'd at it like a slave in a mine; and yet, when I came to the push, it deceived me. (shaking his head.) This will never do! let me rest satisfied with what I have got, and think of being a speaker no more. (stands despondingly for a little while, with his arms across, then suddenly becomng animated.) No! I will not give it up! I saw an old school-fellow of mine in the lobby, as I went out, who whisper'd to the person standing next him as I pass'd, that I was his townsman. Does not this look as if my speech, even such as I was enabled to give it, had been approved of? O, I will not give it up! This is the only way to high distinction: I must drudge and labour still. Heigh ho! (yawning grievously. A gentle tap is heard at the door.) Who's therc? (angrily.)
Soph. (without.) May I come in, papa?
Sea. Yes, yes; but what do you want?
(Enter Sophia, timidly.)
Soph. I only come, my dear Sir, to see how you do after your journey. But you don't look well, papa: you don't look happy: has any thing distress'd you?
Sea. No, my good girl.
Soph. (kissing his hand.) I thank you, papa, for calling me your good girl: I was your good girl.
Sea. And are so still, my dear Sophia; but you must sometimes excuse me; I am not very happy.
Soph. Ah papa! I know what makes you unhappy.
Sea. (shaking his head.) Thou dost not! thou dost not!
Soph. Ah but I do! and nobody told it me neither—I can just see it my ownself. You are giving yourself a great deal of trouble, and courting very proud and very disagreeable people, for what you very probably won't get; and you are grieved to think that Lady Sarah does not treat us so kindly as she might do. But don't be unhappy: don't court those proud people any more: you have enough to live upon as you used to do; and Lady Sarah will be kinder to us by-and-bye. I know she will; for she loves little Tony already; and if she should not we will never complain.
Sea. (kissing her.) My sweet child! thou deservest—O thou deservest more than I can ever do for thee!
Soph. (gladly.) Do you say so, indeed? O then do this for me!
Sea. What is it, Sophia?
Soph. Trouble yourself no more with great people, and studying of speeches for that odious Parliament; and when Lady Sarah is out of the way, let the children come and play about you again, as they used to do.
Sea. (tenderly.) I thank you, my good child, but you don't understand these things. (Walks thoughtfully across the room, and then returns to her again) There is an office which Lord Allcrest has promised to procure for me, that would bring me a considerable and permanent addition to my income; if I once had that secured, I believe, in truth, it would be no unwise thing in me to follow your advice.
Soph. O, my dear Sir, I hope you will have it then! (skipping joyfully.) I hope you will have it.
(Enter a Servant, and announces Sir Crafty Supplecoat.)
Sea. Sir Crafty here! can any thing have happen'd for me?
Soph. O if it should be the place!—But shall I go away? for I don't like to see that man.
Sea. No, my dear, stay with me; I like to have you beside me.
Soph. Then I will stay; for I am happy now, and I can look upon him boldly.
(Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat.)
Sea. Sir Crafty, your servant; I'm very happy to see you.
Sir C. Your servant. Sir Anthony; I'm happy in being able to pay you my respects.—Miss Seabright I hope is well, (bowing to Soph, who returns his civility with chearfulness.) Indeed, Sir Anthony, I have long'd ever since I heard your speech in the House, which, for a maiden speech—Well, I will not say what it was.—I have long'd to declare to you the extreme pleasure I take in the fair career that is now open'd before you, and in being permitted to consider myself as one of your friends.
Sea. You do me great honour: I am infinitely obliged to you. My speech indeed ought—it ought to have(hesitating.)
Sir C. To have been just what it was, my dear Baronet. Your friends enjoy'd it; and, let me say it freely, without envy.
Sea. I am much flatter'd; their praises are—are—(hesitating.)
Sir C. Are proportion'd to their admiration, Sir Anthony; and they have great pleasure in talking of it.
Sea. (eagerly.) Ha! do they talk much of it?
Sir C. Yes; more than I would venture to repeat to you.
Sea. Friends, indeed, say many things that ought not to be believed.
