A dark narrow passage-room, with the door of an adjoining chamber left open, in which are discovered Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Hannah.

The light is gone out: let us wait here till David brings us another candle. Ha! is it fair to wait here?

⁠(Perceiving the ladies.)

⁠Indeed, Mary, you ought to consider yourself as very fortunate in having the opportunity of pleasing an agreeable man. ⁠Mr. Worshipton do you mean? ⁠They are talking of me, dear creatures; let us hear what they have to say upon this subject. ⁠Fye, Worshipton! would you turn eve-dropper? ​ ⁠No, you know well enough it is Sir John I mean. ⁠Ha! talking of me too. Well, if people will converse with their doors open, there is no help for it. ⁠How should I know who your Ladyship means by an agreeable man? ⁠You may know at least who I do not mean; for that poor frivolous fine gentleman can be agreeable to nobody. ⁠Old hag! her face is as senseless and as coarse as a red-topped January turnip. ⁠Sir John is a man that any woman might like. He is a man of fortune. ⁠So is our neighbour, Squire Numbscull. ⁠Fye, child! Sir John is a well-made man, and— ​ ⁠And so I must like him for not being crooked. ⁠You are both perverse and foolish. Sir John— ⁠If you have any love for me, aunt, drop this subject for ever: the very mention of his name is distressing to me. ⁠You need not be so vehement, fair lady: I have no intention to give you the smallest trouble. ⁠I leave you to your own humours, Miss Martin; you have got beyond all bearing with your nonsense.

⁠(Exit into an inner chamber.

⁠I thought her sensible, I confess; but how confoundedly pert and flippant she has become.

⁠(Aside on the front of the stage.)

⁠You seem disturbed, Sir John. ⁠Not a jot! not a jot, truly! It rather amuses me. ​ ⁠I should have brought the candle sooner, but I have but a short memory, your honour (to Sir John), and a man with a short memory is like a— ⁠No matter what he's like; go on with the light, and we'll follow thee. (Exit David, looking very foolish.) That fellow has become nauseous with his similies. (As they are going out Worshipton stops Sir John.) ⁠They speak again; do stop here a moment. ⁠Would it grieve you, cousin, if my aunt were to propose Mr. Worshipton to you instead of Sir John? ⁠No, my dear, not all. ⁠You see I am in favour with the niece, Sir John, tho' the aunt gives the preference to you. ⁠I thought as much, for he's a very pretty gentleman, isn't he? ​ ⁠He is even so. ⁠And he dresses so pretty and new fashion'd, don't he? ⁠It is very true. ⁠And then he talks so clever, like the fine captain that run off with Miss Money. He is as clever every bit, altho' he don't swear so much; an't he, Mary? ⁠I make no doubt of it. And had Lady Goodbody laid her snare to catch him for me, it would not have grieved me at all. ⁠Do you hear that, Sir John? ⁠It would not have grieved you at all? ⁠No, my dear; for with all these precious qualities of his, his good or bad opinion is of no consequence to me. I could bear such a creature to suppose I have designs upon him, without being uneasy about the matter. (Walking up and down disturbed, ​and then talking to herself.) To appear to Sir John Hazelwood as a female fortune-hunter, endeavouring to draw in a wealthy husband for her own convenience—O, it is not to be endured! To be degraded in the eyes of the very man whose good opinion I should most value—it is enough to make

one distracted!

⁠Do you love Sir John? ⁠No, my dear, I am not weak enough to do that, when I know I shall never be beloved again. Could I have gained his good opinion, I should have been contented, without pretending to his heart. ⁠But thou shalt have both, by this blessed hour! ⁠But now, as my aunt carries on her attack, I don't know how to maintain my credit: I shall be compelled to be downrightly rude to him. ⁠Ay, very right, very right, my brave girl!—It is a glorious girl! I adore her for her spirit. ​ ⁠It gets very cold: I'll shut the door now, for the smoke is all gone. ⁠What, has the door been standing open all this while? ⁠Didn't you see me open it to let out the smoke? ⁠I am so harrassed and vexed I don't see what is before mine eyes: shut it directly.

⁠(Hannah shuts the door).

