Dramas (Baillie)/The Alienated Manor/Act 2

by Joanna Baillie

ACT II.

SCENE I.—Mrs. Charville's Dressing Room. She is discovered with Mary, sitting by a table at work, &c.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And you have seen him at Lady Melford's?

MARY.

Yes.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And at Harrowgate?

MARY.

Yes.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And have danced with him?

MARY.

Yes.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And have found him very agreeable?

MARY.

Yes.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Well, fair befall thee for answering Yes to this last question! for I did believe thee hypocrite enough to have answered No.

MARY.

Your opinion of me is flattering.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

How could it be otherwise, seeing you receive him as you did when I called you into the garden? You came forward like a blushing schoolgirl, sent into her governess's parlour to speak to her Town cousin of the fifteenth degree. I'm sure I think Sir Robert Freemantle a Godsend to us, in our present condition.

MARY.

In your present condition! Is not this your honeymoon with my brother? At least, I should think it is not yet entirely at an end.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

O dear no! But would it had less honey and more shine; we want lemon juice for our sweetness.

MARY.

And you are in the way to have it. Indeed, my dear Harriet, if you are not aware, you will soon have too much of it.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Then, if you are afraid of this, do you apply the remedy.

MARY.

Willingly, if it be in my power; but what can I do?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Give me something to amuse and interest me. I know Freemantle will be in love with you, if you take any pains with him.—Nay, don't look so proud, Lady,—I don't mean disingenuous pains; and then I shall have something to think of—something to talk of.

MARY.

Have you ever been without this last resource?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

O no, Heaven bless me! I can talk of the last foreign mail, or the changing of an old turnpike road, or any thing, rather than hold my tongue.

MARY.

But you are not reduced to this necessity surely, with Sir Level's taste and Mr. Smitchenstault's philosophy at command.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

But I mean something that is worth talking about. Something that one whispers in the ear; something that one watches an opportunity to communicate; something that one speaks of busily in the twilight, in some private alley, with the bats wheeling over one's head; something—O dear, O dear! I can enjoy this now only by sympathy.

Charville enters by a door behind the Ladies, but stops short on hearing their conversation.

MARY.

What a long sober face you put on! What are you thinking of now?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Matrimony is a duller thing than I took it to be.

MARY.

Indeed!

MRS. CHARVILLE.

I was too foolish: I might have had my amusement for another good winter at least, and have married him after all, if I liked it.

MARY.

So you married to amuse yourself?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

My dear girl, what could I do? I was with my stiff grave cousins in the country: I was disappointed of a trip to the Continent; the Bath season was still distant, and there was neither county ball, horse-race, nor strolling players in all the country round: so when Charville presented himself again, and renewed his addresses, I was ready to have flown with him to the moon. And now, my dear little sister, if there be any grace in thee, let us have some amusement.

MARY.

Willingly, if I knew how.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Get into some attachment, and difficulties, and correspondences; for, next to receiving a love-letter one's self, there is nothing so delightful as peeping into the love-letters of one's neighbours.

MARY.

Ha, ha, ha! You might be easily satisfied; for I have only to give Mr. Smitchenstault a little encouragement, and we shall have love-letters enough to peep into.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Somebody is coming. (Charville retires softly without being perceived, and Smitchenstault, by the opposite door, enters, with heavy creaking steps.)

MARY.

See! the old proverb verified; speak of him, and he appears. Mr. Smitchenstault, you come in good time to give us the benefit of your exquisite sensibility. My sister there is painting a rose, and two buds which seem newly separated from it; and she must not put dew-drops upon each, you know, because that would be formal: now, whether should the rose appear to be weeping for the buds, or the buds for the rose?—the parental or the filial affections prevail?

SMITCHENSTAUDT.

O de nice question! de sweet affection! de dear sympathy! de pretty affection! What you wish me to say? I am no moder; I am no bud; but I have de tender heart.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

So my sister knows Mr. Smitchenstault.

SMITCHENSTAIJLT.

