SCENE II
An Apartment
Melinda and Sylvia meeting
Mel. Welcome to town, cousin Sylvia. [Salute.] I envied you your retreat in the country; for Shrewsbury, methinks, and all your heads of shires, are the most irregular places for living: here we have smoke, scandal, affectation, and pretension; in short, every thing to give the spleen – and nothing to divert it – then the air is intolerable.
Syl. Oh, madam! I have heard the town commended for its air.
Mel. But you don't consider, Sylvia, how long I have lived in it; for I can assure you that to a lady the least nice in her constitution – no air can be good above half a year. Change of air I take to be the most agreeable of any variety in life.
Syl. As you say, cousin Melinda, there are several sorts of airs.
Mel. Psha! I talk only of the air we breathe, or more properly of that we taste – Have not you, Sylvia, found a vast difference in the taste of airs?
Syl. Pray, cousin, are not vapours a sort of air? Taste air! you might as well tell me I may feed upon air! but pr'ythee, my dear Melinda! don't put on such an air to me. Your education and mine were just the same, and I remember the time when we never troubled our heads about air, but when the sharp air from the Welsh mountains made our fingers ache in a cold morning, at the boarding-school.
Mel. Our education, cousin, was the same, but our temperaments had nothing alike; you have the constitution of an horse.
Syl. So far as to be troubled neither with spleen, cholic, nor vapours. I need no salts for my stomach, no hartshorn for my head, nor wash for my complexion; I can gallop all the morning after the hunting-horn, and all the evening after a fiddle. In short, I can do every thing with my father, but drink and shoot flying; and I am sure I can do every thing my mother could, were I put to the trial.
Mel. You are in a fair way of being put to't, for I am told your captain is come to town.
Syl. Ay, Melinda, he is come, and I'll take care he shan't go without a companion.
Mel. You are certainly mad, cousin!
Syl. "And there's a pleasure in being mad,
Which none but madmen know".
Mel. Thou poor romantic Quixote! – hast thou the vanity to imagine that a young sprightly officer, that rambles o'er half the globe in half a year, can confine his thoughts to the little daughter of a country justice, in an obscure part of the world?
Syl. Psha! what care I for his thoughts; I should not like a man with confined thoughts; it shows a narrowness of soul. In short, Melinda, I think a petticoat a mighty simple thing, and I am heartily tired of my sex.
Mel. That is, you are tired of an appendix to our sex, that you can't so handsomely get rid of in petticoats as if you were in breeches. – O'my conscience, Sylvia, hadst thou been a man, thou hadst been the greatest rake in Christendom.
Syl. I should have endeavoured to know the world, which a man can never do thoroughly without half a hundred friendships, and as many amours. But now I think on't, how stands your affair with Mr. Worthy?
Mel. He's my aversion.
Syl. Vapours!
Mel. What do you say, madam?
Syl. I say, that you should not use that honest fellow so inhumanly: he's a gentleman of parts and fortune, and besides that, he's my Plume's friend; and by all that's sacred, if you don't use him better, I shall expect satisfaction.
Mel. Satisfaction! you begin to fancy yourself in breeches in good earnest – But, to be plain with you, I like Worthy the worse for being so intimate with your captain; for I take him to be a loose, idle, unmannerly coxcomb.
Syl. Oh, Madam! you never saw him, perhaps, since you were mistress of twenty thousand pounds: you only knew him when you were capitulating with Worthy for a settlement, which perhaps might encourage him to be a little loose and unmannerly with you.
Mel. What do you mean, madam?
Syl. My meaning needs no interpretation, madam.
Mel. Better it had, madam; for methinks you are too plain.
Syl. If you mean the plainness of my person, I think your ladyship's as plain as me to the full.
Mel. Were I sure of that, I would be glad to take up with a rakehelly officer, as you do.
Syl. Again! lookye, madam, you are in your own house.
Mel. And if you had kept in yours, I should have excused you.
Syl. Don't be troubled, madam; I shan't desire to have my visit returned.
Mel. The sooner, therefore, you make an end of this, the better.
Syl. I am easily persuaded to follow my inclinations; and so, madam, your humble servant.
[Exit.
Mel. Saucy thing!
Enter Lucy
Lucy. What's the matter, madam?
Mel. Did not you see the proud nothing, how she swelled upon the arrival of her fellow?
Lucy. Her fellow has not been long enough arrived, to occasion any great swelling, madam; I don't believe she has seen him yet.
Mel. Nor shan't, if I can help it. – Let me see – I have it; bring me pen and ink – Hold, I'll go write in my closet.
Lucy. An answer to this letter, I hope, madam?
[Presents a Letter.
Mel. Who sent it?
Lucy. Your captain, madam.
Mel. He's a fool, and I'm tired of him: send it back unopened.
Lucy. The messenger's gone, madam.
Mel. Then how should I send an answer? Call him back immediately, while I go write.
[Exeunt.
ACT THE SECOND
SCENE I
An Apartment
Enter Justice Balance and Plume
Bal. Lookye, captain, give us but blood for our money, and you shan't want men. Ad's my life, captain, get us but another marshal of France, and I'll go myself for a soldier.
