# A Series of Plays in which it is attempted to delineate The Stronger Passions of the Mind, Volume Two/The Second Marriage Act 3

ACT III.
SCENE I. A small country inn near Seabright's house. Beaumont, Morgan, and William Beaumont.
Bea. (to Mor.) Well, my good Sir, how do you like travelling once more a little easy forenoon's journey in your native country?
Mor. Every thing in my native country is pleasant to me, or at least ought to be so: but I don't know; I return to it again like a dog to a deserted house; he begins to wag his tail at the threshold, but there is no body to welcome him in: there is another generation grown up that knows not me; there is nothing but young people now in the world.
Bea. But those young people will love and esteem you, and honour you. The caresses even of cheerful infancy go very kindly to an old man's heart. Come, come! you shall see the promising family your niece has left behind her, and your heart will warm to them. Seabright has, I fear, set an ungracious step-mother over their head; but she, perhaps, looks more so than she is.—Here comes our landlady.
(Enter Landlady.)
Good morning, Mrs. Thrifty.
Land. (to Bea.) O Sir! I be glad to see you!
Bea. I thank you good landlady: take good care of my wife.
Land. That I will, Sir; she's in the green chamber, giving orders to her maid. And this young gentleman is your son, I suppose. (turnings and courtesying to Wil.)
Bea. Yes, my good ma'am.
Land. Blessings on him! Ay! if he be like his father, the blessings of the widow and the helpless will rest upon him.—You are going to the Squire's I suppose?
Bea. Yes, landlady; how does the family do?
Land. O lud, Sir! what an alter'd family it be! the servants a-grumbling; the lady a-scolding; the Squire himself going up and down like a man possess'd, as they tell me, and can't sleep in his bed o'nights for writing to dukes and lords and such like, and tormenting himself, poor man, just to be made a Sir or a Knight, or some nonsense or other of that kind:—and then all the poor children; it grives me to see them like so many chickens that have got no dam to gather them together, tho' I'm sure that dear good young lady does all that she can for them: I sees her every morning from the room overhead, which overlooks their garden, walking with them as if she were the mother of them all, tho' I warrant you she's soon snubb'd into the house again; O it grieves me to see them!
​ Will. (eagerly.) In the room overhead did you say? and in the morning? about this time?
Land. I don't know if just at this very time.
Will. I dare she is.(going out eagerly.)
Bea. But you wanted to read that paragraph about your friend, William, and here is the newspaper just come.
Will. (impatiently.) O hang it! not now: I don't care if I never read it.(Exit quickly.
Bea. (to Land.) And he can't sleep in his bed, they say, for writing letters to great people?
Land. Yes Sir, so they say; but there may be other reasons for a man not resting in his bed.
Bea. And what other reasons may there be?
Land. Sir, my grandfather was sexton of the parish, and would have thought nothing of digging you a grave in a dark winter evening, or ringing the church bell in the middle of the night, with never a living creature near him but his dog and his lantern, and I have myself sat up with dead corpses ere now, and I can't but say they always lay very quietly when I was with them; therefore I'm not a very likely person, you know, to give heed to foolish stories about ghosts and such like. Howsomever, the servants say that they hear strange noises since their new lady came home; and some of them swears that they have heard their late lady's footsteps walking along the hall in the middle of the night, as plainly as when she was alive.
Bea. That is strange enough, landlady.
​ Land. To be sure it is, Sir, but what shall we say against it; for if miser's come back to the world again to look after their gold, why may not a mother come back to it again to look after her children, oppress'd by a hard hearted step-mother?
Bea. Indeed, it would be difficult in this case to gainsay it. But let us have coffee in the next room, I pray you, as soon as you can.
Land. Immediately, Sir. (Exit Landlady.
Bea. This is a strange untoward account that our good landlady gives us of the family. One can find out, however, that domestic comfort is no more the lot of poor Seabright—but we shall see when we go to him what state he is in.
Mor. You will see yourself then, for I shan't go to him at all.