She know? O de incredible delight! (To Mary.) Do you know mine heart? de heart of one who feel all de sublime delicacies, all de pretty commotion, all de genteel ecstasies of de soul of one lover. (Ogling her absurdly.) Have mine eyes told you all?

MARY.

Not entirely, my good Sir; for that would have been using your tongue exceedingly ill.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

O no! no tongue, no tongue! all heart, true heart, devotioned heart. (Laying his hand on his breast.) It be all here trilly, trilly, like de strings of an instrument, de poor instrument dat you will play upon.

MARY.

Not I, Mr. Smitchenstault; I want skill.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Let me teach vou den. O de sweet tuition:

MRS. CHARVILLE.

O the charming preceptor!

SMITCHENSTAULT (bowing conceitedly).

O, dear Madam! I am de poor unwordy.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Say not unwordy, my dear Sir; don't, I pray you, do yourself that wrong.

SMITCHENSTAULT (bowing again).

You are very good. But if dere be in me any ting good, any ting noble, any ting amiable, it be all from de passion of mine heart,—dat dear passion dat do make me, one poor philosopher, become like de lofty hero.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

O the surprising transformation! if one's eyes were but gifted enough to perceive it.

SMITCHENSTAULT (turning again to Mary).

And you do know dat I have de tender heart?

MARY.

I have not quite so much penetration; but I really know that you are very polite and obliging; and perhaps you will have the goodness to hold this skein of silk whilst I wind it.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

De very great honour. (Holding out his hands, upon which she puts the skein.)

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Yes; that rose-coloured silk looks, indeed, like the bands of love; but those don't look quite so like the hands of love: you have been making too free with your snuff-box this morning.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

O it is always so; when I am in de great agitations, I take de great snuffs.

MARY.

So, by this, one may guess at the strength of your passion.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And I am sure, for these few days past, there is no man in the kingdom who has been within half a pound of tobacco so fervent a lover as Mr. Smitchenstault.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

You do me de great honour.

Re-enter Charville.

CHARVILLE.

Ha, Smitchenstault! What do I see? Hercules with Omphale! A philosopher forgetting his dignity, and condescending to amuse himself with girls!

SMITCHENSTAULT.

O, dere is de potion dat put all dignity to sleep.

CHARVILLE.

I believe so; and, by my faith! yours is sometimes drugged pretty handsomely. But beware of this potion, which you have, I presume, received from one of these ladies; it may be dangerous.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

O no! it be only for de sweet mutual enjoyment.

CHARVILLE.

Well, let it be so; that's prudent; as much of it as either of them will share with you, may be taken with safety. But if this potion should have the same effect upon your genius as on your dignity, what will the admiring and expecting public say to it?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Let it have patience; I will give de public, by and by, all dat it will desire.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And a little more into the bargain, no doubt, to do the thing handsomely.

CHARVILLE.

Yes, I'll be bound for it; your doctrine of energies will not be dealt out by such a scanty measure. And pray, amongst all your powers, have you discovered any that can bind the fickle fancy of a woman?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

O no! no bind!—I do bind nothing,—loose all: dat is my plan; de free plan of nature: so I do teach my pupils.

CHARVILLE.

A most agreeable lesson, truly: and you will find some ladies very willing to become your pupils; if, indeed, they are not already more qualified to teach than to learn.

MARY.

Dear brother, how severe you are! But a truce to philosophy! It is in matters of taste that we have been craving Mr. Smitchenstault's instruction, though he has not yet told us whether the dew-drops—emblems of sensibility—should be hung upon this rose, or the buds which have been torn from her. (Pointing to the flowers Mrs. Charville has been painting.)

CHARVILLE (eagerly to Mrs. Charville).

Is it the flower I gave you this morning?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

O dear, no! It is the one Sir Robert Freemantle wore in his button-hole: we have not one in the whole garden of the same species. Come, do you tell us where these same dew-drops should be disposed of on this drawing?

CHARVILLE.

Dip it into the well, if you please, and it will have drops enough.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Dear me! you are angry.