Sir C. I assure you, your's say many things which one of the qualities you so eminently possess would not, perhaps, suffer you to believe. Eloquence—eloquence, my dear Sir—great things are to be attain'd in this country by eloquence. Eloquence and high connexions give a man such velocity in moving, that nothing can stop his career.—But I ought to tell you, by-the-bye, that old Saunter is dead, unexpectedly; and that office, if it indeed can be consider'd as any object to you now, is ready for your acceptance.
Soph. (aside to Sea.) Is that the office, papa?
Sea. Yes, child; hold your tongue. (aloud.) I am obliged to you for this intelligence, Sir Crafty: an office for life, tho' not very considerable, is of some consequence to a man who has a family of children. (Soph, takes her father's hand and presses it gratefully.)
Sir C. Ha, ha, ha! Sir Anthony Seabright, with all his abilities and connexions, is, like a very good father, anxious to provide for his family! I thought, my dear Sir, such talents as your's had generally been accompanied with an aspiring temper; but Lady Sarah's prudent character, I perceive, has had its effect upon you.
Sea. No, no; you are wrong.
Sir C. Nay, pardon me if I say that you also are wrong, in fixing yourself down, in the very beginning of your career, as a quiet unaspiring man, who is glad to be early provided for in a quiet, humble permanency: for this office, you know, is regarded as
Sea. (interrupting him eagerly.) What, is it regarded in that light?
Sir C. It really is. Mr.Trotman, now promoted to a peerage, and whose first speech, by-the-bye very much resembled your own, refused it on that very account; and Mr. Brown, and Mr. Wilson, and Sir Samuel Soppet, and many other Misters and Sirs, promoted to the same dignity, would never have got on, be assured, if they had thus fixed themselves down at the very threshold of advancement.
Sea. But I see no reason why accepting such an office as this, should hinder one from advancing.
Sir C. I can give you no good reason for it, I confess; but there have been certain places, time out of mind, which have, some how or other, been consider'd as indicative or otherwise of promotion, and which stand up in the great field of honours like finger posts in a wide track'd common, saying "this is the way to such a place:" they who are once certain of those places, move on to the others, for no earthly reason, that we can perceive, but because they have been placed in the first; and this you will readily allow is no time for innovation.
Sea. I believe there is something in what you say.
Sir. C. There is so much in it, that if you can find some less aspiring friend, to whom you can with confidence give up this office, relying on his honour to assist you with the full weight of his interest on all future occasions, I am sure you will never think of accepting it.
Soph. (laying hold of her father's arm, and speaking eagerly to Sir Crafty) Ah, but he will tho'!
Sea. Sophia, you forget yourself. (she shrinks back abash'd.)
Sir C. (smiling.) It is an amiable weakness in this interested age to forget yourself, and confined, I believe, to young ladies alone.
Soph. (provoked and roused.) I believe, at least, political baronets, tho' not very old, do but seldom fall into it. (archly.) And I know, papa, who this friend is that will so kindly take this office off your hands. Sir Crafty will name him to you by-and-bye: it is a man who does not forget himself.
Sea. (displeased.) What is the meaning of this, Sophia? I never saw you thus petulant before: I beg of you to retire; Sir Crafty and I must not be interrupted.
Soph. I will retire, my dear Sir—but oh! (taking her father's hand and pressing it.) but oh!—you know what I would say to you. (Exit, casting a significant look to Seabright as she goes out.)
Sea. (after a considerable pause.) Sir Crafty, there is much in what you say, and I believe you are perfectly disinterested in the advice you give me; but I don't know that I could justify myself to my own mind in refusing this office.
Sir C. There are few men less interested than myself; I will say it. Sir Anthony; I will say it proudly.—Pardon me, however, I do not presume to advise you; but hearing Lord Clacker, and the Marquis of Lackland, and some others, talking of your speech, and the usual race of such abilities, and so forth, many suggestions arose in my mind, in regard to you, my dear Sir, which I very naturally supposed just now might have presented themselves to your own.
Sea. Ha! did Lord Clacker and the Marquis of Lackland talk of my speech, and my abili—I mean the probable effects of my situation and connexions?
Sir C. I assure you they spoke of both in a way very gratifying for a friend, so much interested in your promotion as I am, to hear—but remember, I give you no advice: I am a young man, and apt, perhaps, to be too sanguine where the admiration of talents may mislead me: I am too presumptuous to mention my opinion at all.