Plume. Pray, Mr. Balance, how does your fair daughter?
Bal. Ah, captain! what is my daughter to a marshal of France? we're upon a nobler subject; I want to have a particular description of the last battle.
Plume. The battle, sir, was a very pretty battle as any one should desire to see; but we were all so intent upon victory, that we never minded the battle: all that I know of the matter is, our general commanded us to beat the French, and we did so; and, if he pleases but to say the word, we'll do it again. But pray, sir, how does Mrs. Sylvia?
Bal. Still upon Sylvia! for shame, captain! you are engaged already – wedded to the war: victory is your mistress, and 'tis below a soldier to think of any other.
Plume. As a mistress, I confess – but as a friend, Mr. Balance —
Bal. Come, come, captain, never mince the matter; would not you seduce my daughter, if you could?
Plume. How, sir? I hope she is not to be seduced.
Bal. 'Faith, but she is, sir; and any woman in England of her age and complexion, by your youth and vigour. Lookye, captain, once I was young, and once an officer, as you are, and I can guess at your thoughts now by what mine were then; and I remember very well that I would have given one of my legs to have deluded the daughter of an old country gentleman like me, as I was then like you.
Plume. But, sir, was that country gentleman your friend and benefactor?
Bal. Not much of that.
Plume. There the comparison breaks: the favours, sir, that —
Bal. Pho, pho! I hate set speeches: if I have done you any service, captain, it was to please myself. I love thee, and if I could part with my girl, you should have her as soon as any young fellow I know; but I hope you have more honour than to quit the service, and she more prudence than to follow the camp: but she's at her own disposal; she has five thousand pounds in her pocket, and so – Sylvia, Sylvia!
[Calls.
Enter Sylvia
Syl. There are some letters, sir, come by the post from London; I left them upon the table in your closet.
Bal. And here is a gentleman from Germany. – [Presents Plume to her.] Captain, you'll excuse me; I'll go read my letters, and wait on you.
[Exit.
Syl. Sir, you are welcome to England.
Plume. You are indebted to me a welcome, madam, since the hopes of receiving it from this fair hand was the principal cause of my seeing England.
Syl. I have often heard that soldiers were sincere; may I venture to believe public report?
Plume. You may, when 'tis backed by private insurance; for I swear, madam, by the honour of my profession, that whatever dangers I went upon, it was with the hope of making myself more worthy of your esteem; and if ever I had thoughts of preserving my life, 'twas for the pleasure of dying at your feet.
Syl. Well, well, you shall die at my feet, or where you will; but you know, sir, there is a certain will and testament to be made beforehand.
Plume. My will, madam, is made already, and there it is; and if you please to open that parchment, which was drawn the evening before the battle of Hockstet, you will find whom I left my heir.
Syl. Mrs. Sylvia Balance. [Opens the Will, and reads.] Well, captain, this is a handsome and substantial compliment; but I can assure you I am much better pleased with the bare knowledge of your intention, than I should have been in the possession of your legacy: but, methinks, sir, you should have left something to your little boy at the Castle.
Plume. That's home. [Aside.] My little boy! lack-a-day, madam! that alone may convince you 'twas none of mine: why, the girl, madam, is my serjeant's wife, and so the poor creature gave out that I was the father, in hopes that my friends might support her in case of necessity. – That was all, madam – my boy! no, no, no!
Enter a Servant
Serv. Madam, my master has received some ill news from London, and desires to speak with you immediately; and he begs the captain's pardon, that he can't wait on him, as he promised.
Plume. Ill news! Heavens avert it! nothing could touch me nearer than to see that generous, worthy gentleman afflicted. I'll leave you to comfort him; and be assured that if my life and fortune can be any way serviceable to the father of my Sylvia, he shall freely command both.
Syl. The necessity must be very pressing that would engage me to endanger either.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE II
Another Apartment
Enter Balance and Sylvia
Syl. Whilst there is life there is hope, sir; perhaps my brother may recover.
Bal. We have but little reason to expect it; the doctor acquaints me here, that before this comes to my hands he fears I shall have no son. – Poor Owen! but the decree is just; I was pleased with the death of my father, because he left me an estate; and now I am punished with the loss of an heir to inherit mine. I must now look upon you as the only hopes of my family; and I expect that the augmentation of your fortune will give you fresh thoughts and new prospects.
Syl. My desire in being punctual in my obedience, requires that you would be plain in your commands, sir.
Bal. The death of your brother makes you sole heiress to my estate, which you know is about three thousand pounds a year: this fortune gives you a fair claim to quality and a title: you must set a just value upon yourself, and, in plain terms, think no more of Captain Plume.
Syl. You have often commended the gentleman, sir.
Bal. And I do so still; he's a very pretty fellow; but though I liked him well enough for a bare son-in-law, I don't approve of him for an heir to my estate and family; five thousand pounds indeed I might trust in his hands, and it might do the young fellow a kindness; but – od's my life! three thousand pounds a year would ruin him, quite turn his brain – A captain of foot worth three thousand pounds a year! 'tis a prodigy in nature!