CHARVILLE.

No, faith! It should take a thing of more importance to make a man angry.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Indeed, I think it should.

Enter Sir Level Clump, skipping joyfully.

SIR LEVEL.

Huzza, huzza! Come out to the lawn with me; come out to the lawn with me, gentles all, and I will show you a thing.

CHARVILLE.

What is the matter?

SIR LEVEL.

Such a discovery! Such a site for a ruin! Such a happy combination! A dilapidated wash-house for the foundation; an old stag-headed oak, five Lombardy poplars, and a yew tree in such skilful harmony, the rules of composition could not offer you a better.—You must have an erection there, Mr. Charville; you positively must. There sat a couple of jackdaws upon the oak too, in such harmony with the whole; but they would fly away, hang 'em!

MRS. CHARVILLE.

That was very perverse of them; I suppose those same daws belong more to Mr. Smitchenstault's school than to yours, Sir Level.

SIR LEVEL.

But you lose time, my dear Madam: come away, come away! a hundred pounds or two laid out on the ruin would make it a morsel for the finest Ducal park in the kingdom.

MARY (to Smitchenstault, as they are going).

But we shall interrupt your instructive conversation.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Never mind: de poor good man! I always indulge de good peoples in dere little folly.

[Exeunt all but Charville.

CHARVILLE. (after musing moodily on the front of the Stage).

Such a craving for dissipation and change!—A curious busy imagination.—"Next to receiving a love-letter of one's own, nothing delights one like peeping into the love-letters of one's neighbours;"—the true spirit of intrigue! Ay, but receiving love-letters of one's own; that is the best. A married woman and love-letters! How should she think of love-letters?

A bad, a suspicious, a dangerous disposition. I think I know myself; I am not prone to suspicion; but for those strange words, I should not have cared a maravedi for her painting that cursed flower. (Dashing his hand over the papers, and scattering them about.)

Re-enter Sir Level Clump.

SIR LEVEL.

My dear Sir, why do you stay behind—you who are most concerned in. this piece of good fortune? You must come out and behold it. A few hundreds—a mere trifle laid out upon it. If I could give it the form of an ancient mausoleum, it would delight you.

CHARVILLE.

Not a jot, unless you were to bury yourself under it.

[Exit the other way.

SIR LEVEL.

What is the matter? What is the matter? How can I have possibly offended him? I am sure nobody is less teasing or obtrusive than I am.[Exit.

Re-enter Charville.

CHARVILLE.

Is he gone? He will suspect something: they will all suspect. I must join them, and pretend it was only a feigned displeasure. Married, married![Exit.

SCENE II.

Mrs. Smoothly's Room. She enters speaking, and taking a Bandbox from a Servant, who immediately retires.

SMOOTHLY.

All nonsense! if you had waited for it last night at the waggoner's, you would have got it. (Alone.) 'T is well it comes at last: my lady's present bonnet will surely fall to my share now. (Opening the box.) Let me see. O how smart and pretty! Did it but fall to my lot, now, to wear such things with their best new face upon them! (Going to the glass, and putting the bonnet on her head, and then courtesying to herself affectedly.) Indeed, I beg ten thousand pardons: I thought for to have come for to ride in the park with you earlier; but my Lord,—Sir John, (ay, that will do) would not allow me; for you know I have not always command of my own horses, and them things we married ladies must submit to. O lud, lud! will it ever come to this? Such fine clothes, such a carriage, such a husband some girls have got, who are not, I'm sure, half so handsome.

Enter Smitchenstault softly behind her, and looks over her shoulders.

O mercy on me! (Shrieking out.)

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Hush, hush! What is de matter?

SMOOTHLY.

O, it is only you, Sir!

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Why, who did you tink?

SMOOTHLY.

Lud, Sir! they say that when people are vain, the devil is always near to take his advantage of it; and when I saw in the glass such a face staring over my shoulder,—O dear! I was frightened out of my wits.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Fy, fy! dere is no devil nor nonsense. I will teach you better dan dat. But dere be de little God of Love: you have heard of him, pretty minx?