Sea. (taking his hand with warmth.) O no! I like you the better for it! to be warmly sanguine is characteristic and graceful in youth; and perhaps this propensity does not more often mislead it than the timorous caution of age.—You mention a friend to whom I might resign my pretensions to this office.,
Sir C. I did, Sir Anthony; but I now feel an embarrassment.—I'm sure it would never have enter'd into my imagination to think of it. But will you be kind enough to take a turn with me in the garden? there are some things that must be explain'd to you at length, lest you should at all misconceive what I am going to propose to you.(Exeunt.
SCENE II. The servants' hall; and Robert discovered pulling some clothes out of a bag, and laughing to himself as he looks at them. Enter cook-maid.
Cook. Are you here, Robert?
Rob. Yes, beef-drippings, what do you want?
Cook. It is ghost-time, don't you know? and your night tor it too.
Rob. Indeed!
Cook. Ay, indeed! I groan'd last night, and Gardener the night before; so e'en take your own turn when it comes to you; you was the first contriver of the plot.
Rob. Why don't you see me preparing, hussy? I'm going to dress myself up this very night for the grand contasterfy, as a learned person would call it.
Cook. (clapping her hands.) O griskins and gravy, but that be delightful! Are you to appear to her to-night?
Rob. Yes, wench; for my master is in town, and is not expected back before to-morrow. (Holding out the clothes.) How do you like this black robe? Has it not a smack of the devil in it?
Cook. Black! I thought you were to have been all in white, like my late lady, and to have threaten'd her for being so unkind to the children.
Rob. So I intended, Deborah; but I don't know how, a qualm came across my heart, and would not let me make a mockery and a semblance of my dear mistress; so we'll just make the devil do, my fat Deborah; he'll serve our turn well enough.
Cook. Yes; he serves many a turn, if all that is said of him be true.
Rob. How do you like that black hood with the horns to it? it is all my own contrivance.
Cook. O it will do hugeously!
Rob. And pray mix a little sooty grease for my face, cooky; and let me have some brick-dust to make a red staring ring round my eyes.
Cook. That I will in a trice! But where is your tail, master devil? Will the jack-chain be of any use to you?
Rob. No, no! let her once have a good look of my horns and my red staring eyes, and I warrant you she'll never miss my tail.
Cook. Good success to you!
Rob. I don't doubt of success; for my lady has lived a great part of her life in an old castle in the North, and has as good a notion of a ghost or a goblin as most folks.
Cook. He, he, he! Some folks will be warm enough to-night without frying cutlets. And bless you, man! if Mrs. Pry should come in your way, give her a claw for my sake.
Rob. O never doubt that, hussy—And here, in good time, comes Sharp to settle his part of the business; for you know we are to give his master a claw too, as well as Mrs. Pry.
(Enter Sharp.)
Cook. Come away, Sharp; which of us all is to visit your master's chamber to night in the shape of the lady that he jilted, as you told us of, because her rich uncle chose to marry whilst their wedding clothes were a-making, and who took it so much to heart, poor thing! that she died soon after of the small-pox? I should not much care to do it myself.
Sharp. No, cooky, we have a better plan than that!
Cook. What is it, man?
Sharp. Tho' he laughs at Miss Seabright as a girl from the nursery, he has taken a strong desire to know whether she likes him or not; and, above all, what fortune she is to have: now I have promised to set Pry a talking to her lady about this, when she puts her to bed to-night, and to place him snugly in the adjoining chamber where he may hear every word that they say.
Rob. You have told him there is no danger of being discover'd, as that room is always kept lock'd, and that you have stolen the key of it?
Sharp. You may be sure of that.
Rob. Then you may be sure the devil won't fail to take that chamber on his way from Lady Sarah's, and pay his respects to him in passing. Come, come! let us all set about it! I'll dress in my own garret. Take some of those things in your hand.
(Giving cook some of the clothes to carry, and taking the rest himself.)
(Exeunt.
SCENE III. Lady Sarah's bed-room, almost dark, with a feeble light thrown across the floor, as from a bad fire. Enter Sir Crafty Supplecoat and Sharp, stealing softly on their tiptoes.
Sir C. Hist, hist! which is the door. Sharp?
