Enter Hardcastle, alone.
Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town? To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took off his boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I’m desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. She will certainly be shocked at it.
Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed.
Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I bade you; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion.
Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their propriety.
Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause, particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover today.
Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the description.
Hardcastle. I was never so surprised in my life! He has quite confounded all my faculties!
Miss Hardcastle. I never saw anything like it: and a man of the world too!
Hardcastle. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what a fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a masquerade.
Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him.
Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French dancing-master.
Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa! A French dancing-master could never have taught him that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful manner —
Hardcastle. Whose look? whose manner, child?
Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow’s: his mauvaise honte, his timidity, struck me at the first sight.
Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you; for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses.
Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally! I never saw any one so modest.
Hardcastle. And can you be serious? I never saw such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him.
Miss Hardcastle. Surprising! He met me with a respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground.
Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again.
Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence and respect; censured the manners of the age; admired the prudence of girls that never laughed; tired me with apologies for being tiresome; then left the room with a bow, and “Madam, I would not for the world detain you.”
Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before; asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer; interrupted my best remarks with some silly pun; and when I was in my best story of the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of punch!
Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be mistaken.
Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, I’m determined he shall never have my consent.
Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall never have mine.
Hardcastle. In one thing then we are agreed — to reject him.
Miss Hardcastle. Yes: but upon conditions. For if you should find him less impudent, and I more presuming — if you find him more respectful, and I more importunate — I don’t know — the fellow is well enough for a man — Certainly, we don’t meet many such at a horse-race in the country.
Hardcastle. If we should find him so — But that’s impossible. The first appearance has done my business. I’m seldom deceived in that.
Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many good qualities under that first appearance.
Hardcastle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow’s outside to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue.
Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment to my good sense, won’t end with a sneer at my understanding?
Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps.
Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to make further discoveries?
Hardcastle. Agreed. But depend on’t I’m in the right.
Miss Hardcastle. And depend on’t I’m not much in the wrong. [Exeunt.]
Enter Tony, running in with a casket.
Tony. Ecod! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con’s necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan’t cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. O! my genus, is that you?
Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother? I hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that you are willing to be reconciled at last? Our horses will be refreshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off.
Tony. And here’s something to bear your charges by the way [giving the casket]; your sweetheart’s jewels. Keep them: and hang those, I say, that would rob you of one of them.
Hastings. But how have you procured them from your mother?
Tony. Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother’s bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do? An honest man may rob himself of his own at any time.
Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you; Miss Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of obtaining them.
Tony. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. But I know how it will be well enough; she’d as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head.
Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds she has lost them.
Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave Me to manage that. I don’t value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds! here they are. Morrice! Prance! [Exit Hastings.]
Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs.
Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don’t you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back.
Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me?
Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty?
Tony. That’s as thereafter may be.
Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me.
Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things. They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe, I can’t readily come at them. They may be missing, for aught I know to the contrary.
Tony. [Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.] Then why don’t you tell her so at once, as she’s so longing for them? Tell her they’re lost. It’s the only way to quiet her. Say they’re lost, and call me to bear witness.
Mrs. Hardcastle. [Apart to Tony.] You know, my dear, I’m only keeping them for you. So if I say they’re gone, you’ll bear me witness, will you? He! he! he!
Tony. Never fear me. Ecod! I’ll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes.
Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up again.
Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them you should have them. They’re missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I know; but we must have patience wherever they are.
Miss Neville. I’ll not believe it! this is but a shallow pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss —
Mrs. Hardcastle. Don’t be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to be found.
Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be found; I’ll take my oath on’t.
Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation, my dear; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am.
Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of others.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them; and in the mean time you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found.
Miss Neville. I detest garnets.
Mrs. Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the world to set off a clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You shall have them. [Exit.]
Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You shan’t stir. — Was ever anything so provoking, to mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her trumpery?
Tony. Don’t be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he’ll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her.
Miss Neville. My dear cousin!
Tony. Vanish. She’s here, and has missed them already. [Exit Miss Neville.] Zounds! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel.
Enter Mrs. Hardcastle.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion! thieves! robbers! we are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone.
Tony. What’s the matter, what’s the matter, mamma? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good family!
Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I’m undone.
Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the laws, I never saw it acted better in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I Am ruined in earnest. My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away.
Tony. Stick to that: ha! ha! ha! stick to that. I’ll bear witness, you know; call me to bear witness.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that’s precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever.
Tony. Sure I know they’re gone, and I’m to say so.
Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They’re gone, I say.
Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha! ha! I know who took them well enough, ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can’t tell the difference between jest and earnest? I tell you I’m not in jest, booby.
Tony. That’s right, that’s right; you must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I’ll bear witness that they are gone.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won’t hear me? Can you bear witness that you’re no better than a fool? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other?
