# A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Two/The Second Marriage Act 1

THE
SECOND MARRIAGE.
ACT I.
SCENE I. A garden: the Gardener discovered at work amongst some shrubs and flowers. Enter Robert hastily, calling to him as he enters.
Robert.
STOP, stop, Gardener! What are you about there? My mistress's rose trees rooted out of her favourite nook thus! Get out of this spot with your cursed wheel-barrow! If there were one spark of a christian in your heart, you would pluck the last hair off your bare scalp rather than root out these shrubs.
Gar. Softly and civily, Master Robert; and answer me one question first.—If I intend to remain gardener in this family, and make my pot boil and my family thrive as I have done, whether will it be wiser in me, do you think, to obey your orders or my master's?
​ Rob. And did he order you to do this?
Gar. As sure as I hold this spade in my hand.
Rob. I should as soon have thought of tearing the turf from my mother's grave as of doing this thing. Well, well; perhaps he has forgot that she liked them.
Gar. Now I rather think he remember'd, when he gave me the orders, that another lady likes them not; and a dead woman's fancy match'd against a living woman's freak, with a middle-aged widower, hear ye me, who has just pull'd the black coat off his back, has but a sorry chance, Robert.
Rob. Ay, and he has pull'd the black coat too soon off his back. But away with it!—I'll think no more of what you say—it is impossible.
Gar. May I never handle a spade again, if she did not squint to this direct spot, with her horrid looking grey eyes, the last time she walked thro' the garden, saying it was a mass of confusion that ought to be cleared away, and he gave me the orders for doing it the very next morning.
Rob. Who could have believed this? Who could have believed this but a few months ago, when she rambled thro' these walks, with all her white-frock'd train gamboling round her?
Gar. Nay, good Robert, don't be so down o' the mouth about it: the loss of his wife and an unlook'd-for legacy of twenty thousand pounds, may set a man's brains a working upon new plans. There is nothing very wonderful in that, man. He will get his lady-wife and the borough ​together, with a power of high relations, you know, and we shall all be fine folks by and bye.—Thou wilt become master-butler or gentleman-valet, or something of that kind, and I shall be head gardener, to be sure, with a man or two to obey my orders: we sha'nt be the same pains-taking folks that we have been, I warrant you, when he is a parliament man.
Rob. Thou'rt always looking after something for thine own advantage, and that puts all those foolish notions into thy noddle. No, no; he has lived too sweetly in his own quiet home, amongst the rustling of his own trees and the prattling of his own infants, to go now into the midst of all that shuffling and changing and making of speeches. He'll never become a parliament man.
Gar. Well then, let him marry Lady Sarah for love if he please, I'll neither make nor meddle in the matter. If she keep a good house, and give good victuals and drink to the people in it, I'll never trouble my head about it.
Rob. Out upon thee, man, with thy victuals and thy drink! Thou'rt worser than a hog. Well should I like, if it were not for the sake of better folks than thee, to see thy greedy chaps exercised upon her feeding.
Gar. What, is she niggardly then, and so fine a lady too?
Rob. Niggardly! she will pull off her wide hoop, and all them there flounces that people go to court in, to search over the house for the value of a candle's ​end, rather than any of the poor devils belonging to her should wrong her of a doit's-worth. Thou'lt have rare feeding truly when she comes amongst us.
Gar. Heaven forbid it then! No wonder thou'rt anxious she should not come here. I always wonder'd what made thee so concern'd about it.
Rob. And dost thou think, swine that thou art, I am concern'd for it upon this account? Thou deservest to be fed on husks and garbage all thy life for having such a thought. I, who was the friend, I may say the relation of my good mistress (for thou knowest I am her foster brother) and when I look upon her poor children playing about, I feel as tho' they were my own flesh and blood. It is not that I boast of the connection: God knows I am as humble as any body!
Gar. Ay, no doubt; and a rare good thing it is, this same humility. I know a poor ass, grazing on the common, not far off, that to my certain knowledge is foster brother to a very great lord, and yet, I must say that for him, I never saw him prick up his ears or even shake his tail one bit the more for it in my life. By my certics! he must be a very meek and sober minded ass! (singing and gathering up his tools, &c.) Take this in your hand for me, man; I'm going to another part of the garden. (holding out something for Robert to carry.)