Sharp. Never fear, Sir; come this way. (opening the door of an adjoining room.) Go in, Sir, and fear nothing. But you must sit in the dark, and not be impatient: Pry wont fail to pump her lady, and you'll hear every word that is said. (putting Sir Crafty into the room, and pretending to lock the door upon him, then exit laughing to himself as he goes out.)
(Enter Lady Sarah, and Pry carrying lights, by the same door by which Sharp went out, allowing him time to get out of the way without meeting him.
Pry. (setting down the lights.) Well, I wish this night were well over, for I had such strange dreams last night.
Lady S. Don't trouble me with your dreams now. Have you put all my muslin things into the press, and screw'd them well down? When the creases are taken out of them, they will do perfectly well to wear another day.
Pry. To be sure, my Lady; but for that old petticoat, if I do but touch it, it comes to pieces; it grieves me to see your Ladyship dragging it about like a cobweb that the flies have been thro'; it would tear up into such pretty handkerchiefs!
Lady S. Will it? as large as those I commonly wear?
Pry. O no! I don't mean such handkerchiefs as you would wear, my Lady, but just
Lady S. Don't tease me now.—Have you heard any of those noises to-night? (seating herself in a chair near the front of the stage.)
Pry. La no! my Lady; did you hear any thing?
Lady S. No, nothing at all: why do you look so frighten'd?
Pry. I'm sure the very thoughts of it has made my teeth to chatter like a spoon in an empty dish. I never heard of such things being heard in any house, except the old Castle of Allcrest, just before the Earl, your grandfather, died. Mercy on us! there was no such noises heard in our village.
Lady S. Apparitions seldom visit people of low condition, Pry.
Pry. God be praised for it! I hope this here will be of the same way of thinking. I would not be a great lady and have ghosts grunting at my bed side for the whole universal world. If you please, my Lady, I should like to go up to Susan as soon as may be, pardon my boldness, for she is as frighten'd as I am; and I may chance to meet something in the stairs, if I am much later; and I know very well, my Lady, you're not afraid.
Lady S. No, I'm not afraid, but I don't know how—I have a little of I don't know what, that has come upon me.—You had better sleep on the couch by my bed to-night; I may want my drops in the night time.—What o'clock is it?
Pry. (looking at a watch.) Mercy on us! it's just the very time when it begins.—What's that? (alarmed.)
Lady S. Nothing: I heard nothing. (a long pause; then a deep groan is heard from the bottom of the stage.) Come, come! stand closer to me Pry. (taking hold of Pry.) It had a strange, hollow, unnatural sound.
Pry. Yes; just like a body speaking out of a coffin.
(A pause, and then a second groan is heard, louder than the first.)
Lady S. Stand closer still, I beseech you: that was horrible! (putting out her hand, trembling) Whe—whe—where is the bell-rope?
Pry. O la! you know well enough it hangs in the other end of the room.
Lady S. Go pull it then: pull it violently. (Pry hesitates, and seems every unwilling to go) Go, I say!
(Pry goes; and as she is half way across the room, another groan, followed by a terrible howl, is heard, and she runs back again to Lady Sarah.)
Lady S. O go and do it! for heaven's sake! for God's sake! for mercy's sake do it! (Pry then goes sidling across the floor, looking on every side with terror and suspicion, till she gets to the bell rope which hangs by the head of the bed and near the door of the room; when, putting out her hand to pull it, Robert, dressed like the devil, rises from behind a great chair close to the bed. Pry screams and runs out of the door, whilst he gives her a claw in the passing, and then advances towards the front of the stage to Lady Sarah.)
Lady S. (shrinking back as he advances.) O come no nearer, whatever thou be, thou black and horrible sight! (Devil still advances.) O come no nearer! in the holy name of
Devil. Baw! (giving a great howl, and still advancing.)
Lady S. In the blessed name of
Devil. Baw! (with another howl, and coming very near her.)
Lady S. (falling upon her knees, and clasping her hands together) O, as thou art awful, be merciful! O touch me not, for I am a miserable sinner!
Devil. Yea thou art—yea thou art—yea thou art, and thou shalt smart. Ill deeds thou dost, and thou shalt roast. (holding his great claw over her.)