Tony. I can bear witness to that.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I’ll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her? Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress?
Tony. I can bear witness to that.
Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster? I’ll teach you to vex your mother, I will.
Tony. I can bear witness to that. [He runs off, she follows him.]
Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid.
Miss Hardcastle. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as an inn! ha! ha! I don’t wonder at his impudence.
Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the bar-maid, madam.
Miss Hardcastle. Did he? Then as I live, I’m resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress? Don’t you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem?
Maid. It’s the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but when she visits or receives company.
Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does not remember my face or person?
Maid. Certain of it.
Miss Hardcastle. I vow, I thought so; for, though we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked up during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from seeing me.
Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake?
Miss Hardcastle. In the first place I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaintance, and that’s no small victory gained over one who never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But my chief aim is, to take my gentleman off his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance, examine the giant’s force before I offer to combat.
Maid. But you are sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person?
Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar cant — Did your honour call? — Attend the Lion there — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour.
Maid. It will do, madam. But he’s here. [Exit Maid.]
Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the house! I have scarce a moment’s repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and his story: if I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her curtsey down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and now for recollection. [Walks and muses.]
Miss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir? Did your honour call?
Marlow. [Musing.] As for Miss Hardcastle, she’s too grave and sentimental for me.
Miss Hardcastle. Did your honour call? [She still places herself before him, he turning away.]
Marlow. No, child. [Musing.] Besides, from the glimpse I had of her, I think she squints.
Miss Hardcastle. I’m sure, sir, I heard the bell ring.
Marlow. No, no. [Musing.] I have pleased my father, however, by coming down, and I’ll tomorrow please myself by returning. [Taking out his tablets, and perusing.]
Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir?
Marlow. I tell you, no.
Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a parcel of servants!
Marlow. No, no, I tell you. [Looks full in her face.] Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — I vow, child, you are vastly handsome.
Miss Hardcastle. O la, sir, you’ll make one ashamed.
Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of your — a — what d’ye call it in the house?
Miss Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days.
Marlow. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of a trial, of the nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too.
Miss Hardcastle. Nectar! nectar! That’s a liquor there’s no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. We sell no French wines here, sir.
Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you.
Miss Hardcastle. Then it’s odd I should not know it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen years.
Marlow. Eighteen years! Why, one would think, child, you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you?
Miss Hardcastle. O! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and music should never be dated.
Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can’t be much above forty [approaching]. Yet, nearer, I don’t think so much [approaching]. By coming close to some women they look younger still; but when we come very close indeed — [attempting to kiss her].
Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you wanted to know one’s age, as they do horses, by mark of mouth.
Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted?
Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be acquainted with you? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I’m sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this obstropalous manner. I’ll warrant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you was before a justice of peace.
Marlow. [Aside.] Egad, she has hit it, sure enough! [To her.] In awe of her, child? Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward squinting thing; no, no. I find you don’t know me. I laughed and rallied her a little; but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse me!
Miss Hardcastle. O! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the ladies?
Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet hang me, I don’t see what they find in me to follow. At the Ladies’ Club in town I’m called their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one I’m known by. My name is Solomons; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your service. [Offering to salute her.]
Miss Hardcastle. Hold, sir; you are introducing me to your club, not to yourself. And you’re so great a favourite there, you say?
Marlow. Yes, my dear. There’s Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place.
Miss Hardcastle. Then it’s a very merry place, I suppose?
Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women can make us.
Miss Hardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! ha! ha!
Marlow. [Aside.] Egad! I don’t quite like this chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child?
Miss Hardcastle. I can’t but laugh, to think what time they all have for minding their work or their family.
Marlow. [Aside.] All’s well; she don’t laugh at me. [To her.] Do you ever work, child?
Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. There’s not a screen or quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness to that.
Marlow. Odso! then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you must apply to me. [Seizing her hand.]
Miss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colours do not look well by candlelight. You shall see all in the morning. [Struggling.]
Marlow. And why not now, my angel? Such beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. — Pshaw! the father here! My old luck: I never nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace three times following. [Exit Marlow.]
Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise.
Hardcastle. So, madam. So, I find This is your Modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive your father so?
Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but he’s still the modest man I first took him for; you’ll be convinced of it as well as I.
Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is infectious! Didn’t I see him seize your hand? Didn’t I see him haul you about like a milkmaid? And now you talk of his respect and his modesty, forsooth!
Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that will improve with age, I hope you’ll forgive him.
Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run mad! I tell you, I’ll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce been three hours in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it modesty; but my son-inlaw, madam, must have very different qualifications.
Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you.
Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour.
Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy you.
Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But I’ll have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me.
Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered your commands as my pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclination. [Exeunt.]
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:54