Chapter 3

prepared, urn, &c._ Sir Willoughby _reading the newspaper. He rises and rings the bell; then pulls out his watch._

_Sir W._ Three quarters of an hour since breakfast was first announced to my wife. My patience is exhausted. Oh wedlock, wedlock! why did I ever venture again into thy holy state--of misery! Of all the taxes laid on mankind by respect to society and the influence of example, no one is so burthensome as that which obliges a man to submit to a thousand ills at home, rather than be suspected of being a bad husband abroad. (_enter servant_) Go to your lady.

_Serv._ I told her ladyship five times before, sir Willoughby, that breakfast was waiting.

_Sir W._ Then tell her once more, and that will make six, and say I earnestly request the favour she will hasten to breakfast, as while she stays I starve.

_Serv._ Yes, sir Willoughby, but she'll stop the longer for the message. (_Aside going out._) [_Exit._

_Sir W._ My wife is the very devil. It seems that she'd be miserable if she did not think me happy; yet her tenderness is my eternal torment; her affection puts me in a fidget, and her fondness in a fever.

_Enter servant._

_Serv._ My lady says she wont detain you a moment, sir Willoughby. [_Exit._

_Sir W._ The old answer. Then she's so nervous. A nervous wife is worse than a perpetual blister; and then, as the man says in the play, your nervous patients are always ailing, but _never die_. Zounds! why do I bear it? 'tis my folly, my weakness, to dread the censure of the world, and to sacrifice every comfort of my fire side to the ideal advantage of being esteemed a _good husband_. (_Lady Worret is heard speaking behind_) Hark! now she begins her morning work, giving more orders in a minute than can be executed in a month, and teasing my daughter to death to teach her to keep her temper; yet every body congratulates me on having so good a wife; every body envies me so excellent an economist; every body thinks me the happiest man alive; and nobody knows what a miserable mortal I am.

_Lady W._ (_behind_) And harkye, William, (_entering with servant_) tell the coachman to bring the chariot in a quarter of an hour: and William, run with these books immediately to the rector's; and William, bring up breakfast this moment.

_Will._ Yes, my lady: (_aside_) Lord have mercy upon us! [_Exit._

_Lady W._ My dear sir Willoughby, I beg a thousand pardons; but you are always so indulgent that you really spoil me. I'm sure you think me a tiresome creature.

_Sir W._ No, no, my life, not at all. I should be very ungrateful if I didn't value you _just exactly as highly_ as you deserve.

_Lady W._ I certainly _deserve_ a good scolding: I do indeed. I think if you scolded me a little I should behave better.

_Sir W._ Well, then, as you encourage me, my love, I must own that a little more punctuality would greatly heighten the zest of your society.

_Lady W._ And yet, sir Willoughby, you _must_ acknowledge that my time is ever dedicated to that proper vigilance which the superintendance of so large an establishment undoubtedly requires.

_Sir W._ Why, true, my love; but somehow I can't help thinking, that, as my fortune is so ample, it is quite unnecessary that you should undergo so much fatigue: for instance, I _do_ think that the wife of a baronet of 12,000l. a year owes it to her rank to be otherwise employed than in hunting after the housemaid, or sacrificing her time in the storeroom in counting candles, or weighing out soap, starch, powder-blue, and brown sugar.

_Lady W. (in tears)_ This is unkind, sir Willoughby, this is very unkind.

_Sir W._ So! as usual, here's a breeze springing up. What the devil shall I say to sooth her? Wife, wife! you drive me mad. You first beg me to scold you, and then are offended because I obligingly comply with your request.

_Lady W._ No, sir Willoughby, I am only _surprised_ that you should so little know the value of a wife who daily degrades herself for your advantage.

_Sir W._ That's the very thing I complain of. You _do_ degrade yourself. Your economy, my life, is downright parsimony: your vigilance is suspicion; your management is meanness; and you fidget your servants till you make them fretful, and then prudently discharge them because they will live with you no longer. Hey! ods life, I must sooth her: for if company comes, and finds her in this humour, my dear-bought reputation as a good husband is lost forever. _(Enter servant with breakfast.)_ Come, come, my dear lady Worret, let us go to breakfast, come _(sitting down to breakfast)_ let us talk of something else. Come, take your tea.