Lady. S. (contracting all her body together, and sinking down upon the floor.) O, as thou art horrible, be merciful! What shall I do? what shall I do?
Devil. Be kind to thy husband's children, or I will tear—
Lady S. O yes, yes!
Devil. Give them good victuals, and good education, and good clothing, or I will tear thee—
Lady S. O yes, yes!
Devil. And give no more good things to Tony than the rest, or I will(starting back upon hearing a loud knocking at the street-door.) What's that?
Lady S. (raising her head, and seeing him farther off.) No more good things to Tony than the rest! It was no devil that spoke those words, I'm sure. (taking courage, and getting up.)
Devil. (aside, after moving farther off and listening.) Faith I'll turn and give her a claw yet! I shall never have another opportunity. (approaching her again.)
Lady S. Get along! I know you well enough: you are no devil, but a rascally knave. (setting herself in a posture of defence, when a noise is heard without, and he, taking alarm, makes a hasty exit into the adjoining chamber.)
(Enter Seabright, and Pry coming fearfully after him.)
Sea. Where is this devil that Pry has been telling me of?
Lady S. (pointing to the adjoining room.) Follow him my dear Sir Anthony! Follow after the rascal.
(Exit Seabright into the adjoining room.)
Lady S. (calling to him.) Be sure you don't let him escape.—Have you caught him yet?
Sea. (within) Yes, I've caught' him.
Lady S. Give him a good beating then; don't spare him! he's a good brawny devil! O don't spare him!
(A great scuffle is heard within, and Sea. calls to Lady S.) I'm dealing with him roughly enough, if that will satisfy you. (he then calls out as if speaking to the Devil.) And take that, and that, and that too, you diabolical rascal! You, must have midnight frolicks m my house, must you?
(Enter Sophia alarmed.)
Sophia. What is all this? did I not hear my father's voice?
Lady S. (looking suspiciously at her.) Yes, you know nothing of the matter, innocent lamb!
Pry. I hope my master will give him a sound beating, for I know well enough it is that knave Robert; I could smell the very stink of his tobacco as he claw'd me in the passing.
Lady S. Drag him to the light, Sir Anthony, let us see him stript of his devil's skin. Ha! here he comes.
(Enter Seabright dragging in Sir Crafty Supplecoat, who is pulled along very unwillingly, and hiding his face with his arm.)
Pry. Why that an't like him neither. Come, come! take down your arm, and let us see who you are. (pulling down his arm, and discovering his face.)
All. (exclaiming.) Sir Crafty Supplecoat!
Soph. (clapping her hands.) O I'm glad of that! I'm so glad that it is only Sir Crafty! I should have been grieved indeed if it had been poor Robert. And so it is you Sir Crafty! ha, ha, ha, ha! (All join her in laughing heartily, whilst Robert, having pulled of his devil's dress, enters accompanied by Sharp and some of the other servants, and joins also in the laugh.)
Lady S. (going up to Sir Crafty with great indignation.) And so, Sir Crafty Supplecoat, it is to your midnight mummery I am indebted for the stern and solemn threatenings I have received! I have been visited I find by a devil of consequence. Your earnest zeal for my reformation is, indeed, very flattering.
Sea. Sir Crafty, mean and despicable as you must appear to me, I have too much respect for your situation in life to expose you any longer to this open humiliation and disgrace: Come with me to my dressing room.
Sir C. I protest to you Sir Anthony, and to Lady Sarah, and to all the world if they were here present, that I am in no wise concern'd in what you suspect me of.
Lady S. O certainly you protest, Sir Crafty! but do you think that will pass upon me? Have I not known you since you were a boy but so high, with all your little, artful, wriggling, under-hand ways of getting your play fellows' toys from them, which I always despised and contemned? To be sure, you will protest any thing, and in the politest manner too: you will send a message to Sir Anthony to-morrow morning, I make no doubt, to enquire how he does; and to hope that his fists are not too much fatigued with their last night's exertions.(all the servants laugh again.)
Sea. Come, come, this is too bad! Retire with me, Sir Crafty; you can say nothing for yourself at this moment. I am sorry I have rib-roasted you so unmercifully; can you walk?
Sir C. (very shortly.) Yes, yes.
