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_Dennis._ Don't you frighten that poor young crature!
_Mary._ Oh, dear! what has happened?--You are angry; very angry. I hope it isn't with me!--if it is, I have no reason to complain.
_Job._ [_Softened, and folding her in his Arms._] My poor, dear child! I forgive you twenty times more, now, than I did before.
_Mary._ Do you, my dear father?
_Job._ Yes; for there's twenty times more excuse for you, when rank and education have helped a scoundrel to dazzle you. Come!
[_Taking her Hand._
_Mary._ Come! where?
_Job._ [_Impatiently._] To the Manor-house with me, directly.
_Mary._ To the Manor-house! Oh, my dear father, think of what you are doing! think of me!
_Job._ Of you!--I think of nothing else. I'll see you righted. Don't be terrified, child--d.a.m.n it, you know I doat on you: but we are all equals in the eye of the law; and rot me, if I won't make a baronet's son shake in his shoes, for betraying a brazier's daughter. Come, love, come! _Exeunt JOB and MARY._
_Dennis._ There'll be a big boderation at the Manor-house! My customers are all gone, that I was to entertain:--n.o.body's left but my lambkin, who don't entertain me: Sir Simon's butler gives good Madeira:--so, I'm off, after the rest; and the Red Cow and mother Brulgruddery may take care of one another. [_Exit._
SCENE II.
_Enter FRANK ROCHDALE._
_Frank._ Shuffleton's intelligence astonishes me!--So soon to throw herself into the arms of another!----and what could effect, even if time for perseverance had favoured him, such a person's success with her!
_Enter SIR SIMON ROCHDALE._
_Sir Simon._ Why, Frank! I thought you were walking with Lady Caroline.
_Frank._ No, sir.
_Sir Simon._ Ha! I wish you would learn some of the gallantries of the present day from your friend, Tom Shuffleton:--but from being careless of coming up to the fas.h.i.+on, d.a.m.n it, you go beyond it? for you neglect a woman three days before marriage, as much as half the Tom Shuffletons three months after it.
_Frank._ As by entering into this marriage, sir, I shall perform the duties of a son, I hope you will do me the justice to suppose I shall not be basely negligent as a husband,
_Sir Simon._ Frank, you're a fool; and----
_Enter a SERVANT._
Well, sir?
_Serv._ A person, Sir Simon, says he wishes to see you on very urgent business.
_Sir Simon._ And I have very urgent business, just now, with my steward. Who is the person? How did he come?
_Serv._ On foot, Sir Simon.
_Sir Simon._ Oh, let him wait. [_Exit SERVANT._
At all events, I can't see this person for these two hours.--I wish you would see him for me.
_Frank._ Certainly, sir,--any thing is refuge to me, now, from the subject of matrimony. [_Aside, and going._
_Sir Simon._ But a word before you go. d.a.m.n it, my dear lad, why can't you perceive I am labouring this marriage for your good? We shall enn.o.ble the Rochdales:--for, though my father,--your grandfather,--did some service in elections (_that_ made him a baronet), ama.s.sed property, and bought lands, and so on, yet, your great grandfather--Come here----your great grandfather was a miller.
[_Half whispering._
_Frank._ [_Smiling._] I shall not respect his memory less, sir, for knowing his occupation.
_Sir Simon._ But the world will, you blockhead: and, for your sake, for the sake of our posterity, I would cross the cart breed, as much as possible, by blood.
_Frank._ Is that of consequence, sir?
_Sir Simon._ Isn't it the common policy? and the necessities of your boasters of pedigree produce a thousand intermarriages with people of no pedigree at all;--till, at last, we so jumble a genealogy, that, if the devil himself would pluck knowledge from the family tree, he could hardly find out the original fruit.
[_Exeunt severally._
_Enter TOM SHUFFLETON, from the Park, following LADY CAROLINE BRAYMORE._
_Shuff._ "The time is come for Iphigene to find, "The miracle she wrought upon my mind;"
_Lady Car._ Don't talk to me.
_Shuff._ "For, now, by love, by force she shall be mine, "Or death, if force should fail, shall finish my design."
_Lady Car._ I wish you would finish your nonsense.
_Shuff._ Nonsense:--'tis poetry; somebody told me 'twas written by Dryden.
_Lady Car._ Perhaps so;----but all poetry is nonsense.
_Shuff._ Hear me, then, in prose.
_Lady Car._ Psha!--that's worse.
_Shuff._ Then I must express my meaning in pantomime. Shall I ogle you?
_Lady Car._ You are a teasing wretch;--I have subjected myself, I find, to very ill treatment, in this petty family;--and begin to perceive I am a very weak woman.
_Shuff._ [_Aside._] Pretty well for that matter.
_Lady Car._ To find myself absolutely avoided by the gentleman I meant to honour with my hand,--so pointedly neglected!----
_Shuff._ I must confess it looks a little like a complete cut.
_Lady Car._ And what you told me of the low attachment that----
