The Old Bachelor: a Comedy Part 15

LAET. I may well be surprised at your person and impudence: they are both new to me. You are not what your first appearance promised: the piety of your habit was welcome, but not the hypocrisy.

BELL. Rather the hypocrisy was welcome, but not the hypocrite.

LAET. Who are you, sir? You have mistaken the house sure.

BELL. I have directions in my pocket which agree with everything but your unkindness. [_Pulls out the letter_.]

LAET. My letter! Base Vainlove! Then 'tis too late to dissemble.

[_Aside_.] 'Tis plain, then, you have mistaken the person. [_Going_.]

BELL. If we part so I'm mistaken. Hold, hold, madam! I confess I have run into an error. I beg your pardon a thousand times. What an eternal blockhead am I! Can you forgive me the disorder I have put you into? But it is a mistake which anybody might have made.

LAET. What can this mean? 'Tis impossible he should be mistaken after all this. A handsome fellow if he had not surprised me. Methinks, now I look on him again, I would not have him mistaken. [_Aside_.] We are all liable to mistakes, sir. If you own it to be so, there needs no farther apology.

BELL. Nay, faith, madam, 'tis a pleasant one, and worth your hearing.

Expecting a friend last night, at his lodgings, till 'twas late, my intimacy with him gave me the freedom of his bed. He not coming home all night, a letter was delivered to me by a servant in the morning. Upon the perusal I found the contents so charming that I could think of nothing all day but putting 'em in practice, until just now, the first time I ever looked upon the superscription, I am the most surprised in the world to find it directed to Mr. Vainlove. Gad, madam, I ask you a million of pardons, and will make you any satisfaction.

LAET. I am discovered. And either Vainlove is not guilty, or he has handsomely excused him. [_Aside_.]

BELL. You appear concerned, madam.

LAET. I hope you are a gentleman;--and since you are privy to a weak woman's failing, won't turn it to the prejudice of her reputation. You look as if you had more honour--

BELL. And more love, or my face is a false witness and deserves to be pilloried. No, by heaven, I swear--

LAET. Nay, don't swear if you'd have me believe you; but promise--

BELL. Well, I promise. A promise is so cold: give me leave to swear, by those eyes, those killing eyes, by those healing lips. Oh! press the soft charm close to mine, and seal 'em up for ever.

LAET. Upon that condition. [_He kisses her_.]

BELL. Eternity was in that moment. One more, upon any condition!

LAET. Nay, now--I never saw anything so agreeably impudent. [_Aside_.]

Won't you censure me for this, now?--but 'tis to buy your silence.

[_Kiss_.] Oh, but what am I doing!

BELL. Doing! No tongue can express it--not thy own, nor anything, but thy lips. I am faint with the excess of bliss. Oh, for love-sake, lead me anywhither, where I may lie down --quickly, for I'm afraid I shall have a fit.

LAET. Bless me! What fit?

BELL. Oh, a convulsion--I feel the symptoms.

LAET. Does it hold you long? I'm afraid to carry you into my chamber.

BELL. Oh, no: let me lie down upon the bed; the fit will be soon over.

SCENE VIII.

SCENE: _St. James's Park_.

ARAMINTA _and_ BELINDA _meeting_.

BELIN. Lard, my dear, I am glad I have met you; I have been at the Exchange since, and am so tired--

ARAM. Why, what's the matter?

BELIN. Oh the most inhuman, barbarous hackney-coach! I am jolted to a jelly. Am I not horribly touzed? [_Pulls out a pocket-gla.s.s_.]

ARAM. Your head's a little out of order.

BELIN. A little! O frightful! What a furious phiz I have! O most rueful! Ha, ha, ha. O Gad, I hope n.o.body will come this way, till I have put myself a little in repair. Ah! my dear, I have seen such unhewn creatures since. Ha, ha, ha. I can't for my soul help thinking that I look just like one of 'em. Good dear, pin this, and I'll tell you--very well--so, thank you, my dear--but as I was telling you--pish, this is the untowardest lock--so, as I was telling you--how d'ye like me now?

Hideous, ha? Frightful still? Or how?

ARAM. No, no; you're very well as can be.

BELIN. And so--but where did I leave off, my dear? I was telling you--

ARAM. You were about to tell me something, child, but you left off before you began.

BELIN. Oh; a most comical sight: a country squire, with the equipage of a wife and two daughters, came to Mrs. Snipwel's shop while I was there--but oh Gad! two such unlicked cubs!

ARAM. I warrant, plump, cherry-cheeked country girls.

BELIN. Ay, o' my conscience, fat as barn-door fowl: but so bedecked, you would have taken 'em for Friesland hens, with their feathers growing the wrong way. O such outlandish creatures! Such Tramontanae, and foreigners to the fas.h.i.+on, or anything in practice! I had not patience to behold. I undertook the modelling of one of their fronts, the more modern structure--

ARAM. Bless me, cousin; why would you affront anybody so? They might be gentlewomen of a very good family--

BELIN. Of a very ancient one, I dare swear, by their dress. Affront!

pshaw, how you're mistaken! The poor creature, I warrant, was as full of curtsies, as if I had been her G.o.dmother. The truth on't is, I did endeavour to make her look like a Christian--and she was sensible of it, for she thanked me, and gave me two apples, piping hot, out of her under- petticoat pocket. Ha, ha, ha: and t'other did so stare and gape, I fancied her like the front of her father's hall; her eyes were the two jut-windows, and her mouth the great door, most hospitably kept open for the entertainment of travelling flies.

ARAM. So then, you have been diverted. What did they buy?

BELIN. Why, the father bought a powder-horn, and an almanac, and a comb- case; the mother, a great fruz-towr, and a fat amber necklace; the daughters only tore two pairs of kid-leather gloves, with trying 'em on.

O Gad, here comes the fool that dined at my Lady Freelove's t'other day.

SCENE IX.

[_To them_] SIR JOSEPH _and_ BLUFFE.

ARAM. May be he may not know us again.