Rob. (pushing away his hand angrily.) Take care of it yourself, fool: you would sing tho' your father were upon the gallows.
​ Gar. I crave your worship's pardon! I should have whined a little, to be sure, to have been better company to you. (looking off the stage.) But here comes a good man who frowns upon nobody; the worthy rector of Easterdown: I'll go and bid him welcome; for he likes to see a poor fellow hold up his head before him, and speak to him like a man.
Rob. You bid him welcome, indeed! stand out of the way: I'll bid him welcome myself. He is as good as my own——No matter what. He is married to my good mistress's sister; ay, and his own father christen'd me too. I'm glad, he is come. You go to him indeed!
Enter Mr. Beaumont.
Bea. I thank you, honest Robert; how do you do?
Rob. So, so; I'm obliged to you for the favour of asking. Woe is me, Sir! but this be a sad place since you came last among us.
Bea. A sad change, indeed, my good friend, and you seem to have felt it too. You look thin and alter'd, Robert.
Rob. I ha'n't been very merry of late, and that makes a body look——(passing his hand across his eyes.)
Bea. (shaking his head.) Ay, what must thy poor master be then, since it is even so with thee? Poor man, it grieved me to think that I could not be with him on the first shock of his distress, but ​ness and business of importance made it impossible for me to leave Yorkshire. How does he do? I hope you look cheerfully before him, and do all that you can to comfort him.
Rob. Indeed I should have been very glad, in my homely way, to have done what I could to comfort him; but, I don't know how it is, he gets on main well without, Sir.
Bea. (surprised.) Does he?—I'm very glad to hear it. I love him for that, now: it is a noble exertion in him; he has great merit in it, truly.
Rob. Humph, humph.(a pause.)
Bea. What were you going to say, my good Robert?
Rob. Nothing, Sir; I was only clearing my throat.
Bea. How does he sleep, Robert?
Rob. I can't say, Sir, not being present when he's a-bed, you know.
Bea. How does he eat, then? little rest and little food must, I fear, have brought him very low.
Rob. Nay, as for the matter of his eating, I can't say but I find as good a notch made in the leg of mutton, when he dines alone, as there used to be.
Bea. Well, that's good. But I fear he is too much alone.
Rob. No, Sir; he has dined out a pretty deal of late. He does, indeed, walk up and down the shady walk by the orchard, and talk to himself often enough.
​ Bea. (alarmed.) Does he? that is a sign of the deepest sorrow: I must speak to him, I must put books into his hands.
Rob. O Sir, there's no need of that; he has a book in his hand often enough.
Bea. And what kind of books does he read?
Bob. Nay, it is always the same one.
Bea. Well, he can't do better: there is but one book in the world that can't be too often in a man's hand.
Rob. Very true, Sir, but it is not that one, tho'.—I thought as you do myself, and so I slyly look'd over his shoulder one morning to be sure of it; but I saw nothing in it but all about the great people at court, and the great offices they hold.
Bea. You astonish me, Robert. His heavy loss I fear has bewildered his wits. Poor man! poor man! and all the sweet children too!
Rob. Yes Sir, they—they will feel—
Bea. What would you say, my friend.
Rob. Nothing, Sir. This vile neckcloth takes me so tight round the throat, an' a plague to it!
Gar. (coming forward with a broad grin.) God bless you, Sir! I be glad to see you here. How does your good lady and master William do? He is grown a fine young gentleman now, I warrant, he, he, he, he, he!
Rob. (to Gar. angrily.) Can't you ask a gentleman how he does, fool, without putting that damned grin upon your face?
​ Bea. Why, my friend Robert, what words are these you make use of?
Rob. True Sir, I should not have used them; but when a body is vexed he will be angry, and when a body is angry, good sooth! he will e'en bolt out with the first word that comes to him though he were a saint.
Bea. Too true, Robert; but long before a body becomes a saint, he is very seldom vexed, and still seldomer angry at any thing.
Rob. God bless you, Sir! I know very well I a'n't so good as I should be, and I wish from my heart I was better.