Enter a Servant
Serv. Sir, here's one with a letter below for your worship, but he will deliver it into no hands but your own.
Bal. Come, show me the messenger.
[Exit with Servant.
Syl. Make the dispute between love and duty, and I am prince Prettyman exactly. – If my brother dies, ah, poor brother! if he lives, ah, poor sister! It is bad both ways, I'll try it again – Follow my own inclinations, and break my father's heart; or obey his commands, and break my own? Worse and worse. – Suppose I take it thus: A moderate fortune, a pretty fellow, and a pad; or a fine estate, a coach and six, and an ass. – That will never do neither.
Enter Balance and a Servant
Bal. Put four horses to the coach. [To a Servant, who goes out.] Ho, Sylvia!
Syl. Sir.
Bal. How old were you when your mother died?
Syl. So young that I don't remember I ever had one; and you have been so careful, so indulgent to me since, that indeed I never wanted one.
Bal. Have I ever denied you any thing you asked of me?
Syl. Never, that I remember.
Bal. Then, Sylvia, I must beg that once in your life you would grant me a favour.
Syl. Why should you question it, sir?
Bal. I don't; but I would rather counsel than command. I don't propose this with the authority of a parent, but as the advice of your friend, that you would take the coach this moment, and go into the country.
Syl. Does this advice, sir, proceed from the contents of the letter you received just now?
Bal. No matter; I will be with you in three or four days, and then give my reasons: but before you go, I expect you will make me one solemn promise.
Syl. Propose the thing, sir.
Bal. That you will never dispose of yourself to any man without my consent.
Syl. I promise.
Bal. Very well; and to be even with you, I promise I never will dispose of you without your own consent: and so, Sylvia, the coach is ready. Farewell. [Leads her to the Door, and returns.] Now, she's gone, I'll examine the contents of this letter a little nearer.
[Reads.
Sir,
My intimacy with Mr. Worthy has drawn a secret from him, that he had from his friend Captain Plume; and my friendship and relation to your family oblige me to give you timely notice of it. The captain has dishonourable designs upon my cousin Sylvia. Evils of this nature are more easily prevented than amended; and that you would immediately send my cousin into the country, is the advice of,
Sir, your humble servant,Melinda.
Why, the devil's in the young fellows of this age; they are ten times worse than they were in my time: had he made my daughter a whore, and forswore it, like a gentleman, I could almost have pardoned it; but to tell tales beforehand is monstrous. – Hang it! I can fetch down a woodcock or a snipe, and why not a hat and cockade? I have a case of good pistols, and have a good mind to try.
Enter Worthy
Worthy, your servant.
Wor. I'm sorry, sir, to be the messenger of ill news.
Bal. I apprehend it, sir; you have heard that my son Owen is past recovery.
Wor. My letters say he's dead, sir.
Bal. He's happy, and I am satisfied: the stroke of Heaven I can bear; but injuries from men, Mr. Worthy, are not so easily supported.
Wor. I hope, sir, you are under no apprehensions of wrong from any body.
Bal. You know I ought to be.
Wor. You wrong my honour, in believing I could know any thing to your prejudice, without resenting it as much as you should.
Bal. This letter, sir, which I tear in pieces, to conceal the person that sent it, informs me that Plume has a design upon Sylvia, and that you are privy to it.
Wor. Nay, then, sir, I must do myself justice, and endeavour to find out the author. [Takes up a Bit.] – Sir, I know the hand, and if you refuse to discover the contents, Melinda shall tell me.
[Going.
Bal. Hold, sir; the contents I have told you already; only with this circumstance – that her intimacy with Mr. Worthy had drawn the secret from him.
Wor. Her intimacy with me! Dear sir! let me pick up the pieces of this letter, 'twill give me such a power over her pride to have her own an intimacy under her hand. – This was the luckiest accident! [Gathering up the Letter.] The aspersion, sir, was nothing but malice; the effect of a little quarrel between her and Mrs. Sylvia.
Bal. Are you sure of that, sir?
Wor. Her maid gave me the history of part of the battle just now, as she overheard it: but I hope, sir, your daughter has suffered nothing upon the account.
Bal. No, no, poor girl! she's so afflicted with the news of her brother's death, that, to avoid company, she begged leave to go into the country.
Wor. And is she gone?
Bal. I could not refuse her, she was so pressing; the coach went from the door the minute before you came.
Wor. So pressing to be gone, sir? – I find her fortune will give her the same airs with Melinda, and then Plume and I may laugh at one another.
Bal. Like enough; women are as subject to pride as men are; and why mayn't great women as well as great men forget their old acquaintance? But come, where's this young fellow? I love him so well, it would break the heart of me to think him a rascal. – I am glad my daughter's gone fairly off though. – [Aside.] Where does the captain quarter?
Wor. At Horton's; I am to meet him there two hours hence, and we should be glad of your company.
Bal. Your pardon, dear Worthy! I must allow a day or two to the death of my son. The decorum of mourning is what we owe the world, because they pay it to us; afterwards I'm yours over a bottle, or how you will.
Wor. Sir, I'm your humble servant.
[Exeunt apart.