_Lady W. (to servant)_ Send William to speak to me. [_Exit servant._

_Sir W._ Where's Helen?

_Lady W._ I have desired her to copy a few articles into the family receipt book before breakfast; for as her marriage will so shortly take place, it is necessary she should complete her studies.

_Sir W._ What, she's at work, I suppose, on the third folio volume.

_Lady W._ The _fifth_, I believe.

_Sir W._ Heaven defend us! I don't blame it; I don't censure it at all: but I believe the case is _rather_ unprecedented for an heiress of 12,000l. a year to leave to posterity, in her own hand writing, five folio volumes of recipes, for pickling, preserving, potting, and pastry, for stewing and larding, making ketchup and sour krout, oyster patties, barbacued pies, jellies, jams, soups, sour sauce, and sweetmeats.

_Lady W._ Oh, sir Willoughby! if young ladies of the present day paid more attention to such substantial acquirements, we should have better wives and better husbands.

_Sir W._ Why that is singularly just.

_Lady W._ Yes, if women were taught to find amusement in domestic duties, instead of seeking it at a circulating library, assemblies, and balls, we should hear of fewer appeals to Doctor's Commons and the court of King's Bench.

_Sir W._ Why that is undeniably true _(aside)_ and now, as we have a moment uninterrupted by family affairs--

_Enter_ William.

_Lady W._ Is the carriage come?

_Will._ No, my lady.

_Lady W._ Have you carried the books?

_Will._ No, my lady.

_Lady W._ Then go and hasten the coachman.

_Will._ No, my lady--_yes_, my lady.

_Lady W._ And William, send up Tiffany to Miss Helen's room, and bid her say we expect her at breakfast.

_Will._ Miss Helen has been in the park these two hours.

_Sir W. (Laughs aside.)_

_Lady W._ How! in the park these two hours? Impossible. Send Tiffany to seek her.

_Will._ Yes, my lady. [_Exit._

_Sir W._ So, as usual, risen with the lark, I suppose.

_Lady W._ Her disobedience will break my heart.

_Sir W._ Zounds! I shall go mad. Here's a mother-in-law going to break her heart, because my daughter prefers a walk in the morning to writing culinary secrets in a fat folio family receipt book!

_Lady W._ Sir Willoughby, sir Willoughby, it is you who encourage her in disregarding my orders.

_Sir W._ No such thing, lady Worret, no such thing: but if the girl likes to bring home a pair of ruddy cheeks from a morning walk, I don't see why she is to be balked of her fancy.

_Lady W._ Ruddy cheeks, indeed! Such robust health is becoming only in dairy maids.

_Sir W._ Yes, I know your taste to a T. A consumption is always a key to your tender heart; and an interesting pallid countenance will at any time unlock the door to your best affections: but I must be excused if I prefer seeing my daughter with the rosy glow of health upon her cheek, rather than the sickly imitations of art, which bloom on the surface alone, while the fruit withers and decays beneath--but zounds! don't speak so loud, here's somebody coming, and they'll think we are quarrelling. _(Helen sings behind)_ So here comes our madcap.

_Enter_ Helen.

_Helen._ Good morning, good morning. Here, papa, look what a beautiful posy of wild flowers I have gathered. See, the dew is still upon them. How lovely they are! To my fancy, now, these uncultivated productions of nature have more charms than the whole garden can equal. Why can we not all be like these flowers, simple and inartificial, with the stamp of nature and truth upon us?

_Lady W._ Romantic stuff! But how comes it, Miss Helen, that my orders are thus disobeyed?

_Helen._ Why lord, mamma, I'll tell you how it was; but first I must eat my breakfast; so I'll sit down and tell you all about it. _(sits down.)_ In the first place, I rose at six, and remembering I was to copy out the whole catalogue of sweetmeats, and as I hate all sweet things, (some sugar, if you please, papa) I determined to take one run round the park before I sat down to my morning's work: so taking a crust of bread and a glass of cold water, which I love better than (some tea, if you please, mamma) any thing in the world, out I flew like a lapwing; stopped at the dairy; and (some cream, if you please, papa) down to the meadows and gathered my nosegay; and then bounded home, with a heart full of gayety, and a rare appetite for--some roll and butter, if you please, mamma.

_Lady W._ Daughter, this levity of character is unbecoming your sex, and even your age. You see none of this offensive flightiness in me.

_Sir W._ Come, come, my dear lady Worret. Helen's gayety is natural. Helen, my love, I have charming news for you. Every thing is at last arranged between lord Austencourt and me respecting your marriage.

_Helen._ Why now, if mamma-in-law had said this, I should have thought she meant to make me as grave as herself.

_Lady W._ In expectation that Helen will behave as becomes her in this most important affair of her life, I consent to pass over her negligence this morning in regard to my favourite receipts.

_Helen._ I hate all receipts, sweet, bitter, and sour.

_Lady W._ Then we will now talk of a husband.

_Helen._ I hate all husbands, sweet, bitter, and sour.

_Sir W._ Whoo! Helen, my love, you should not contradict your mamma.

_Helen._ My dear papa, I don't contradict her; but I will not marry lord Austencourt.

_Lady W._ This is too much for my weak nerves. I leave you, sir Willoughby, to arrange this affair, while I hasten to attend to my domestic duties.

_Sir W._ (_aside to lady W._) That's right; you'd better leave her to me. I'll manage her, I warrant. Let me assist you--there--I'll soon settle this business. (_Hands lady Worret off._)

_Helen._ Now, my dear papa, are you really of the same opinion as her ladyship?

_Sir W._ Exactly.

_Helen._ Ha! ha! lud! but that's comical. What! both think alike?

_Sir W._ Precisely.

_Helen._ That's very odd. I believe it's the first time you've agreed in opinion since you were made one: but I'm quite sure you never can wish me to marry a man I do not love.

_Sir W._ Why no, certainly not; but you _will_ love him; indeed you _must_. It's my wife's wish, you know, and so I wish it of course. Come, come, in this one trifling matter you must oblige us.

_Helen._ Well, as _you_ think it only a trifling matter, and as I think it of importance enough to make me miserable, I'm sure _you'll_ give up the point.

_Sir W._ Why no, you are mistaken. To be sure I _might_ have given it up; but my lady Worret, you know--but that's no matter. Marriage is a duty, and tis incumbent on parents to see their children settled in that _happy_ state.

_Helen._ Have _you_ found that state _so happy_, sir?

_Sir W._ Why--yes--that is--hey? happy! certainly. Doesn't every body say so? and what every body says _must_ be true. However, that's not to the purpose. A connexion with the family of lord Austencourt is particularly desirable.

_Helen._ Not to _me_, I assure you, papa.

_Sir W._ Our estates join so charmingly to one another.

_Helen._ But sure that's no reason _we_ should be joined to one another.

_Sir W._ But their contiguity seems to invite a union by a marriage between you.

_Helen._ Then pray, papa, let the stewards marry the estates and give me a separate maintenance.

_Sir. W._ Helen, Helen, I see you are bent on disobedience to my lady Worret's wishes. Zounds! you don't see me disobedient to her wishes; but I know whereabouts your objection lies. That giddy, dissipated young fellow, his cousin Charles, the son of sir Rowland Austencourt, has filled your head with nonsensical notions and chimeras of happiness. Thank Heaven, however, he's far enough off at sea.

_Helen._ And _I_ think, sir, that because a man is fighting our battles abroad, he ought not to be the less dear to those whom his courage enables to live in tranquillity at home.

_Sir W._ That's very true: (_aside_) but I have an unanswerable objection to all you can say. Lord Austencourt is rich, and Charles is a beggar. Besides sir Rowland himself prefers lord Austencourt.

_Helen._ More shame for him. His partial feelings to his nephew, and unnatural disregard of his son, have long since made me hate him. In short, you are for money, and choose lord Austencourt: I am for love, and prefer his poor cousin.

_Sir W._ Then, once for all, as my lady Worret must be obeyed, I no longer consult you on the subject, and it only remains for you to retain the affection of an indulgent father, by complying with my will (I mean my wife's) or to abandon my protection. [_Exit._

_Helen._ I won't marry him, papa, I won't, nor I won't cry, though I've a great mind. A plague of all money, say I. Oh! what a grievous misfortune it is to be born with 12,000l. a year? but if I can't marry the man I like, I won't marry at all; that's determined: and every body knows the firmness of a woman's resolution, when she resolves on contradiction. [_Exit._