SMOOTHLY.

With his bow, and his quiver, and all that there?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Ay; he it be who do take de advantage,—who do tempt you, who do tempt me, who do tempt every body.

SMOOTHLY.

O lud. Sir!

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Now, be you quiet; be not so fluster. You call dat fluster? (She nods.) Very well; it be him who do tempt every body. Do you know any body in dis house dat he is tempting now? Tink well before you answer me.

SMOOTHLY.

You said yourself, Sir.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Yes, but beside me dere is anoder.

SMOOTHLY (coyly).

La, Sir! how should I know?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

What you tink now of your pretty mistress, de sweet Mary Charville?

SMOOTHLY.

O Sir! if that is your point, I know nothing of that (sulkily).

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Come now, be free wid me: dere is for you. Buy ribbon, or de shoe buckle, or what you please. Now you tell me; don't she sometimes speak of me? make de little confidences?

SMOOTHLY.

O lud, no! ha, ha, ha!

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Come, come, no laugh; you not mock me. I know very well; tell me de truth. Dere is more money; dat will buy de little gown, if you please. Don't she sometime speak of me when you are alone?

SMOOTHLY.

You are so sinuating!—O dear! to be sure she sometimes does.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

I knew it; I knew dat she did. Now, pretty minx, when she speak of me again to you, and sigh, and do so (languishing affectedly), den do you speak of me too, you know.

SMOOTHLY.

And what shall I say. Sir?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

All dat you tink.

SMOOTHLY.

I fear. Sir, that would be of little service to you. You had better tell me precisely what I am to say.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Why—why, you may say dat I am handsome.

SMOOTHLY.

Very well, Sir: if she is in love with you, she will believe me. And what more shall I say?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Say, dat in her place you would love me too.

SMOOTHLY.

O dear. Sir! that would be presumptuous.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Poo, poo, poo! not presumptuous. Say you dat, pretty minx, and I tell you a secret: when I marry your lady, I can love you bote.

SMOOTHLY.

Dear, Sir, would not that be wicked?

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Wicked, pretty fool! what be dat ting wicked? I tell you dere be no devil in de world.

SMOOTHLY.

Truly, Sir, he does not seem to be wanted, while you are here.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Come, come, don't be afraid: I will love you bote. (Bell rings.)

SMOOTHLY.

My lady's bell: I must go to her immediately. She is in a hurry for her new bonnet.

SMITCHENSTAULT.

Remember, den, and take dis wid you. (Offering to kiss her.)

SMOOTHLY.

O no! I am in a great hurry: we'll put that off for the present. (Bell rings again.)

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

The Wood near the House.

Enter Mary and Sir Robert Freemantle by opposite sides.

MARY.

Sir Robert Freemantle!

FREEMANTLE.

Yes, even so; both morning and noon, always Sir Robert Freemantle. However, I don't make this second visit entirely without pretence. My uncle sent me—a very willing messenger, I own—to inform Mrs. Charville that the botanical work she mentioned this morning is out of print, so she need not take the trouble of writing to town for it: but he has it in his library, which is entirely at her service, and will take the liberty of sending it to her.

MARY.

He is very obliging; and so are you. Shall I turn with you, and meet Mrs. Charville? She is just coming out to walk.

FREEMANTLE.

This spot is very delightful: had we not better wait for her? Do you begrudge me one moment of your company, which will so soon pass away? How fleetly that time passes in reality, which from the imagination passes never!

MARY.

Ay, so it does.

FREEMANTLE.

Do you remember the evening when we danced together at Lady Milford's? And the morning when I met you on your sorrel mare, crossing the heath at full speed, with your locks scattered on the wind like the skirts of some drifted cloud? And that little party to the cottage too?

MARY.

Yes, I remember it all very well.

FREEMANTLE.