⁠We are dark now, but I hear David's footsteps in the passage. Poor fellow! I have affronted him. David! friend David!⁠(Calling.) ⁠What do you want, sir? ⁠To be lighted to our rooms, my good David.—Nay, don't look so grave, man. I spoke rather shortly to you, indeed, because I was thinking of something else at the time; but you are too wise, ​my good David, to mind such small trifles as these. ⁠Lord love you, sir! I have both given and taken short words ere now: that is nothing to me. But I wish I may remember to call your honour in the morning, for as I was a saying, a man with a short memory—— ⁠Yes, yes, let us have it all now, as we go along; and put this under your pillow to prevent you from over-sleeping yourself, my friend David.⁠(Giving him money.) ⁠O Lord, sir, I can't refuse any thing your honour offers me, but there is no occasion for this. ⁠Put it in your pocket, man: there is a virtue in it. (They move on; Sir John following David, and Worshipton kicking his shins from side to side, with affected carelessness, as he goes after him.) ⁠Thou'rt making a strange noise with thy feet, Worshipton.
⁠(Exeunt. ​ ⁠Jenkins! Jenkins! ⁠Here, sir. ⁠Are you ready to set off for this same license? ⁠Yes, sir, in a moment. ⁠Well, make good speed then: there is no time to lose. Remember all the directions and precautions I have given you: and think as thou goest along that thou art working for thyself as well as me, for thy services shall be nobly rewarded. Thou shalt have a slice out of Sir Rowland that will fatten thee up by and by into a man of some consequence. Good speed to thee, my good Jenkins! and use thy discretion in every thing.—Hast thou bespoke music for our serenade? ⁠I have found a sorry fiddler, who has got but three strings to his violin, for the fourth is supplied ​by a bit of pack thread; and an old Highland piper, who has stopped here on his way from London to Lochaber; besides a bear-leader, who is going about the country with his hurdy-gurdy. ⁠Well, well! if they make but noise enough it will do. But the most important thing is to have the chaise in waiting behind the old mill, that while the music is dinning in the ears of the old lady and her woman, we may convey our prize to it without being suspected. Have you engaged Will in our interest? and does he say the road between this and Middleton church is now passable? ⁠You may depend upon him, sir, and the road too. ⁠Thou art sure I may depend upon him? ⁠Sure of it, sir. He will do much, he says, to serve your honour, but he'll go thro' fire and water to vex the old beldame. Lady Goodbody he means: he owes her a turn, I believe, for a half-crown she scrubbed off him when she paid him for the last stage he drove her. ⁠This is fortunate. Where is Sir John just now? ​ ⁠With old Rycroft: he always gives him his draughts with his own hand, lest it should be neglected. ⁠Then I may go to the stable without danger, and have some conversation with Will myself. By the bye I have never visited that old sick devil yet; do you tell him that I enquire for him sometimes? ⁠I do, sir, and Rycroft don't expect more from you. ⁠Very well, that is enough.—But we lose time. Here is money for thee: set off immediately.

⁠(Jenkins receives money and exit.

⁠If this succeeds now, it will be a devilish lucky turn in my fortune; for I should have sound it a difficult matter to have lived much longer upon credit. (Musing a while.) I wish after all it were a less expensive thing to be a man of fashion. Gold, as the proverb says, may be bought too dear.—No, no; it can't be bought too dear by one who knows how to spend it with spirit. I shall, at least, have every thing my own way, for she is a great fool; that is one good thing we are sure of.⁠(Exit. ​ ⁠Here comes a lady, but not the one I'm in wait for. ⁠Good morning, Miss Clodpate, I hope your morning dreams have not been unpleasant: you are early up. ⁠I mistook the hour when the clock struck, for it is a queer-sounding clock they have here, and don't strike at all like the one we have at home. ⁠Good young ladies like every thing at home best. ⁠Yes indeed I do, for it was made by Mr. Pendlam, the great clock-maker in London. Isn't he clock-maker to the king? ⁠Indeed I don't know ma'am.—But what pretty gloves you have got, Miss Clodpate; aren't they of a particular colour? ​ ⁠La! do you think them pretty? My aunt says they are not pretty, but I think they are, and that was the reason why I bought them. ⁠And an excellent one too, madam. Pray when did you see your worthy father, Sir Rowland? I hope he enjoys as good spirits as he used to do long ago? ⁠I saw him the twenty-fourth of last September, and he was very well, I thank you, sir. ⁠Does he never leave home now? ⁠O, there is Miss Martin coming; I must go away. ⁠And why must you go? ⁠Because my aunt says——in case you should have any thing to say to her. ⁠You are perfectly right to do whatever your aunt desires you.⁠ (Exit Hannah. ​ ⁠Good morning, madam. ⁠Good morning, sir. ⁠Do you pass me so hastily, Miss Martin? To run away so were enough to put it into a vain person's head to believe himself dangerous. ⁠Perhaps then, yours is not without that idea. ⁠Yet I ought not to be flatter'd by it neither; for women, it is said, fly from small dangers, and encounter the greater more willingly. ⁠Yes, Sir John, we are the reverse of the men in this respect, which accounts likewise for your detaining me here. ⁠Nay, in this you are mistaken: it is no mean danger that proves my boldness at this moment.