Bea. Give me your hand, honest Robert; you will soon be better if you wish to be so, and it is a very pleasant progress when once it is fairly begun. (Looking off the stage.) I think I see your master at a distance. Good day to you! good day to you, Gardener!(Exeunt severally.
SCENE II. A parlour with a door opening into the garden. Seabright and Beaumont are seen walking together in the garden. Bea. talking to Sea. as they enter.
Bea. (continuing to talk.) I must indeed confess, my dear friend, you had every thing that this world can bestow; a moderate fortune, with health to enjoy it; the decent, modest tranquillity, of private life, and the blessings of domestic harmony: I must, indeed, confess you were a happy man. ​(pauses and looks at Sea. who says nothing) Your measure of good things was compleat; it was impossible to add to it; there was no more for you to desire on this side of heaven. (pauses again.)
Sea. (answering very tardily.) I had, indeed, many of the comforts of life.
Bea. Many of the comforts of life! you had every thing the heart of man can desire; and, pardon me, you could afford to lose part of your felicity, dear as that part might be, and still retain enough to make life worth the cherishing. To watch over your rising family; to mark the hopeful progress of their minds; to foster every good disposition and discourage every bad one found there: this, my friend, is a noble, an invigorating task, most worthy of a man.
Sea. It is certainly the duty of every man to attend to the education of his children: their fortunes in the world depend upon it.
Bea. (looking displeased at him.) Poo! their fortunes in that world from which this will appear but like a nest of worms, a hole for grubs and chrysalis's, that world which is our high and native home, depend upon it. (walking up and down disturbed, and then returning to Sea. with a self-upbraiding look.) Forgive me, Seabright! you know I am sometimes thus, but my spark is soon extinguished. I am glad—I ought to be glad to see you so composed. It is a noble conquest you have gain'd over your feelings, and what must it not have cost you! Give me your hand, and be not thus constrained with me: I know the weakness of ​human nature, and dearly do I sympathize with you.
Sea. You are very kind, my friend; but you have travelled far; you must want refreshment; let me order something. (going to the door and calling a Servant, to whom he gives orders.)
Bea. (aside.) Well, there is something here I don't understand. But I am wrong, perhaps: Some people can't bear to have the subject of their sorrow touched upon: I'll talk to him of other things.—(Aloud to Sea. as he returns from the door.) Your old acquaintance, Asby of Gloucestershire, called upon me a day or two before I left home, and enquired kindly after you. He is a very rich man now; he has purchased the great estate of Carriswood, near his native place, and is high sheriff of the county.
Sea. (becoming suddenly animated.) What, Asby? my old school-fellow Asby? that is a great rise, by my soul! The estate of Carriswood, and high sheriff of the county! What interest has pushed him? what connexions has he made? has he speculated with his money? how has he advanced himself?
Bea. I can't very well tell you: he has gone on, like many others, turning, and scraping and begging, and managing great people's matters for them, till he has become one of the most considerable men in that part of the country.
Sea. He must be a clever fellow. We used to think him stupid at school, but we have been dev'lishly deceived.
​ Bea. No, you have not, for he is stupid still. His brother, the poor curate of Crofton,, is a clever man.
Sea. (contemptuously.) The poor curate of Crofton! One of those clever men, I suppose, who sit with their shoes down o' the heel, by their own study fire, brooding o'er their own hoard of ideas, without ever being able from their parts or their learning to produce one atom's worth of good to themselves or their families. I have known many such: but let me see a man, who from narrow and unfavorable beginnings shapes out his own way in this changing world to wealth and distinction, and, by my faith! he will be wise enough for me.
Bea. My friend, you become animated: I am happy to see you so much interested in the fortune of others; it is a blessed disposition. I have something also to tell you of your old friend Malton, which I am sure will give you pleasure.
Sea. What, he has got a fortune too, I suppose, and is standing for the county.
Bea. No; something better than that, my friend.
Sea. Ha! Well, some people get on amazingly!
Bea. It is amazing, indeed, for it was altogether hopeless. You remember his only son, the poor little boy that was so lame and so sickly?
Sea. Yes, I do.
Bea. Well, from some application, which I cannot remember at present, the sinews of his leg have recovered their proper tone again, and he is growing up as healthy a comely looking lad as you can see.
