Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  Betty. I’m sure I don’t know what to do no more than the dog. [Gets a broom.]

  Mrs. Voluble. What do you talk so for? Have you a mind to have the company hear you? [The knocking is repeated.] There, they’re knocking like mad! — Miss Jenny, what signifies your staring? Can’t you make yourself a little useful? I’m sure if you won’t at such a time as this — why, Betty, why don’t you make haste? Come, poke every thing into the closet, — I wonder why Bobby could not have took some of the things himself, — but as soon as ever he’s done the mischief he thinks of nothing but running away.

  They clear the stage, & Miss Jenny runs to a looking glass.

  Miss Jenny. Dear me, what a figure I’ve made of myself!

  Mrs. Voluble. There, now we shall do pretty well. Betty, go & ask the lady in. [Exit Betty.] I declare I’m in such a flustration!

  Miss Jenny. So am I, I’m sure, for I’m all of a tremble.

  Mrs. Wheedle. Well, if you can spare master Bobby, we’ll go to Mrs. Hollis’s directly.

  Mrs. Voluble. Spare him? Ay, I’m sure it would have been good luck for me if you had taken him an hour ago.

  Mrs. Wheedle. Well, good by, then. I shall see who the lady is as I go along.

  [Exit.

  Miss Jenny. It’s very unlucky I did not put on my Irish muslin.

  Mrs. Voluble. It’s prodigious odd what can bring any company at this time of night.

  Enter Mrs. Sapient.

  Mrs. Sapient! Dear ma’am, I can hardly believe my eyes!

  Mrs. Sapient. I am afraid my visit is unseasonable, but I beg I may not incommode you.

  Mrs. Voluble. Incommode me? Dear ma’am no, not the least in the world; I was doing nothing but just sitting here talking with Miss Jenny, about one thing or another.

  Mrs. Sapient. I have a question to ask you, Mrs. Voluble, which —

  Mrs. Voluble. I’m sure, ma’am, I shall be very proud to answer it; but if I had but known of the pleasure of seeing you, I should not have been in such a pickle; but it happened so that we’ve been a little busy today, — you know, ma’am, in all families there will be some busy days, — & I’ve the misfortune of a son, ma’am, who’s a little unlucky, so that puts one a little out of sorts, but he’s so unmanageable, ma’am, that really —

  Mrs. Sapient. Well, well, I only want to ask if you know any thing of Miss Stanley?

  Mrs. Voluble. Miss Stanley? To be sure I do, ma’am; why she’s now in my own house here.

  Mrs. Sapient. Indeed? — And pray — what, I suppose, she is chiefly with Mr. Dabler? —

  Mrs. Voluble. No, ma’am, no, she keeps prodigiously snug; she bid me not tell anybody she was here, so I make it a rule to keep it secret, — unless, indeed, ma’am, to such a lady as you.

  Mrs. Sapient. O, it’s very safe with me. But, pray, don’t you think Mr. Dabler rather admires her?

  Mrs. Voluble. O no, ma’am, not half so much as he admires another lady of your acquaintance. Ha! Ha!

  Mrs. Sapient. Fie, Mrs. Voluble! — but pray, does not he write a great deal?

  Mrs. Voluble. Dear ma’am yes; he’s in one continual scribbling from morning to night.

  Mrs. Sapient. — Well, & — do you know if he writes about any particular person?

  Mrs. Voluble. O yes, ma’am, he writes about Celia, & Daphne, & Cleora, & —

  Mrs. Sapient. You never see his poems, do you?

  Mrs. Voluble. O dear yes, ma’am, I see them all. Why I have one now in my pocket about Cleora, that I happened to pick up this morning. [Aside to Miss Jenny.] Miss Jenny, do pray put me in mind to put it up before he comes home. [To Mrs. Sapient.] Should you like to see it, ma’am? —

  Mrs. Sapient. Why — if you have it at hand —

  Mrs. Voluble. Dear ma’am, if I had not, I’m sure I’d fetch it, for I shall be quite proud to oblige you. As to any common acquaintance, I would not do such a thing upon any account, because I should scorn to do such a baseness to Mr. Dabler, but to such a lady as you it’s quite another thing. For, whenever I meet with a lady of quality, I make it a point to behave in the genteelist manner I can. Perhaps, ma’am, you’d like to see Mr. Dabler’s study?

  Mrs. Sapient. O no, not upon any account.

  Mrs. Voluble. Because, upon his table, there’s a matter of an hundred of his miniscrips.

  Mrs. Sapient. Indeed? — But when do you expect him home?

  Mrs. Voluble. O not this good while.

  Mrs. Sapient. Well then — if you are certain we shall not be surprised —

  Mrs. Voluble. O, I’m quite certain of that.

  Mrs. Sapient. But, then, for fear of accidents, let your maid order my coach to wait in the next street.

  Mrs. Voluble. Yes, ma’am. Here, Betty!

  [Exit.

  Mrs. Sapient. This is not quite right, but this woman would show them to somebody else if not to me. And now perhaps I may discover whether any of his private papers contain my name. She will not, for her own sake, dare betray me.

  Re-enter Mrs. Voluble.

  Mrs. Voluble. Now, ma’am, I’ll wait upon you. I assure you, ma’am, I would not do this for every body, only a lady of your honour I’m sure would be above —

  [Exit talking, with Mrs. Sapient.

  Miss Jenny. She’s said never a word to me all the time, & I dare say she knew me as well as could be; but fine ladies seem to think their words are made of gold, they are so afraid of bestowing them.

  Re-enter Mrs. Voluble.

  Mrs. Voluble. O Miss Jenny, only look here! My apron’s all stained with the wine! I never see it till this minute, & now — [A knocking at the door.] [Screams.] Oh! that’s Mr. Dabler’s knock! What shall we all do? — run up stairs & tell the lady this minute, —

  [Exit Miss Jenny.

  Betty! Betty! Don’t go to the door yet, — I can’t think what brings him home so soon! — here’s nothing but ill luck upon ill luck!

  Enter Mrs. Sapient with Miss Jenny.

  Come, ma’am, come in! Betty! — you may go to the door now.

  Mrs. Sapient. But are you sure he will not come in here?

  Mrs. Voluble. O quite, ma’am; he always goes to his own room. Hush! — ay, he’s gone up, — I heard him pass.

  Mrs. Sapient. I am quite surprised, Mrs. Voluble, you should have deceived me thus; did not you assure me he would not return this hour? I must tell you, Mrs. Voluble, that, whatever you may think of it, I shall always regard a person who is capable of deceit to be guilty of insincerity.

  Mrs. Voluble. Indeed, ma’am, I knew no more of his return than you did, for he makes it a sort of a rule of a ‘Sprit night —

  Miss Jenny. Ma’am, ma’am, I hear him on the stairs!

  Mrs. Sapient. O hide me, — hide me this instant anywhere, — And don’t say I am here for the universe!

  [She runs into the closet.

  Mrs. Voluble. No, ma’am, that I won’t if it costs me my life! — you may always depend upon me.

  [Shuts her in.

  Miss Jenny. Laws, what a pickle she’ll be in! She’s got all among the broken things.

  Enter Dabler.

  Dabler. Mrs. Voluble, you’ll please to make out my account, for I shall leave your house directly.

  Mrs. Voluble. Leave my house? Lord, sir, you quite frighten me!

  Dabler. You have used me very ill, Mrs. Voluble, & curse me if I shall put up with it!

  Mrs. Voluble. Me, sir? I’m sure, sir, I don’t so much as know what you mean.

  Dabler. You have been rummaging all my papers.

  Mrs. Voluble. I? — no, sir, — I’m sorry, sir, you suspect me of such a mean proceeding.

  Dabler. ’Tis in vain to deny it; I have often had reason to think it, but now my doubts are confirmed, for my last new song, which I called Cleora, is nowhere to be found.

  Mrs. Voluble. Nowhere to be found? — you surprise me! — [Aside.] Good Lank, I quite forgot to put it up!

  Dabler. I’m certain I left it at the top of my papers.

  Mrs. Volu
ble. Did you indeed, sir? Well, I’m sure it’s the oddest thing in the world what can be come of it!

  Dabler. There is something so gross, so scandalous in this usage, that I am determined not to be duped by it. I shall quit my lodgings directly; — take your measures accordingly.

  [Going.

  Mrs. Voluble. O pray, sir, stay, — & if you won’t be so angry, I’ll tell you the whole truth of the matter.

  Dabler. Be quick, then.

  Mrs. Voluble. [In a low voice.] I’m sorry, sir, to betray a lady, but when one’s own reputation is at stake —

  Dabler. What lady? I don’t understand you.

  Mrs. Voluble. Hush, hush, sir! — she’ll hear you.

  Dabler. She? — Who?

  Mrs. Voluble. [Whispering.] Why, Mrs. Sapient, sir, she’s in that closet.

  Dabler. What do you mean?

  Mrs. Voluble. I’ll tell you all, sir, by & by, — but you must know she came to me, & — & — & begged just to look at your study, sir, — So, sir, never supposing such a lady as that would think of looking at your papers, I was persuaded to agree to it, — but, sir, as soon as ever we got into the room, she fell to reading them without so much as saying a word! — while I, all the time, stood in this manner! — staring with stupification. So, sir, when you knocked at the door, she ran down to the closet.

  Dabler. And what has induced her to do all this?

  Mrs. Voluble. Ah, sir, you know well enough! Mrs. Sapient is a lady of prodigious good taste; everybody knows how she admires Mr. Dabler.

  Dabler. Why yes, I don’t think she wants taste.

  Mrs. Voluble. Well but, sir, pray don’t stay, for she is quite close crammed in the closet.

  Dabler. I think I’ll speak to her.

  Mrs. Voluble. Not for the world, sir! If she knows I’ve betrayed her, she’ll go beside herself. &, I’m sure, sir, I would not have told anybody but you upon no account. If you’ll wait up stairs till she’s gone, I’ll come & tell you all about it, — but pray, dear sir, make haste.

  Dabler. Yes, She’s a good agreeable woman, & really has a pretty knowledge of poetry. Poor soul! — I begin to be half sorry for her.

  [Exit.

  Mrs. Voluble. I thought he’d never have gone. How do do now, ma’am?

  [Opens the closet door.

  Enter Mrs. Sapient.

  Mrs. Sapient. Crampt to death! What a strange place have you put me in! Let me begone this instant, — but are you sure, Mrs. Voluble, you have not betrayed me?

  Mrs. Voluble. I’m surprised, ma’am, you should suspect me! I would not do such a false thing for never so much, for I always — [A knocking at the door.] Why now who can that be?

  Mrs. Sapient. How infinitely provoking! — let me go back to this frightful closet till the coast is clear.

  [Returns to the closet.

  Mrs. Voluble. Well, I think I’ve managed matters like a Matchwell.

  Enter Mrs. Wheedle.

  Mrs. Wheedle. O, I’m quite out of breath, — I never walked so fast in my life.

  Mrs. Voluble. Where have you left Bobby?

  Mrs. Wheedle. He’s gone into the kitchen. I must see Miss Stanley directly.

  Mrs. Voluble. We’ve been in perilous danger since you went. [In a low voice.] Do you know, Mrs. Sapient is now in the closet? Be sure you don’t tell anybody.

  Mrs. Wheedle. No, not for the world. Miss Jenny, pray step & tell Miss Stanley I’m come back.

  [Exit Miss Jenny.

  Mrs. Voluble. Well, & while you speak to her, I’ll go & talk over Mr. Dabler, & contrive to poke this nasty song under the table. But first I’ll say something to the poor lady in the closet. [Opens the door.] Ma’am! if you’ve a mind to keep still, you’ll hear all what Miss Stanley says presently, for she’s coming down.

  Mrs. Sapient. Are you mad, Mrs. Voluble? — what do you hold the door open for? — Would you have that woman see me?

  Mrs. Voluble. Ma’am, I beg your pardon! [Shuts the door.] I won’t help her out this half hour for that crossness.

  [Exit.

  Mrs. Wheedle. These fine ladies go through any thing for the sake of curiosity.

  Enter Cecilia.

  Cecilia. Well, Mrs. Wheedle, have you seen Mrs. Hollis?

  Mrs. Wheedle. Yes, ma’am, & she’s quite agreeable to your proposal: but as she’s going very soon, & will be glad to be fixed, she says she shall take it as a particular favour if you will go to her house to night.

  Cecilia. Impossible! I must consult some friend ere I go at all.

  Mrs. Wheedle. But, ma’am, she begs you will, for she says she’s heard of your misfortunes, & shall be glad to give you her advice what to do.

  Cecilia. Then I will go to her! — for never yet did poor creature more want advice & assistance!

  Mrs. Wheedle. [Calls at the door.] Betty! go & get a coach. I’ll just go speak to Mrs. Voluble, ma’am, & come again.

  [Exit.

  Cecilia. Perhaps I may repent this enterprise, — my heart fails me already; — & yet, how few are those human actions that repentance may not pursue! Error precedes almost every step, & sorrow follows every error. I who to happiness have bid a long, a last farewell, must content myself with seeking peace in retirement & solitude, & endeavour to contract all my wishes to preserving my own innocence from the contagion of this bad & most diseased world’s corruptions.