Very well! I remember it too well. But I distress you, Miss Charville; for you guess what I would say, and my motives for remaining silent on a subject so closely connected with every idea I have formed to myself of happiness. I will not distress you: yet permit me to see you sometimes. Let me call myself your neighbour or your friend.—Ha! Mrs. Charville already!

Enter Mrs. Charville.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

I saw you at a distance. How good you are to come to us again! for I have been thinking of many inquiries I should have made after my friend. However, I need not scourge my poor brains to remember every thing at once; for you are our neighbour, and we shall often meet.

MARY.

Mr. Crafton has sent by Sir Robert a very obliging message to you. The book you wished to see is out of print, and he will send it from his own library.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Good, dear, sensible Mr. Crafton, to keep such delightful books, and such a messenger to do his errands withal. To-morrow he will send me a novel to read—a very scarce, clever work; and the day after that, some verses by a friend (we are great critics in poetry, I assure you); and the day after that, a charade; and the day after that, a riddle, of his own writing perhaps; and the day after that—O, we shall make a great many days of the riddle! We need not guess it all at once; that would be improvident.

FREEMANTLE.

But, my dear Mrs. Charville, will you trust nothing to my own ingenuity in finding out reasons for doing what is so agreeable to me?

Enter Charville.

MRS. CHARVILLE (to her husband).

You saw Sir Robert at a distance too, I suppose. We are all gathering round him, I think, like pigeons round a looking-glass.

CHARVILLE (to her).

I heard your voice at a distance, and guessed you had some cause for such lively animation.

MARY.

Is my sister often without it?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

If I am, it is but of late. When you look grave (to Charville), it would be undutiful in me to be merry.

CHARVILLE (peevishly).

You are dutiful, and that makes you grave. (Striding away from him, muttering to himself.) I comprehend it; it is all plain enough. (Checking himself and returning to Freemantle.) This beautiful morning, Sir Robert, has tempted you to prolong your rambles in the wood: but what has become of Mr. Crafton?

FREEMANTLE.

He went home some time ago: he dislikes sitting down to dinner fatigued.

CHARVILLE.

He is right; it is not good for any body.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Then Sir Robert will stay and dine with us, and go home in the cool of the evening. He has walked a great deal, and must be fatigued, if he return now. (Looking wistfully to Charville, who is silent.) This would be a most agreeable arrangement. (Looks to him again, and he still remains silent.) Don't you think it would?

CHARVILLE.

Undoubtedly, if Sir Robert will do me the honour.

FREEMANTLE.

I am very much obliged to you and Mrs. Charville; but my uncle expects me: it is near his hour. I must deny myself a very great pleasure: I must return immediately.

CHARVILLE.

Since we are so unfortunate, perhaps you are right. The clouds seem to be gathering for rain.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

It is only the shadow of the trees overhead: the sky is as clear as a mirror.

CHARVILLE.

Is it the trees? There are shadows somewhere.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

So it seems: but blow them away, pray. I can't endure shadows.

MARY.

Yet you like moonlight and twilight, I think.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

O, to a folly! When owls are hooting, and beetles humming, and bats flying about, making as many circles in the air as a summer shower does on the pool. Did you (to Charville) see the bat we caught last night?

CHARVILLE.

A bat?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Yes, a horned bat; the ominous creature, you know, that fanciful people are frightened at. O yes, you must have seen it, for you are drawing in the muscles of your eyes and face at this very moment in mockery of the creature.

MARY.

Did you not see it, brother? It was very curious.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

He looks at no creatures but those which are bred in his kennels and his stable. I'll describe it to Sir Robert. (Going to Sir Robert, and walking with him to the bottom of the Stage, talking, and demonstrating with her hands, while Charville and Mary occupy the front.)

CHARVILLE.

So fond of natural curiosities: this is a new fancy, methinks.

MARY.

No; she is fond of painting butterflies, you know.

CHARVILLE.

So it seems, so it seems. (Striding away, and pacing round the Stage with his eyes fixed upon Sir Robert and Mrs. Charville, till he gets close behind them, while they move towards the front.)