Rob. O we'll help his honour. (going up with Sharp, very provokingly, to assist him.)
Sir C. Keep off, scoundrels! you are at the bottom of all this. (Exeunt Seabright leading out Sir Crafty in a very rueful plight, followed by Lady Sarah and Sophia, and the servants, endeavouring to stifle their laughter.)
SCENE IV. Seabright's library. A great noise and confusion of voices is heard without.
Seabright. (speaking without.) Torment me no more with these things! I will hear no more complaints, and no more explanations! let me have peace, I beseech you, in mine own house, for one half hour at least. (He enters much disturb'd, shutting the door violently behind him, and pacing up and down the room, sometimes muttering to himself, and sometimes speaking aloud.) What! is there no getting on in this upward path of honour, unless we tear our way through all these briars and nettles?—Contention and misery at home! is this the price we pay for honour and distinction in the world? Would no honours take root on my untoward soil, till I had grubb'd up every sprig and shoot of comfort to make room for them? It were better to be a panniered jack-ass, and pick up my scanty provender from the ditch, than be a garter'd peer in such a home as this.—I had once a home! (beating his heel rapidly upon the floor.)—Well, well, well! I have push'd my bark from the shore, and I must take wind and tide as they set.
(Enter Servant.)
Who comes to disturb me now?
Ser. A packet, please your honour, from Mr. Plausible.
Sea. (eagerly.) Ha! give it me. (Exit Ser.) Yes, it is the plan. (tearing off the cover.) I hold in my hand perhaps, that which shall put every domestic arrangement on such an ample footing, as must extinguish these petty broils, (a pause, and then his countenance lightening up eagerly.) Ah, do I indeed grasp in this handful of paper the embryo of my future fortune? In faith I could almost believe that I do! Let me go to my closet and examine it.
(Exit.
SCENE V. A room in the inn. Enter Seabright and Landlady speaking as they enter.
Sea. So, Mr. Plausible is not yet come?
Land. No, your honour, not as I know of. There is a dark-looking, lank gentleman in the cow-yard, just now, asking our Bridget how many pounds of butter may be made out of one cow's milk in a year, and such like, and setting all that she says down in his pocket book. He, he, he! poor thing, she scarcely knows a cow from a sheep, by reason that she is but a poor pea-picking girl from St. Giles's, that has scarcely been a month in the country; howsomever, he gets wonderfully on with his information.
Sea. Ay, that is him: he has a talent for picking up information upon every subject, and from every body: pray let him know I am here. (Exit Land.)—(After musing a little while.) Ten thousand a-year! and the risk of failing but a mere trifle, not to be taken into the calculation. And his reasons are good, obvious, and convincing. But let me be moderate now: let me suppose that it only brings me in six thousand a-year; even that will entitle me to a peerage.
(Enter Plausible.)
Plau. I have a request to make to you, Sir Anthony?
Sea. What is that, my dear Plausible?
Plau. When you purchase the large estate in Shropshire, will you let me have an easy lease of a good pasture farm or two upon it? It will be a country retirement for me; and I find on calculation that a hundred milk-cows, well fed and well managed, will bring in no contemptible revenue.
Sea. (smiling.) You talk of this estate with great confidence, Plausible.
Plau. Nay, I am only certain of putting the money to buy it into your pocket; you will purchase it or not, as you please.
Sea. I begin, indeed, to think favourably of your scheme, and I appointed you to meet me here, that we might not he interrupted by Lady Sarah. Women you know are timorous, and have no idea of encreasing a fortune except by saving. We shall look over your calculations together. If salt is raised but one penny in the pound, how many thousands do I put in my pocket?
Plau. This paper will inform you exactly. And you see I have put but one penny upon the pound; for salt being a necessary of life, greatly to increase its price would be hard and unfeeling; it would make you unpopular in the country, and in the end create a resistance detrimental to its own ends. I am for moderate and sure gains.
Sea. (taking the paper.) I esteem you for it; my ideas coincide with yours most perfectly in this particular: and the paper also in which you have drawn out your plan for buying up the rock-salt, I should be glad to look over that.
Plan. Here it is in my pocket.
(Enter Beaumont and William Beaumont.)