⁠(Placing himself between her and the door gayly.) ​

⁠Your boldness indeed is obvious enough, whatever I may think of your courage.—But I have no particular desire to pass this way: I can find out my way to the breakfast-room by another door if you have any fancy for standing sentry at this post.

⁠(Turning to go by another door.)

⁠And you will leave me thus scornfully. There is an old proverb I could repeat about woman's scorn. ⁠I know your old proverb perfectly well, Sir John; and I am obliged to you for mentioning it at present, since it sets me completely at liberty, without ill manners, to say, I am heartily tired of this parley.

⁠(Exit with affected carelessness.

⁠Well, this is strange enough! She will charm me, I believe, with every thing that is disagreeable to me: for I dislike a gay woman, I can't endure a talking one, and these kind of snip-snap answers I detest.—But I have been too particular in my notions about these matters; I have always been too severe upon the women:—I verily believe they are better kind of creatures than I took them for.—— ​Softly, however! I will observe her well before I declare myself.
⁠ (Exit. ⁠What a plague is the matter with the string of my bell this morning that it won't ring! I wish my Dolly would come and brush this coat for me. (Listening.) I hear her voice coming up stairs; she'll be here immediately.—This girl becomes every day more pleasing and more necessary to me. Ever since I entered this house she has aired my linen, set my slippers by the fire in a morning (for, good soul! she heard me complain that I am troubled with a chillness in my feet), and done all those little kindly offices about me with such a native grace as beggars all refinement.—But what, indeed, are the embellishments of artful manners to the graces of simple unadorned nature?—She is at hand.—Dolly! my sweet Dolly!

⁠(Calling to her.)

⁠Coming, sir. ⁠There is something of natural harmony in the very tones of her voice. ​ ⁠Get down to the kitchen, you vile abominable cur! Do you think I have nothing to do but mop the stairs after your dirty feet? Get down. to the kitchen with you! (The howling of a dog heard without.) Yes, yes, howl away there! I'll break every bone in your skin, if you come this way again, that I will. ⁠Why Dolly, my good girl, this is rather an unpretty way of talking. ⁠'Tis but the dog, sir. Vile, nasty hound! he is worser than his master. ⁠Than his master? ⁠Yes, than his master, Mr. Worshipton. His dog's tricks are like his own, for he don't care what trouble he gives to a poor servant. ⁠So you don't love Mr. Worshipton, Dolly? Should you have treated a dog of mine so, eh? (pinching her cheek kindly.) You smile at that question, you gipsy: I know you would not. ​ ⁠I should indeed have had some more regard for the brute, so as he had belonged to your honour. ⁠I thank you, my sweet girl, but you ought to speak gently to every thing.—And don't call me "your honour." I don't like to hear my pretty Dolly call me so. ⁠O daisy! what shall I call you then? ⁠Call me Sir, or Mr. Amaryllis, or when you would be very kind to me, my dear Mr. Amaryllis. ⁠My dear Mr. Amarals, ⁠Amaryllis is my name, Dolly. ⁠Yes, yes! I know your name is Amarals. ⁠No, child, Amaryllis.—But you'll pronounce it better by and by. And if my Dolly will take this coat and brush it for me, when she brings it to my ​chamber again, I have something to say to her in private which will not, I hope, be displeasing to her.
⁠(Exit, looking tenderly at her. ⁠What can he have to say to me now? Ods dickens! I'll wager he means to buy me a new gown.—Faith! he means some other thing, perhaps. Well, if he were not so much taken up with his books, and his papers, and his poetry, and such trash, I should like mightily to keep a maid of my own, and be call'd Mrs. Amarals.—I'll bring it to this if I can. (Going out with the coat.) He shall brush his own coat then, howsomever.⁠(Exit.