MRS. CHARVILLE (continuing to speak as she and Freemantle come forward).

But that kind is larger, and speckled like a wilding's egg, or a cowry, or the back of a trout, so pretty, and so minute.

CHARVILLE (thrusting his head between them).

My Love, you are too minute. You forget that Mr. Crafton is waiting for Sir Robert.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Bless me! is your face there? I thought you were on the other side of us.

FREEMANTLE.

I am just going. Sir.

CHARVILLE.

O! Sir Robert, I beg that you will not go sooner than——Mr. Crafton, I know, is apt to be impatient.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

And you have a fellow-feeling for him.

FREEMANTLE (to Mrs. Charville).

So I may venture to tell my uncle that you receive the liberty he has taken in good part. Good day. (Going.)

MRS. CHARVILLE (calling him back).

But when do you write to your sister? There are many things which I wish to say to her.

FREEMANTLE (returning).

I shall have the honour to receive your commands on that subject whenever you please. (She walks with him, again busily talking, to the bottom of the Stage.)

CHARVILLE.

Does she mean to detain him the whole day?

MARY.

He has been here but a very short time.

CHARVILLE.

A long half hour by the clock.

MARY.

It is a clock of your own keeping, brother, and the wheels of it are in your own brain. I reckon it ten minutes.

CHARVILLE.

Are you bewitched to say so?—He goes; see he goes now. No, hang it! he does not go yet.

MARY.

Why are you so impatient?

CHARVILLE.

I am not impatient: let him stay till doomsday, if he will; but I hate people who are always going and going, and never go. (Stepping on to them hastily.) It will rain presently: it rains now; would you stay here to be wet?

MRS. CHARVILLE.

Rain!

CHARVILLE.

I felt a drop on my hand this moment: look there.

MRS. CHARVILLE.

It fell not from the clouds then; but verily, I think, from your own forehead. How warm you are! (Turning to Freemantle.) Good day, then, I will not detain you. [Exit Freemantle. (To Charville.) Well, dear Charles, since you are so afraid of the clouds, let us go into the house. But I must visit my bower first.
[Exit swiftly among the trees.

CHARVILLE (after stalking slowly away in another direction, stops short, and returns to Mary, who stands on the front, looking after Freemantle).

MARY.

Well, brother!

CHARVILLE.

My dear Mary!

MARY.

Well, brother; what would you say?

CHARVILLE.

I am going to ask a very foolish——I mean an idle——I should say, an unmeaning question.

MARY.

Never mind that; what is it?

CHARVILLE.

Has Freemantle really a sister?

MARY.

Is it possible that you have forgot the young lady whom you used to think poor Mordant resembled?

CHARVILLE.

Very true; it went out of my head strangely.

MARY.

Strangely indeed! Could you think he would talk of a sister, if he had none?

CHARVILLE.

O no, no, no! I have not an atom of suspicion about me; but I thought it might be a sister-in-law, or a brother's wife, or——there is no saying how many intricate relationships people have, now-a-days.

MARY.

He could have no sister-in-law; for poor Mordant, though distant, is his nearest male relation.

CHARVILLE.

Don't mention that poor wretch. He would be ruined: it was not my doing.

MARY.

Did you dissuade him from playing? and were you obliged to receive all that he lost? My dear brother, let me speak to you on this subject when you are composed and at leisure.

CHARVILLE.

I am composed enough, but certainly not at leisure.
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

An outer Court adjoining to the House.

Enter Isaac with a Letter, and immediately followed by Mrs. Smoothly.

SMOOTHLY.

Where are you going with that letter, Isaac?

ISAAC.

To Squire Crafton's.

SMOOTHLY.

Is it for the Squire himself?

ISAAC.

I bien't good at reading handy writ, as how my wit never lay that way; but I guess that it is either for the Squire himself, or some of the gentle folks of his family.

MRS. SMOOTHLY.

A clever guess truly; thy wit, I think, must he that way. Give me the letter; I'll take it; I'm going there, at any rate.