​ Sea. O, that is what you meant—I am glad to hear it, certainly; a cripple in a family is not easily provided for. But pray now, let me understand this matter more perfectly.
Bea. I tell you I have forgot how they treated the leg, but——
Sea. (impatiently.) No, no, no! What relations, what connexions had Asby to push him? a man can't get on without some assistance:—his family, I always understood, was low and distress'd.
Bea. He had two or three ways of getting on, which I would not advise any friend of mine to follow him in, and the worst of them all was making what is called a convenient marriage.
Sea. (affecting to laugh.) Ha, ha, ha! you are severe, Beaumont: many a respectable man has suffered interest to determine even his choice of a wife. Riches and honours must have their price paid for them.
Bea. Trash and dirt! I would not have a disagreeable vixen to tyrannise over my family for the honours of a peerage.
Sea. Well, well! people think differently upon most subjects.
Bea. They do indeed; and it is not every one who thinks so delicately, and has so much reason to do so, upon this subject, as we have, my dear Seabright. Our wives—
Sea. (interrupting him hastily.) And he comes in for the county, you say?
​ Bea. No, no, Seabright! you mistake me: high sheriff of the county, I said. How you do interest yourself in the fortunes of this man!
Sea. And what should surprise you in this? By heaven there is nothing so interesting to me as to trace the course of a prosperous man through this varied world! First he is seen like a little stream, wearing its shallow bed through the grass; circling, and winding, and gleaning up its treasures from every twinkling rill as it passes: farther on the brown sand fences its margin, the dark rushes thicken on its side: farther, on still, the broad flags shake their green ranks, the willows bend their wide boughs o'er its course: and yonder, at last, the fair river appears, spreading his bright waves to the light!
Bea. (staring strangely on him, then turning away some paces, and shaking his head ruefully) Poor man! poor man! his intellects are deranged; he is not in his senses.
Enter a Servant.
Sea. (to Ser.) Very well. (to Bea.) Let us go to the breakfast room, Beaumont, and you'll find something prepared for you. (As they are about to go out, the children appear at a distance in the garden.)
Bea. (looking out.) Ha! yonder are the children! Blessings on them! I must run and speak to them first.(Exit into the garden to the children.
Sea. (to himself, looking contemptuously after Bea.) Ay, go to the children! thou art only fit company for them! To come here with his comfort and his ​condolence full eight months and a-half after her death—he is a mere simpleton! His wonderful delicacy too about interested marriages—he is worse than a simpleton! And my only business now, forsooth! must be to stay at home and become schoolmaster to my own children!—he is an absolute fool! (turning round and seeing the servant still standing at the door.) Have you enquired at the village which of the inns my Lord Lubberford stops at on his way to town?
Ser. Yes, Sir; but they don't know.
Sea. But they must know! Go and make farther enquiries, for I must pay my respects to his Lordship as he passes. Were the fruit and the flowers carried to Lady Sarah this morning?
Ser. I don't know, Sir.
Sea. Run to the gardener, and put him in mind of it.(Exeunt.
SCENE III. A library. Enter Seabright, who walks several times slowly across the stage as if deeply engaged in his own mind, then stops short with a considerable pause.
Sea. I am now upon the threshold of distinction, and with one step more I cross it. On this side lies spiritless obscurity; on that, invigorating honour. (pauses.) Member of Parliament! there is magic in the words, and of most powerful operation.—Let that man find a place elsewhere; why should I squeeze myself and every body round me to make ​room for him? Sir, he's a Member of Parliament.—Let that fool hold his tongue there; why do we silently listen to all his prosing stuff? Sir, he's a Member of Parliament.—What; bells ringing, children huzzaing, corporation men sweating at this rate, to welcome that poor looking creature to your town? To be sure; he's a Member of Parliament.—Ay, so it is! I too have mixed with the ignoble crowd to stare upon men thus honoured. I have only now to over-step the bounds, and be myself the very thing I gazed at. (pausing again.)—There is indeed a toll, a price of entrance that must be paid, and my heart stands back from it; but there is no other way than this, and what I would wear I must purchase. O it is well worth its price! To be but known and named as filling such a place in society brings pleasure with it. And in the eyes of our early friends too—Methinks I can see at this moment every curious face in my native village gathering about the letter-boy, as he sets out upon his rounds, to look with grinning admiration upon my first franks. "Free, Seabright;" ha, ha, ha! (laughing to himself and rubbing his hands together with great complacency.)