Bea. No! don't say so, my good friend: he was an affectionate husband to your niece, and an indulgent father to her children: (Mor. shakes his head.) When his wife died, his old habits were broken up; he is of an aspiring disposition; a high alliance and a borough presented themselves to him, and he fell into the snare. (Mor. still shakes his head) He has married a woman who is narrow minded naturally; but that disposition has been strengthened by circumstances: she has long been left, as a single woman, to support high rank upon a very small income, and has lived much with those to whom begging and solicitations are no disgrace: differently circumstanced she might have been ​more respectable, and when differently circumstanced she may become so.
Mor. Go to him thyself, Beaumont: I am an old man; my life's bark has been long buffeted about on a stormy sea, and I have seen cruel sights. I do not look upon my fellow-men with the same gentle eye as thou dost: I cannot love them myself, but I love thee because thou dost it: so e'en take me home to thine own house; no other house will I enter; and let me have an arm chair by thy fire-side to end my days in, where I may sit at my ease and grumble at the whole human race.
Bea. No, no! you shall see all your relations; and love them too, and do what is right by every one of them.
Mor. Do it for me then: I can't be troubled with it. Take my fortune into your own hands and dispose of it as you please.
Bea. No; you shall do it yourself; and the blessings of those you bestow it upon shall fall on your own head undivided and unintercepted.
Mor. I will take the simplest and shortest way of settling my fortune; I will give it all to your son.
Bea. (stretching himself up with a proud smile.) Yes, if he will have it.
(Enter William B. with great animation.)
Will. I've seen her father! I've seen her!
Bea. Who have you seen?
​ Will. My cousin Sophy: She is in the garden just now with all the children about her; and they have pulled off her hat in their play, and she looks so pretty—I—I mean good humour'd, and—
Bea. (smiling.) There is no harm in calling her pretty, William,—But Mr. Morgan has got something very serious to say to you: he wishes to settle his fortune upon you.
Wil. His whole fortune upon me!
Mor. Yes, my brave William, every shilling of it.
Will. What! and Sophia and all the little Seabrights, who are as nearly related to you, to have nothing?
Mor. It shall be all your own.
Will. (with great vehemence.) Hang me then if I take one sixpence more than my own share!
Mor. Ah! I see how it is: I am a blasted tree from which no sapling shoots: my grey hairs are despised.
Will. O say not so, my good Sir! (bending one knee to the ground, and kissing the old man's hand.) I will bow my head as affectionately beneath your blessing as the most dutiful child. But you shall have many children to respect and love you! and one of them—O you shall see one of them that will make your heart leap with pleasure! (hurrying away.)
Bea. Where are you going in such haste?
Will. Never mind; I'll soon return.(Exit.
​ Mor. (to Bea. who looks significantly to him.) Yes, my friend, he was sent to you from him who has given you many blessings.
Bea. But none like this. (fervently.) He is a brave and upright spirit, passing with me thro' this world to a better. When he was but so high, yea but so high, how his little heart would spurn at all injustice!
(Enter Mrs. Beaumont.)
Mrs. B. Where is William?
Bea. He is gone over the way I believe to fetch Sophia here.
Mrs. B. I'm glad of that: I came here only to see her, and I will never enter Seabright's door again, as long as I live.
Bea. "As long as I live," my dear, is a phrase of very varied significations: it means the term of an angry woman's passion, or a fond woman's fancy, or a—
Mrs. B. Or a good man's simplicity, Mr. Beaumont. Do you think I will ever enter the house where that woman is the mistress; unfeeling, undelicate, uncivil?
Bea. But she won't squander his fortune, however, and that is a good thing for the children.
Mrs. B. Poo, Mr. Beaumont! the wickedest creature on earth has always your good word for some precious quality or other.
Bea. Well, my dear, and the wickedest creature in the world always has something about it, that shews whose creature it is—that shews we were all ​meant for a good end; and that there is a seed—a springing place—a beginning for it in every body.
Mrs. B. It is a very small speck with her, then, I'm sure, and would elude any body's search but your own.
Bea. Now, Mr. Morgan, don't think hardly of my wife's disposition because she is angry at present: I assure you she is, a very good woman, and has an excellent heart: She is in all things better than myself, tho' I'm of a more composed disposition.
Mrs. B. (softened.) My dear Beaumont! I chide you as a child, and I honour you as a man! But no more of this.—Does William tell Sophia that she is to meet her great uncle here?
Mor. I hope he will not: I should wish to be unknown for some time, that I may observe and determine for myself, since you will make me act for myself.
Bea. Go then into the next room with Mrs. Beaumont: I'll wait for them here, and if he has not told her already, I'll desire him to conceal it. I hear them coming. (Exeunt Mrs. B. and Morgan.
(Enter William B. leading in Sophia.)
Soph. But who are you taking me to see?
Will. You shall know by-and-bye.—But do stop a moment, Sophy, and pull back the hat a little from your face; you look best with it so. (stopping and putting her hat to rights.) That will do.—And throw away that foolish basket out of your hands (taking a flower basket from her, in which she ​seems to have been gathering rose leaves, and throwing it away.) and pray now hold up your head a little better.
Soph. But what is all this preparation for?
(Bea. who had retired to the bottom of the stage, unobserved by them, now advances softly behind Soph. and makes a sign to William to be silent.)
Wil. You are to see somebody that loves you very much, and likes to see you look well, you know; you are to see your aunt.
Soph. But there is somebody else you told me of.
Wil. Yes, there is an old connexion of ours with her; and pray now, Sophy, look pleasantly upon him; for he is an old man, and has met with misfortunes; he has been in foreign countries; he has been in prisons, and has had chains on his legs.
Soph. O then, I am sure I shall look upon him kindly!
(Exeunt Soph, and Wil. followed at a distance by Beaumont.)
SCENE II. A large room in Seabright's house. Lady Sarah is discovered sitting by a table writing, near the bottom of the stage.
Lady S. There is so much light thrown across my paper here, it makes me almost blind. Who's there? is it you. Pry?
(Enter Pry from the adjoining room.)
Pry. Yes, my Lady; I sits in this room here pretty often, for the servants are vulgar and rude ​to me, and my own room is so lonesome I can't bear to be in it. Not that I hear any of them noises, excepting in the night time; yet I can't help thinking of it all day long when I am alone.—First it comes to my door, "lowe, lowe, lowe!" just like a great bull: then it comes presently after, "scrie, scrie, scrie!" just like a raven, or a cock, or a cat, or any of those wild animals; and then for the groans that it gives—O! an old jack that has not been oil'd for a twelve-month is a joke to it.
Lady S. (gravely.) Remove this table for me to the other end of the room; it is too much in the sun here. (Pry removes the table near the front of the stage, and Lady S. sits down to write again, without speaking; then looking up and seeing Pry still by her.) Leave me.
Pry. I'm just going, my Lady. I believe I told you, my Lady, that Robert tells me, the vicar always expects the present of a new gown and cassock, when he is sent for to lay a ghost in any genteel house.
Lady S. Leave me, I say; I'll hear no more of that nonsense at present. (Exit Pry, and enter Seabright.)
Sea. What has that absurd creature been chattering about?
Lady S. Still about those strange noises.
Sea. I thought so; every noise is a thief or a ghost with her. Who are you writing to?
Lady S. I am writing to Lady Puler, to beg she will have the goodness to send me a few lines by ​return of post, to let me know how her rheumatism does; her husband, you know, may have it in his power to serve you.
Sea. (nodding.) That is very right, my dear.
Lady S. And here is a letter I have just written to Lady Mary Markly: she is a spiteful toad, and I never could endure her; but she is going to be married for the third time to a near relation of the minister's, and it will be proper in me, you know, to be very much interested in her approaching happiness.
Sea. Yes, perfectly right, my dear Lady Sarah; I won't interrupt you.(sits down.)
Lady S. Indeed, my dear Seabright, I have been in the habit of studying these things, and I know how to make my account in it. If people would but attend to it, every acquaintance that they make, every letter that they write, every dinner that they give, might be made to turn, to some advantage.
Sea. (hastily, with marks of disgust.) No, no! that is carrying it too far!
Lady S. Not at all, Mr. Seabright! I sent a basket of the best fruit in your garden this morning even to old Mrs. Pewterer, the Mayor of Crockdale's mother-in-law, and I dare say it won't be thrown away.
Sea. (smiling.) Well, that, however, was very well thought of. But I interrupt you. (she continues to write, and he sits musing for some time, then speaking to himself.) A baronet of Great Britain and ​seven thousand a year! (smiling to himself.) Ay, that would be a resting place at which I could put up my horses and say, I have done enough. A baronet of Great Britain, and seven thousand a year!
Lady S. (looking up from her paper.) A baronet of Great Britain you will soon be; this day's post, I trust, will inform you of that honour being conferred upon you; but the seven thousand a year, I wish we were as sure of having that added to it.
Sea. I wish we were; but Mr. Plausible has been with me last night, and has pointed out a way to me, in which, by venturing a considerable capital on very small risk, a most prodigious gain might be made; and in which, money laid out—
Lady S. (interrupting him eagerly.) Will never return any more! (getting up alarmed.) Pray, pray, my dear Seabright, don't frighten me! The very idea of such a scheme will throw me into a fit.—Don't let that man enter the house any more—he is a dark-eyed, needy-looking man—don't let him come here any more.
Sea. Why what alarms you so much? he is a very uncommon man, and a man of genius.
Lady S. Keep him out of the house then, for heaven's sake! there is never any good got by admitting men of genius; and you may keep them all out of your house, I'm sure, without being very inhospitable.
Sea. Your over-caution will be a clog upon my fortune
​ Lady S. A clog upon your fortune, Mr. Seabright! Am not I doing every thing that a woman can do to advance it? am not I writing letters for you? making intimacies for you? paying visits for you? teazing every body that is related to me within the fiftieth degree of consanguinity for you?—and is this being a clog upon your fortune?
Sea. Well, well! we shall see what it all comes to.
Lady S. Yes, we shall see; this very post will inform you of our success; I'm sure of it; and see, here are the letters.
(Enter Pry with letters, which she gives to Sea.; and then puts one down on the table for Lady Sarah, who is so busy looking at Seabright's that she does not perceive it.)
Lady S. (to Pry, who seems inclined to stay.) Don't wait; I shall call when I want you. (Exit Pry.
Sea. (opening a letter and running his eye over it eagerly) Hang it! it is about the altering of a turnpike road. (throws it away impatiently, and opens another letter which he reads in like manner.) Stuff and nonsense about friendship, and old acquaintance, and so on! What a parcel of fools there are in the world! Ha! what seal is this? (opening another letter eagerly) Hell and the devil! it is a letter from your brother, and only a common place letter of compliment, with never a word on the subject! (Tearing the letters in a rage, and strewing them upon the floor) Cursed be pen, ink, and paper, and every one that puts his trust in them!
​ Lady S. Don't destroy the blank sides of your letters, Mr. Seabright, they will do to write notes upon.
Sea. O confound your little minute economy, Lady Sarah! it comes across me every now and then like the creeping of a spider: it makes me mad.
Lady S. (putting aside her papers, much offended.) I think I need scarcely give myself the trouble of writing any more to-day. (seeing the letter on her table.) Ha! a letter from my brother to me! (opening it.) and a later date I fancy than that which you have received. (reads it with her countenance brightening up.)
Sea. (looking eagerly at her.) What's in it? (she is silent.) What's in it? for God's sake tell me!
Lady S. (going up to him with a smiling face, and an affected formal courtesy.) I have the honour to congratulate Sir Anthony Seabright.
Sea. Is it really so? Is it really so? Let me see, let me see. (snatches the letter from her and reads it.) O it is so in very truth!—Give me your hand, my dear Lady Sarah! and give me a kiss too. (kisses her on one cheek, and she graciously turns to him the other.) O one will do very well.—Where are all the children? let every soul in the house come about me!—No, no, no! let me be decent; let me be moderate.
(Enter Plausible.)
Sea. (going up joyfully to him) How do you do? how do you do, my very good friend?
​ Lady S. (pulling Sea. by the sleeve.) You know you are engaged; you can't speak with any body at present.
Sea. I can do all I have to do very well, and give a quarter of an hour to Mr. Plausible, notwithstanding.
Lady S. (still pulling him.) You have many letters to write, and many other things.—You understand me?
Plau. I shall have the pleasure of calling then to-morrow morning.
Lady S. He is engaged to-morrow morning.
Plau. And in the evening also?
Lady S. Yes, Sir, and every hour in the day.—He has not yet laid out his fortune to such advantage as will enable him to bestow quite so much leisure time upon his friends as Mr. Plausible.
Plau. I can never regret the leisure time I have upon my hands, since it has given me an opportunity of obliging your Ladyship; I have procured the inestimable receipt for whitening linen without soap that I mention'd to you, and I shall bring it to you to-morrow.
Lady S. Pray don t take the trouble? I am much obliged to you: but we are all so much occupied! (to Sea.) Are not you going to write by return of post?
Sea. (to Plau.) I am really much engaged at present: the King has been graciously pleased, tho' most unworthy of it, and most unlook'd for on my part, to honour me with the dignity of a baronet of Great Britain.
​ Plau. I rejoice, my dear Sir, I congratulate you with all my heart; and I have the honour to congratulate your Ladyship also.
Lady S. I thank you. Sir—good morning—good morning.
Sea. (to Plau.) Trifling as these things may be, yet as a mark of royal favour——
Lady S. (impatiently.) Yes, yes; he knows all that well enough.—Good morning, (to Plau.) You will positively have no time to write your letters by the return of post. (to Sea. pulling him away, who bows to Plau. and goes with her unwillingly. Turning round suddenly to Plau. as they are just going out.) Whitening linen without soap?
Plau. Yes, Madam; and no expence of any kind in the business.
Lady S. When you are passing this way, at any rate, I should be glad to look at it.
Plau. I shall have the honour very soon of calling upon your Ladyship.
Lady S. You are very obliging. You will excuse us; you will excuse us, Mr. Plausible; we are really obliged to be extremely rude to you. (Exeunt Lady S. and Sea.)
Plau, (alone.) Ha, ha, ha! I shall keep hold still I find.
(Enter Prowler, looking cautiously about as he enters.) What do you want?
Pro. Unless you want to be laid up by the heels, don't go out of this house by the same door that ​you enter'd it. I have waited in the passage here to tell you.
Plau. Ha! have they found me out?
Pro. Yes, by my faiths there are two as ugly looking fellows waiting for you at the front entry as ever made a poor debtor's heart quake. There is surely some back door in this house.
(Enter Robert.)
Rob. And I want to know when I am to have the crown I intrusted to you.
Pro. To me, Sir?
Rob. Yes, to you, Sir; and you know it very well, you do.
Pro. O! you are my friend Robert, that I was enquiring after.
Rob. Yes, Sir; and I will have my money directly; for I know you are a cheat; I know it by your very face.
Pro. Ha, ha, ha! So you prefer having a crown to-day to receiving ten guineas to-morrow.
Rob. Receiving ten fiddle-strings to-morrow! pay me my crown directly.
Pro. Very well, with all my heart; but you must sign me a paper, in the first place, giving up all right to the ten guineas you are entitled to. (Robert hesitates.) Nay, nay, I'm not such an ass as you take me for: there is pen, ink, and paper; (pointing to the table.) Sign me a right to the ten guineas directly.
​ Rob. (scratching his head.) Well, well let it stand if you please till another time.
Pro. I thought so: faith you're too cunning for me! But shew us the way to the back door, quickly.
Rob. And should you like to come that way tomorrow, when you bring me the money? I shall be sure to be in the way to let you in.
Pro. Let us out by the back door to-day, and let me in to-morrow by any door you please. (Exuent.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.