ISAAC (giving her the letter).

There it is: I knows you like an errand to that house to see somebody.

SMOOTHLY.

Dost thou think I would go to see nobody, foolish oaf?

ISAAC.

Ha, but a favourite somebody. Ay, ay! I knows what I knows. John, the butler, is a mighty fine man, and goes to church dressed like a squire of a Sunday, and the poor silly tits of the village courtesy as he passes, and call him " Sir." I knows what I knows. [Exit.

SMOOTHLY.

Do they suspect me, then? I'll hide this in my bosom, and nobody else shall know where I am going.

Enter Charville.

CHARVILLE.

What letter is that you are hiding so carefully?

SMOOTHLY.

O lud, Sir!

CHARVILLE.

What, you are nervous, are you? I say, what letter is that? Who is it for?

SMOOTHLY.

Lud, Sir, I never read the direction, it's for the post.

CHARVILLE.

Why need you go out with it, then, when the letter-box is in the hall? Give it to me, and I'll put it in.

SMOOTHLY.

O Sir, that wo'n't take it to the place it is going to.

CHARVILLE.

Did you not tell me this moment that it is for the post?

SMOOTHLY.

Did I, Sir? I was wrong. Sir; I must take it myself.

CHARVILLE.

Come, come; no more waiting-maid prevarications! Give me the letter, I charge you, and I'll take it where it should go. Give me the letter this instant.

SMOOTHLY (giving it unwillingly).

There, Sir.

CHARVILLE (looking at the direction).

By heaven and earth just what I expected. (Sternly to her.) And you did not know to whom this letter is directed? (Motioning her to go as she is about to speak.) Away, away! Tell me no more lies: I'll take care of this letter.
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE V.

The Butler's Room.

Enter Dickenson with a Paper in his Hand, which he looks upon ruefully.

DICKENSON.

Ay, this was the state of the cellar: what it will be soon, if all these palavering people, with their improvements and philosophy, stay much longer in the house, the Lord knows! That good bin of claret is melting away most piteously. Who's there?

Enter Charville.

My master. I beg your honour's pardon.

CHARVILLE.

Hush! Let me be here for a little while.

DICKENSON.

What is the matter, Sir? you are very pale.

CHARVILLE.

Nothing, nothing. Watch on the outside of the door, and prevent any body coming in: there is not a room in my own house where I can be at peace for a few minutes to read a letter.

DICKENSON.

Are they in your study, Sir?

CHARVILLE.

Yes, yes! Sir Level is there with his cursed plans: they are in my dressing-room too; they are every where. Watch by the door, I say, for a few minutes. [Exit Dickenson.

(Taking out the letter with agitation.)
"To Sir Robert Freemantle." Her own handwriting: that fair character for such foul ends! What man on earth would not do as I do? (Breaking open the seal.) A cover only. The enclosed. (Reads again.) "To Miss Freemantle." Is this all? (Examining the envelope.) What's here? A coarse scratched drawing of a horned bat. (Reads again.) "You will understand what I mean by this, though it is but a scratch."—No more! By Jove there is some mischievous meaning under this! It is my likeness she would give under that of a bat, and she will add the horns to the original, if she can. (Reads again.) "To Miss Freemantle." If this should be a device now, lest the letter should be opened! I'll pawn my life it is. "To Miss Freemantle." We shall see; we shall see. (Tears open the enclosed letter.) Mercy on us! three pages and a half so closely written!

DICKENSON (without).

You shan't come in, I say.

CHARVILLE.

Who's there? (Huddling up the papers.) I must have time to read all this. (Noise of voices without.) What's that?

Re-enter Dickenson.

DICKENSON.

They are inquiring for you, Sir. Ladies and gentlemen, and all; they are going to walk.

CHARVILLE.

Let them go where they please. I'll take my walk elsewhere.

DICKENSON.

You may go out by the back stair, Sir.

CHARVILLE.

So I will; that is well thought of thee, good Dickenson. [Exeunt.

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