Enter Robert.
Sea. (turning round shortly like one who is caught.) What brings you here, sirrah?
Rob. You desired me to tell you, Sir, when Miss Seabright returned from her walk.
Sea. (with his countenance changed) And is she so soon returned?
​ Rob. Yes Sir, and I have told her you wish to speak with her.
Sea. You have told her—I wish—I looked not for her so soon—I wish you had not—
Rob. Sir!
Sea. Begone! begone! and say I am waiting for her. (Exit Rob. stealing a look of observation at his master as he goes out.)——Ah! here comes the hard pull! here comes the sticking place! I should have prepared her for this before, but my heart would not suffer me. O that I had employed some one else to tell her! She little thinks of this! I hear her coming (listening; while children's voices are heard without.) What, she is bringing the children with her! I hear the little one prating as he goes. O God! I cannot—I cannot! (Exit running out with much agitation. (Enter Sophia, carrying a little boy on her back, and an elder boy and girl taking hold of her gown.)
Soph. (to the little one.) You have had a fine ride and a long ride, have you not?
Little One. Yesh, tit.
Soph. Come down then, boy, for your horse is tired.
Little One. No, tit.
Soph. No, tit! but you must tho' (setting him down.) Stand upon your fat legs there, and tell me what I'm to have for all this trouble of carrying you. What am I to have, urchin?
Little One. Kish
​ Soph. (after kissing him affectionately.) And what am I to have for these comfits I have saved for you?
Little One. Kish.
Soph. (kissing him again.) And what am I to have for the little dog I bought for you this morning?
Little One. Kish.
Soph. What, kish again? Kish for every thing? (kissing him very tenderly.) O you little rogue! you might buy the whole world for such money as this, if every body loved you as I do. Now children, papa is not ready to see us yet, I find, so in the mean time, I'll divide the little cake I promised you. (taking a little cake from her work-bag and dividing it; whilst Robert, peeping in at the door and seeing Seabright not there, ventures in, and stands for a little while looking tenderly upon Soph, and the children.
Rob. God bless all your sweet faces!
Soph. What do you want here, good Robert?
Rob. Nothing—nothing.—God bless you all, my pretty ones! (listening.) I hear him coming. (Exit, looking piteously upon them, as he goes off.)
Soph. I hear papa coming.
Little Girl. I'll run and meet him.
Eldest Boy. Don't Emma! he does not like to play with us now; it is troublesome to him.
Little Girl. When mama was alive he play'd with us.
Soph. Hush! my good girl.
Enter Seabright.
We have been waiting for you, papa; Robert told us you wanted to see us all together.
Sea. Did Robert tell you so? I wanted to see you alone, Sophia, but since it is so, the others may remain. I have got something to say to you.
Soph. You look very grave, my dear Sir: have I offended you?
Eldest Boy. It was I who broke the china vase, so don't be angry with her for that.
Sea. My brave boy! it is distress, and not anger, that makes me grave.
Soph. And are you distress'd, papa? O don't be distress'd! we will do every thing that we can to please you. I know very well we can't make you so happy as when mama was alive; but we will be such good children! we will obey you, and serve you, and love you so much, if you will but play with us, and look upon us again as you used to do!
Sea. (softened.) My dear girl, I wish I could make you all happy: I wish to raise your situation in the world above the pitch of my present confined abilities: I wish—(stops and is much embarrassed.)
Soph. (kissing his hand.) My dear, dear father! you say that I am your dear girl, and I promise you you shall find me a good one. I want no better fortune in the world, than to live with you and be useful to you. I can overlook the household matters, and order every thing in the family as you would like to have it. I want no better fortune ​than this: I shall be a happy girl and a proud girl too, if you will put confidence in me.
