MRS. BONCOUR. I say his demands are for the advantage of our children, and truly if I can submit to them, you, Mr. Boncour, may be satisfied.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Nay, then, I think it is a good time for me to appear: Oh, madam, eternal blessings on your goodness, which it shall be the business of my life to deserve! Oh, cease not till you have prevailed on his obdurate heart to relent.
MISS BONCOUR. I must second my brother — Have pity on him, dear mamma! see how he trembles, his lips are pale, his voice falters! Oh, consider what he suffers with the apprehension of losing the woman he loves; though my father’s cruel heart is deaf to all his sufferings, you are all goodness, all tenderness; you, I know, will not bear to see him miserable!
MRS. BONCOUR. Why do you address yourself to me? there stands the good man who wisely contrived this match, and then with so much resolution broke it off.
YOUNG BONCOUR. My passion, till you encouraged it, was governable— ‘Twas you, sir, who bid me hope, who cherished my young love; and, though the modesty of her sex may make her backward to own it, my sister’s heart is as deeply concerned as mine.
MISS BONCOUR. Thank you, brother, but never mind me: — I had my father’s command to give my promise, and I must not obey him if he commands me to break it.
YOUNG BONCOUR. [Takes hold of his sleeve.] Sir, I beseech you —
MISS BONCOUR. [Takes hold of the other.] Dear papa —
MRS BONCOUR. And for what reason was this secret kept from me?
MISS BONCOUR. When he hath put it into his children’s heads —
YOUNG BONCOUR. When their whole happiness is at stake. — Then it is into a family of so good a character —
MRS. BONCOUR. I must take my children’s parts, and you shall consent or never —
MISS BONCOUR. I’ll never let go your hand —
YOUNG BONCOUR. I’ll never rise again —
Enter SIR GEORGE BONCOUR.
MR. BONCOUR. O brother! you never arrived so fortunately to my assistance as now —
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Why, what’s the matter?
MR. BONCOUR. Oh, I am worried to death by my wife and my children.
MRS. BONCOUR. Nay, brother, you shall judge if he hath reason to complain: he hath, without my knowledge, contracted a match between Mr. Valence’s children and his own; and when the young people had united their affections, truly he hath, of his own wise head, broke it off again.
MR. BONCOUR. You have appealed to a very wrong person now; my brother knows the whole affair.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I know, brother! what do I know? if you have broken off the children’s match, you have done a very ill thing, let your reasons be what they will.
MR. BONCOUR. How, brother! are you my enemy too?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Can you imagine I will be your friend, brother, when you run rashly of your own head into schemes of consequence without consulting your wife! — without taking the advice of her, your best friend, your best counsellor?
MRS. BONCOUR. True, dear brother —
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. And then when you have done so, and suffered a fine gentleman here to engage his precious affections, to fix his constant heart, which always dotes with the same ardour on the same beauteous object —
YOUNG BONCOUR. True, by heavens!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. And this little bud here, to throw off the veil of her virgin modesty, and all overspread with blushes and confusion, to tell an odious man she will have him, which nothing but her duty to you could ever extort from her —
MISS BONCOUR. True, dear uncle!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Then after all this, out of base worldly motives, such as should never enter into the thoughts of a good man —
YOUNG BONCOUR. TOO true —
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. To disappoint all their hopes, to ruin all their fair prospects of happiness — to throw your wife into an ill humour —
MRS. BONCOUR. Monster!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. To make your son here distracted.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Unnatural father!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. To break your daughter’s heart!
MISS BONCOUR. Cruel! barbarous!
MR. BONCOUR. Now madam, wife, children, marry, do as you will — I oppose you no longer — a leaf may as well swim against a cataract —
MRS. BONCOUR. But why keep it a secret from me? why must not I be trusted with a secret?
YOUNG BONCOUR. And may I depend on my father’s permission to be happy?
MR. BONCOUR. Even as you please, sir — O — ay, — madam, and you too, I will prevent you the trouble of speaking.
YOUNG BONCOUR. Come, dear girl, let us haste to make our friends happy with the news. [Exeunt Mrs. Boncour, Young Boncour, Miss Boncour.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Ha, ha, ha!
MR. BONCOUR. You use me kindly, brother.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. How would you have me use you, brother? you must excuse me if I don’t follow your example: you see an instance now, that by humouring these good people I have gained their affections, I mean their thanks; affections, indeed, they have none, but for themselves; but had I taken your part, and spoken my real sentiments, I had pulled an old house on my head; your wife would have abused me, your daughter have hated me, and your son have wished to send me out of the world.
MR. BONCOUR. But is this consistent with your behaviour this afternoon, when I received your letter?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Remember, brother, we were alone then; and at the worst I should only have opposed my judgment to yours; here I must have encountered a majority — a measure seldom attended with success; well, but for your comfort, I have contrived a scheme to disappoint them all effectually.