  Enter Betty.

  Betty. Ma’am, the coach is at the Door.

  Cecilia. Alas!

  Betty. Mrs. Wheedle, ma’am, is gone up stairs to my missus, but she says she’ll be ready in a few minutes.

  [Exit.

  Cecilia. Oh cease, fond, suffering, feeble heart! to struggle thus with misery inevitable. Beaufort is no longer the Beaufort he appeared, & since he has lost even the semblance of his worth, why should this sharp regret pursue his image? But, alas, that semblance which he has lost, I must ever retain! Fresh, fair & perfect it is still before me! — Oh, why must woe weaken all faculties but the memory? — I will reason no longer, — I will think of him no more, — I will offer myself to servitude, for labour itself must be less insupportable than this gloomy indolence of sorrowing reflection — where is this woman? —

  [Going.

  Enter Beaufort, who stops her.

  Beaufort. My Cecilia! —

  Cecilia. Oh — good Heaven!

  Beaufort. My lov’d, lost, injured, — my adored Cecilia!

  Cecilia. Am I awake?

  Beaufort. Whence this surprise? — my love, my heart’s sweet partner —

  Cecilia. Oh forbear! — these terms are no longer — Mr. Beaufort, let me pass!

  Beaufort. What do I hear?

  Cecilia. Leave me, sir, — I cannot talk with you, — leave me, I say!

  Beaufort. Leave you? — [Offering to take her hand.]

  Cecilia. Yes, — [Turning from him.] for I cannot bear to look at you!

  Beaufort. Not look at me? What have I done? How have I offended you? Why are you thus dreadfully changed?

  Cecilia. I changed? Comes this well from you? — but I will not recriminate, neither will I converse with you any longer. You see me now perhaps for the last time, — I am preparing to quit the kingdom.

  Beaufort. To quit the kingdom?

  Cecilia. Yes; it is a step which your own conduct has compelled me to take.

  Beaufort. My conduct? — who has belied me to you? — what villain —

  Cecilia. No one, sir; you have done your work yourself.

  Beaufort. Cecilia, do you mean to distract me? — if not, explain, & instantly, your dark, your cruel meaning.

  Cecilia. Can it want explanation to you? Have you shocked me in ignorance, & irritated me without knowing it?

  Beaufort. I shocked? — I irritated you? —

  Cecilia. Did you not, in the very first anguish of a calamity which you alone had the power to alleviate neglect & avoid me? Send me a cold message by a friend? Suffer me to endure indignities without support, & sorrows without participation? Le
ave me, defenseless, to be crushed by impending ruin? & abandon my aching heart to all the torture of new-born fears, unprotected, unassured, & uncomforted?

  Beaufort. Can I have done all this?

  Cecilia. I know not, — but I am sure it has seem’d so.

  Beaufort. Oh wretched policy of cold, unfeeling prudence, had I listened to no dictates but those of my heart, I had never been wounded with suspicions & reproaches so cruel.

  Cecilia. Rather say, had your heart sooner known it’s own docility, you might have permitted Lady Smatter to dispose of it ere the deluded Cecilia was known to you.

  Beaufort. Barbarous Cecilia! Take not such a time as this to depreciate my heart in your opinion, for now— ’tis all I have to offer you.

  Cecilia. You know too well— ’tis all I ever valued.

  Beaufort. Oh take it then, — receive it once more, & with that confidence in its faith which it never deserved to forfeit! Painfully I submitted to advice I abhorred, but though my judgement has been overpowered, my truth has been inviolate. Turn not from me, Cecilia! — if I have temporised, it has been less for my own sake than for yours; but I have seen the vanity of my expectations, — I have disobeyed Lady Smatter, — I have set all consequences at defiance, & flown in the very face of ruin, — & now, will you, Cecilia, [Kneeling.] reject, disdain & spurn me?

  Cecilia. Oh Beaufort — is it possible I can have wronged you?

  Beaufort. Never, my sweetest Cecilia, if now you pardon me.

  Cecilia. Pardon you? — too generous Beaufort — ah! Rise.

  Enter Lady Smatter & Mr. Codger.

  Beaufort. [Rising.] Lady Smatter!

  Lady Smatter. How, Beaufort here? — & kneeling, too!

  Codger. Son Beaufort, I cannot deny but I think it is rather an extraordinary thing that you should choose to be seen kneeling to that young lady, knowing, I presume, that your Aunt Smatter disaffects your so doing.