Sea. (taking her hand tenderly.) My sweet child! this would be a dull and sombre life for a young girl like you: you ought how to be dressed and fashioned like other young people, and have the advantage of being introduced to the world by those who——
Soph. O no! I don't care whether my gown be made of silk or of linen: and as for being dull, never trouble your head about that; we shall find a way to get the better of it. Do you know, papa,——but I am almost ashamed to tell it you.—
Sea. What is it, my dear.
Soph. I have been learning to play at backgammon: for you know mama and you used to play at it of a winter evening; and I'll play with you, if you will allow me.
Soph. My dear father! what is the matter?
Eldest Boy. Are you not well, papa?
Sea. I am well enough! I am well enough! but I have something to tell you, and I cannot tell it.
Soph. For God's sake let me know what it is!
Sea. You must know it: it is necessary that you should. I am——(pauses.)
Soph. A bankrupt.
​ Sea. No, no, no! I am going to be married.—(Sophia staggers some paces back, and stands like one perfectly stupified.) What is the matter, Sophia? are you going to faint?
Soph. No, I sha'n't faint.
Sea. Be not so overcome with it, my dear child! it is for the good of my children I marry. (pauses and looks at her, but she is silent.) You, and all children in your situation, look upon these matters with a prejudiced eye. It is my great regard for you that determines me to take this step. (pauses, but she is silent.) Do you hear me? Will you not speak to me?
Soph. O my poor mother! little did I think when I kiss'd your cold hands, that you would so soon be forgotten!
Sea. No more of this, my dear! no more of this! It is improper; it is painful to me. I have not forgotten—I love—I respect—I adore her memory: but I am engaged—it is necessary—your interest, is concerned in it, my dear children; and I know, my good Sophia, you will not add to your father's distress by stubborn and undutiful behaviour.
Soph. O no, my dear Sir! if you love and adore her memory I am satisfied. Yet, if you do, how can you—O how can you!—I will say no more: God bless you and give you a good wife! (weeping.) But she will never be so good as my mother: she will never love you as my mother did.
Sea. Forbear, my good girl! I know it very well; and I don't marry now to be beloved. But Lady Sarah is a very good woman, and will make me as ​happy as I can expect to be: she is sister to Lord Allcrest, you know, and is related to the first people of the country.
Soph. Good heaven, Sir! you can't mean to marry Lady Sarah: all the world knows how ill-temper'd she is.
Eldest Boy. What, that lady with the cunning-looking nose, and the strange staring eye-brows? If she come into this house I'll cast my top at her.
Soph. Hold your tongue, George! papa is not so hard hearted as to set such a woman over us. Come, come, children! gather round and hold up your little hands to him: he will have pity upon you. (the children gather round, and Sophia, putting the hands of the youngest child together and holding them up, kneels down before him.) O Sir! have pity on them! We have nobody to plead for us, and I cannot speak.
(Enter Robert with his face all blubbered, and throwing himself upon his knees by the children, holds up his hands most piteously.)
Rob. O, Sir!
Sea. (bursting into a violent rage.) What, sirrah! have you been listening at the door? Go from my presence this moment!
Soph. Dear Sir! be not angry with him!
Sea. (putting her away.) No, no! let us have no more of this nonsense: I have listen'd too long to it already.(breaks from them and exit.)
Rob. I wish my head had been cut off before I had come in with my ill-timed assistance! Curse, ​upon my stupid pate! I deserve to be hang'd for it. (beating his head and grasping his hair.) O my pretty ones! I sent you all to him that you might work on his heart, for I knew what he wanted to say well enough, and yet I must needs thrust in my silly snout amongst you to mar all! For a man that can read books and cast accounts, and all that, to do such a trick! I deserve to be cudgel'd!
Soph. Don't be so angry at yourself, Robert: you meant it well, and you have always been so good to us!
Rob. Good to you! I love you like my own flesh and blood, every one of you; and if any body dare to do you wrong, I'll——no matter what. (clenching his fist and nodding significantly.) He may turn me off if he please; but I'll not quit the neighbourhood: I'll watch over you, my pretty ones; and hang me if any one shall hurt a hair of your heads!
Soph. I thank you, Robert: but don't tell any body: that would not be right, you know. Come, children; you shall go with me to my own room.
(Exeunt Sophia and children by one side, and exit Robert by the other, looking after them with tenderness and pity.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT.