Scene IV Olivia’s Lodging
Enter Olivia with a candle in her hand.
Oliv. So, I am now prepared once more for my timorous young lover’s reception. My husband is gone; and go thou out too, thou next interrupter of love.—[Puts out the candle.] Kind darkness, that frees us lovers from scandal and bashfulness, from the censure of our gallants and the world!—So, are you there?
Enter Fidelia, followed softly by Manly.
Come, my dear punctual lover, there is not such another in the world; thou hast beauty and youth to please a wife; address and wit, to amuse and fool a husband; nay, thou hast all things to be wished in a lover, but your fits. I hope, my dear, you won’t have one to-night; and that you may not, I’ll lock the door, though there be no need of it, but to lock out your fits: for my husband is just gone out of town again. Come, where are you? [Goes to the door and locks it.
Man. Well, thou hast impudence enough to give me fits too, and make revenge itself impotent; hinder me from making thee yet more infamous, if it can be. [Aside.
Oliv. Come, come, my soul, come.
Fid. Presently, my dear, we have time enough sure.
Oliv. How, time enough! True lovers can no more think they ever have time enough, than love enough. You shall stay with me all night; but that is but a lover’s moment. Come.
Fid. But won’t you let me give you and myself the satisfaction of telling you how I abused your husband last night?
Oliv. Not when you can give me, and yourself too, the satisfaction of abusing him again to-night. Come.
Fid. Let me but tell you how your husband—
Oliv. O name not his, or Manly’s more loathsome name, if you love me! I forbid ’em last night: and you know I mentioned my husband but once, and he came. No talking, pray, ’twas ominous to us.—[A noise at the door.] You make me fancy a noise at the door already, but I’m resolved not to be interrupted. Where are you? Come, for rather than lose my dear expectation now, though my husband were at the door, and the bloody ruffian Manly here in the room, with all his awful insolence, I would give myself to this dear hand, to be led away to heavens of joys, which none but thou canst give.—[The noise at the door increases.] But what’s this noise at the door? So, I told you what talking would come to. Ha!—O Heavens, my husband’s voice!—[Listens at the door.
Man. [Aside.] Freeman is come too soon.
Oliv. O, ’tis he!—Then here’s the happiest minute lost that ever bashful boy or trifling woman fooled away! I’m undone! my husband’s reconcilement too was false, as my joy all delusion. But come this way, here’s a back door.—[Exit, and returns.] The officious jade has locked us in, instead of locking others out: but let us then escape your way, by the balcony; and whilst you pull down the curtains, I’ll fetch from my closet what next will best secure our escape. I have left my key in the door, and ’twill not suddenly be broken open. [Exit.
[A noise as if people were forcing the door.
Man. Stir not, yet fear nothing.
Fid. Nothing but your life, sir.
Man. We shall know this happy man she calls husband.
Re-enter Olivia.
Oliv. Oh, where are you? What, idle with fear? Come, I’ll tie the curtains, if you will hold. Here take this cabinet and purse, for it is thine, if we escape;—[Manly takes them from her]—therefore let us make haste. [Exit.
Man. ’Tis mine indeed now again, and it shall never escape more from me, to you at least. [The door is broke open, enter Vernish with a dark-lantern and a sword, running at Manly, who draws, puts by the thrust, and defends himself, whilst Fidelia runs at Vernish behind.
Ver. So, there I’m right, sure—[In a low voice.
Man. [Softly.] Sword and dark-lantern, villain, are some odds; but—
Ver. Odds! I’m sure I find more odds than I expected. What, has my insatiable two seconds at once? but—[In a low voice.
[Whilst they fight, Olivia re-enters, tying two curtains together.
Oliv. Where are you now?—What, is he entered then, and are they fighting? O do not kill one that can make no defence!—[Manly throws Vernish down and disarms him.] How! but I think he has the better on’t. Here’s his scarf, ’tis he. So, keep him down still: I hope thou hast no hurt, my dearest? [Embracing Manly.
Enter Freeman, Lord Plausible, Novel, Jerry Blackacre, and Widow Blackacre, lighted by the two Sailors with torches.
Ha!—what! Manly! and have I been thus concerned for him! embracing him! and has he his jewels again too! What means this? O, ’tis too sure, as well as my shame! which I’ll go hide for ever. [Offers to go out, Manly stops her.
Man. No, my dearest; after so much kindness as has passed between us, I cannot part with you yet.—Freeman, let nobody stir out of the room; for notwithstanding your lights, we are yet in the dark, till this gentleman please to turn his face—[Pulls Vernish by the sleeve.] How, Vernish! art thou the happy man then? thou! thou! speak, I say; but thy guilty silence tells me all.—Well, I shall not upbraid thee; for my wonder is striking me as dumb as thy shame has made thee. But what? my little volunteer hurt, and fainting!
Fid. My wound, sir, is but a slight one in my arm; ’tis only my fear of your danger, sir, not yet well over.
Man. But what’s here? more strange things—[Observing Fidelia’s hair untied behind, and without a peruke, which she lost in the scuffle.] What means this long woman’s hair, and face! now all of it appears too beautiful for a man; which I still thought womanish indeed! What, you have not deceived me too, my little volunteer?
Oliv. Me she has, I’m sure. [Aside.
Man. Speak!
Enter Eliza and Lettice.
Eliza. What, cousin, I am brought hither by your woman, I suppose, to be a witness of the second vindication of your honour?
Oliv. Insulting is not generous. You might spare me, I have you.
Eliza. Have a care, cousin, you’ll confess anon too much; and I would not have your secrets.
Man. Come, your blushes answer me sufficiently, and you have been my volunteer in love. [To Fidelia.
Fid. I must confess I needed no compulsion to follow you all the world over; which I attempted in this habit, partly out of shame to own my love to you, and fear of a greater shame, your refusal of it; for I knew of your engagement to this lady, and the constancy of your nature; which nothing could have altered but herself.
Man. Dear madam, I desired you to bring me out of confusion, and you have given me more. I know not what to speak to you, or how to look upon you; the sense of my rough, hard, and ill usage of you, (though chiefly your own fault,) gives me more pain now ’tis over, than you had when you suffered it: and if my heart, the refusal of such a woman—[Pointing to Olivia]—were not a sacrifice to profane your love, and a greater wrong to you than ever yet I did you, I would beg of you to receive it, though you used it as she had done; for though it deserved not from her the treatment she gave it, it does from you.
Fid. Then it has had punishment sufficient from her already, and needs no more from me; and, I must confess, I would not be the only cause of making you break your last night’s oath to me, of never parting with me; if you do not forget or repent it.
Man. Then take for ever my heart, and this with it;—[Gives her the cabinet] for ’twas given to you before, and my heart was before your due: I only beg leave to dispose of these few.—Here, madam, I never yet left my wench unpaid. [Takes some of the jewels, and offers them to Olivia; she strikes them down: Lord Plausible and Novel take them up.
Oliv. So it seems, by giving her the cabinet.
L. Plau. These pendants appertain to your most faithful humble servant.
Nov. And this locket is mine; my earnest for love, which she never paid: therefore my own again.
Wid. By what law, sir, pray?—Cousin Olivia, a word. What, do they make a seizure on your goods and chattels, vi et armis? Make your demand, I say, and bring your trover, bring your trover. I’ll follow the law for you.
Oliv. And I my revenge. [Exit.
Man. [To Vernish.] But ’tis, my friend, in your consideration most, that I would have returned part of your wife’s portion; for ’twere hard to take all from thee, since thou hast paid so dear for’t, in being such a rascal. Yet thy wife is a fortune without a portion; and thou art a man of that extraordinary merit in villany, the world and fortune can never desert thee, though I do; therefore be not melancholy. Fare you well, sir.—[Exit Vernish doggedly.] Now, madam, I beg your pardon [Turning to Fidelia] for lessening the present I made you; but my heart can never be lessened. This, I confess, was too small for you before; for you deserve the Indian world; and I would now go thither, out of covetousness for your sake only.
Fid. Your heart, sir, is a present of that value, I can never make any return to’t.—[Pulling Manly from the company.] But I can give you back such a present as this, which I got by the loss of my father, a gentleman of the north, of no mean extraction, whose only child I was, therefore left me in the present possession of two thousand pounds a-year; which I left, with multitudes of pretenders, to follow you, sir; having in several public places seen you, and observed your actions thoroughly, with admiration, when you were too much in love to take notice of mine, which yet was but too visible. The name of my family is Grey, my other Fidelia. The rest of my story you shall know when I have fewer auditors.
Man. Nay, now, madam, you have taken from me all power of making you any compliment on my part; for I was going to tell you, that for your sake only I would quit the unknown pleasure of a retirement; and rather stay in this ill world of ours still, though odious to me, than give you more frights again at sea, and make again too great a venture there, in you alone. But if I should tell you now all this, and that your virtue (since greater than I thought any was in the world) had now reconciled me to’t, my friend here would say, ’tis your estate that hast made me friends with the world.
Free. I must confess I should; for I think most of our quarrels to the world are just such as we have to a handsome woman; only because we cannot enjoy her as we would do.
Man. Nay, if thou art a plain dealer too, give me thy hand; for now I’ll say, I am thy friend indeed; and for your two sakes, though I have been so lately deceived in friends of both sexes,—
I will believe there are now in the world
Good-natured friends, who are not prostitutes,
And handsome women worthy to be friends;
Yet, for my sake, let no one e’er confide
In tears, or oaths, in love, or friend untried.
[Exeunt.