MB. BONCOUR. Brother, I thank you; but will it be a good-natured thing to disappoint them, poor things?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Good nature! damn the word! I hate it! — they say it is a word so peculiar to our language that it can’t be translated into any other — Good nature! [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
OLD VALENCE’S House.
Enter OLD VALENCE and YOUNG KENNEL.
OLD VALENCE. Consider, young gentleman, the consequence of disobedience to a father; especially to so passionate a father as Sir Gregory!
YOUNG KENNEL. Don’t talk to me of fathers! Parblieu! it is fine topsy-turvey work, to travel first and go to school afterwards.
OLD VALENCE. Upon my word it would do some of our young travellers no harm.
YOUNG KENNEL. That I, who am to inherit a fortune of five thousand pounds a year, may not marry whom I please, but must have crammed down my throat some bread-pudding of a citizen’s daughter, or scrag end of a woman of quality!
OLD VALENCE. You don’t know whom Sir Gregory may provide for you.
YOUNG KENNEL. But I know whom he will not; — besides, I shall provide for myself —
OLD VALENCE. Consider first the sin of disobedience; — you know it is in his power to disinherit you.
YOUNG VALENCE. No, indeed don’t I, nor he neither, that’s better: — plague! if he could do that, I believe I should be a little civiller to him — no, no, that’s out of his power, I assure you; my tutor let me into that secret a great while ago.
Enter Miss VALENCE.
OLD VALENCE. Oh, here comes my daughter according to my orders. Now if he had not unluckily seen this wench at the play — [Aside.
MISS VALENCE. Did you send for me, sir?
OLD VALENCE. I send for you! no; but come hither.
YOUNG KENNEL. Ha! parblieu! ‘Tis she— ‘tis the very same.
MISS VALENCE. What coxcomb is this? — [Aside.
YOUNG KENNEL. This is the most lucky adventure that hath happened in all my travels.
OLD VALENCE. You stare at my daughter as if you had seen her before.
YOUNG KENNEL. AS certain as I have seen the King of France; — but, sir, is this lady your daughter?
OLD VALENCE. She is, sir; I have only one other child.
YOUNG KENNEL. Then I believe,
sir, you are father to an angel; you know, sir, I told you I saw a lady at the play, and for whom I would be disobedient to all the fathers in the universe.
OLD VALENCE. I protest, sir, you surprise me —
MISS VALENCE. Sir, may I go?
OLD VALENCE. Ay, ay, child: — go — go. [Exit Miss Valence.
YOUNG KENNEL. Sir! — madam, can you be so barbarous?
OLD VALENCE. Sir Gregory will be back in a minute. I would not have him know any thing of this for the world, he would run me through the body, though I am innocent.
YOUNG KENNEL. Never fear him, I will defend you. Let me see her once more.
OLD VALENCE. You shall see her again; but have patience, if you will get your father away, and return back by yourself, you shall see her once to take your leave of her, for you must not disobey your father; but are you certain he can’t disinherit you? that is, that he is only tenant for life?
YOUNG KENNEL. I don’t know whether he is tenant for life or for death; but I know that my tutor, and several lawyers too, have told me he could not keep me out of one acre.
OLD VALENCE. But you are sure you had it from good lawyers?
YOUNG KENNEL. Ay, as any in the kingdom.
OLD VALENCE. Well, I am glad of it; ‘Tis a terrible thing for a man to disinherit his children: — don’t be undutiful, unless you can’t help it, and if you can’t help it, why it is not your fault; but hush, here’s Sir Gregory.
Enter SIR GREGORY KENNEL.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Well, have you brought him to it? — will he be a good boy, and marry a woman of quality, or no?
OLD VALENCE. I have said all that I can say, Sir Gregory, and upon my word he is rather too hard for me. I would have you consider a little, sir; it is only whether he shall choose a wife for himself or not: — consider, Sir Gregory, he is to live with her, not you.
YOUNG KENNEL. Ay, I am to live with her, not you —
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. That’s not true, Mr. Valence; I intend both he and she shall live with me; they shall down to Dirty Park next week, and there they shall remain.
YOUNG KENNEL. I’ll be cursed though, if we do!
OLD VALENCE. That very argument makes against you; for if he should have fixed on a private gentlewoman, and that you don’t know but he hath, she may go down to Dirty Park; but a woman of quality — why, Sir Gregory, she’d fetch Dirty Park up hither, and convert a thousand of your acres into half a rood in Grosvenor Square.
YOUNG KENNEL. Ay, into half a rood in Grosvenor Square.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Would she? let me see her there once, I’ll answer for her; why, Mr. Valence, I’ll tell you what I did to myself. I married this boy’s mother in this town, she was a woman of fashion, a well-bred woman; though I had but a small fortune with her, but twenty thousand pounds. — I married her for love; well, the next morning, down tumbled her and I to Dirty Park, and when I had her there, ecod, I kept her there: and whenever she asked to go to London, my answer was, that as I hated the town myself, she had better stay till she had a daughter old enough to be her companion.