Sea. (angrily.) Who comes now? O it is you, Beaumont. We are busy; I shall come to you by-and-bye, but at present I cannot be interrupted,
Bea. I must speak with you, my friend.
Sea. Not at present—you see I am engaged.
Bea. (beckoning him.) But one word in your ear, I beseech you.
Sea. Yes, by-and-bye; at present I am busy with affairs of importance.
Bea. By-and-bye will, perhaps, be too late; I must speak with you immediately, (beckoning him again.)
Sea. (impatiently.) I cannot speak with you just now, Beaumont, and I will not.
Bea. No, no! you will. If there be any love of God or any love of man in your heart, you will speak with me.
Sea. (softened.) Well then, (goes to Beaumont, who whispers in his ear and endeavours to draw him away.) No, I won't go with you, Beaumont, to be retarded and cross'd with your fears and suspicions: Speak out boldly, and Mr. Plausible will answer for himself. (smiling to Plau.) I believe we must explain our plan to this good friend of mine, for he thinks you are going to ruin me, and he is miserably afraid of projectors; ha, ha, ha!
Plau. (smiling placidly.) I esteem him for the interest he takes in his friend, and I don't condemn his suspicions: there are so many absurd schemes in the world, that it is prudent to be distrustful; but I will shew him the firm ground on which we rest, and he will be satisfied. Do me the honour, my dear Sir, to sit down by me, and I'll explain it to you.(to Beau.)
Bea. Pray don't take that trouble, Mr. Plausible: I have no information for enabling me to judge of it: my mind has been little exercised in regard to the money affairs of the world. But though I am net a man of the world, I have one or two things to say to my friend that I wish him to attend to.
Sea. (smiling rather contemptuously.) Well, what are they Beaumont? you are, indeed, not a man of the world.
Bea. Every man who risks his fortune in any scheme, believes he has good grounds to rest upon: they are such as appear feasible to him.
Sea. Feasible! ours is certain.
Bea. (shaking his head.) A man who is anxious to get rich is apt to let his judgment be imposed upon, and forgets how many have fail'd in the same track before him.
Sea. I wish those who are apt to give advice, would take the same thing into their consideration.
Bea. Nay, my friend, there is a social influence which we all have, even the meanest of us, over one another, and there is more advice taken in the world than you are aware of. But had every adviser from the beginning of time fail'd before me, I will never believe that he who pleads to a father in behalf of his own children will speak without effect. Hear me then; let him who stands alone, run every risk to aggrandize himself, but let a father—O let the father of a family consider!
Plau. You forget, my good Sir, that the father of a family has a higher motive than any other man to aggrandize himself.
Sea. (vehemently.) Rather than not place my children in the situation I desire for them, I would have no children at all.
Bea. (with warmth.) What, will you say of creatures passing onward to the noblest destination, you had rather they had never been, unless they can gather up so much dust and trash on their way? You think yourself an ambitious parent—O I would be for them a thousand times more ambitious than thou art.
Sea. Yes, you will shape your son's fortune out of the clouds, I make no doubt. (smiling contemptuously.)
Will. B. (who has modestly kept behind, now coming forward with spirit.) Wherever my fortune may be shaped for me, to be the honest, well principled son of an honest, and good father, is a distinction I would not give up for all that you, and men like you, are scrambling for. (turning to Beau.) Come away, father; they but mock at what you say.
Bea. Let him mock if he will, but let him hear me.
Plau. He will hear your advice with great pleasure from the pulpit, Mr. Beaumont.
Will. B. It would have been happy for the unfortunate men who have listened to yours, Mr. Plausible, if they had received it from the same place. (pulling Beaumont away.) Come away, father, you but waste words upon them.
Bea. Nay, I would yet try if there is not some heart in him to be moved.
Sea. My dear Beaumont, you are a very good man, but you know nothing of the matter,
Will. B. (pulling away his father.) Leave them, leave them, Sir! Good man, as he contemptuously calls you, you are also wise enough for me: and I would not exchange fathers with the proudest young lord in the kingdom. (Exeunt Beau and Will. B. Will. putting his fathers arm proudly under his, and walking off with spirit.)
Plau. We are obliged to that young dog, however, for taking him away.
Sea. Yes; but we will go to another room, for he may return again. (Exeunt.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.