OLD VALENCE. But she was not a woman of quality, Sir Gregory.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. No, not quite your tip-top of all, not one of your duchesses nor your countesses, but her father was a squire, and that’s quality enough.
OLD VALENCE. Now you talk like a reasonable man.
YOUNG KENNEL. Ay, faith, that’s something like a Christian.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Why, you rogue, do you make a heathen of me? why, did I ever talk otherwise?
OLD VALENCE. Nay, do not be captious, Sir Gregory.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Captious! ha, ha, ha! Why, do you think I am angry with the boy for his wit? no, no, let him be as sharp as he will, I always encourage his wit, that is the chief thing he learnt in his travels.
Enter SERVANT.
SERVANT. Sir George Boncour, sir —
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. But come, Mr. A’alence, let’s go and crack one bottle together. Old Valexce. Show him up. [Exit Servant.] Excuse me. Sir Gregory, I have business.
SIR GREGORY KENNEL. Well, come Greg, you sha’n’t flinch — ah, Mr. Valence, I assure you the rogue is as true an Englishman at his glass as ever. [Exit. Young KENNEL. I shall give him the slip, and be back again as soon as I can. Sir Gregory Kennel. [Within.] Why, Greg! — Greg! —
YOUNG KENNEL. Coming! Pardie! he halloos at me as if I was a whipper-in. Old VALENCE. This was beyond my hope, beyond my expectation; I despair not of Sir Gregory’s consent — but if not, as long as he can’t cut off the entail —
Enter SIR GEORGE BONCOUR.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Your servant, Mr. Valence.
OLD VALENCE. Most Noble Sir George, I have not had the honour of seeing you a great while. (I suppose he is come to make up the match, but ‘Tis too late.) — [Aside.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I am sorry, sir, for the occasion of waiting on you now, and so will you too; I know you will, though perhaps it will give you an opportunity of exerting your friendship; that may be some alleviation; in short, my brother is undone.
OLD VALENCE. How!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Unless one can raise ten thousand pounds within an hour, an execution will be in his house.
OLD VALENCE. An execution in his house for ten thousand pounds! what! a man of his estate?
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Estate! what estate could stand out against the prodigality of his children? besides, between you and me, with all his prudence, he has been dabbling in the Funds, that bottomless pit that swallows up any fortune. Estate! — ah, all mortgaged, all ate out; it matters not to tell it, for within these two days the whole town must know he is not worth a groat.
OLD VALENCE. I am very sorry for it; upon my word; I am shocked to the last degree; poor gentleman! my neighbour, my acquaintance, my friend!
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. Do not let it move you too much.
OLD VALENCE. Why do you ask impossibilities? do you think me more than man, or that my heart is stone? is flint? Oh, my good Sir George, you know not how tenderly I feel the misfortunes of others — of my friends’ especially, and of him my best of friends; I am too tender-hearted for a man.
SIR George Boncour. I know your goodness, your excessive goodness, and therefore contrary to the express charge, that of all men you should know nothing of the matter —
OLD VALENCE. I am obliged to him — I know the reason of that, but I find you don’t. [Aside.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. I say contrary to his express injunction; I acquaint you with his misfortunes; since I know you are both able and willing to save him from disgrace; a mere trifle will do it, though nothing but money will do.
OLD VALENCE. Money! why does he not sell? why does he not mortgage? there is an estate of his contiguous to mine; I have a value for it, as it is his; and rather than it shall go to a stranger, I will borrow the money to purchase it — (men in distress always sell pennyworths). [Aside.
SIR GEORGE BONCOUR. (Damned rascal!) [Aside.] Well, I’ll tell him what you say.
OLD VALENCE. Pray do. — Your humble servant, and pray if that estate be sold, let me have the refusal of it. [Exit Sir George.] Mercy on me! where can one find an honest man? that ever he should lay such a plot of intermarriage between our families, when he knew himself undone! how wary ought a man to be in each moment of his life, when every fool is a politician, and capable of laying schemes to attack him.
Enter YOUNG VALENCE.
YOUNG VALENCE. Oh, sir, I have news which I am sure will please you! Mr. Boncour hath consented to your terms, so there is now no impediment to the union of our families.
OLD VALENCE. Indeed, there is an impediment which will be never got over; in short, I have news for you, which I am afraid will not please you. Mr. Boncour is undone.
YOUNG VALENCE. Undone, sir!
OLD VALENCE. Not worth a groat.
YOUNG VALENCE. How! is it possible?
OLD VALENCE. Indeed, sir, I don’t know by what means men ruin themselves; we see men’s f
ortunes ruined, and others made every day no one knows how; it is sufficient I am certain that it is so; and I expect you will have no more thought of his daughter.
YOUNG VALENCE. Truly, sir, I am not very ambitious of marrying a beggar.
Complete Fictional Works of Henry Fielding Page 367
