John Bull | Page 6

kindest father that ever breathed,

sir.
Pereg. How must such a father be agonized by the loss of his child!
Mary. Pray, sir, don't talk of that!
Pereg. Why did you fly from him?
Mary. Sir, I----I----but that's my story, sir.
Pereg. Relate it, then.
Mary. Yes, sir.--You must know, then, sir, that--there was a young
gentleman in this neighbourhood, that--O dear, sir, I'm quite ashamed!
Pereg. Come, child, I will relieve you from the embarrassment of
narration, and sum up your history in one word;--love.
Mary. That's the beginning of it, sir; but a great deal happen'd
afterwards.
Pereg. And who is the hero of your story, my poor girl?
Mary. The hero of----? O, I understand--he is much above me in
fortune, sir. To be sure, I should have thought of that, before he got
such power over my heart, to make me so wretched, now he has
deserted me.
Pereg. He would have thought of that, had his own heart been
generous.
Mary. He is reckon'd very generous, sir; he can afford to be so. When
the old gentleman dies, he will have all the great family estate. I am
going to the house, now, sir.
Pereg. For what purpose?
Mary. To try if I can see him for the last time, sir: to tell him I shall
always pray for his happiness, when I am far away from a place which

he has made it misery for me to abide in;--and to beg him to give me a
little supply of money, now I am pennyless, and from home, to help me
to London; where I may get into service, and nobody will know me.
Pereg. And what are his reasons, child, for thus deserting you?
Mary. He sent me his reasons, by letter, yesterday, sir. He is to be
married next week, to a lady of high fortune. His father, he says, insists
upon it. I know I am born below him; but after the oaths we plighted,
Heaven knows, the news was a sad, sad shock to me! I did not close my
eyes last night; my poor brain was burning; and, as soon as day broke, I
left the house of my dear father, whom I should tremble to look at,
when he discover'd my story;--which I could not long conceal from
him.
Pereg. Poor, lovely, heart-bruised wanderer! O wealthy despoilers of
humble innocence! splendid murderers of virtue; who make your vice
your boast, and fancy female ruin a feather in your caps of
vanity--single out a victim you have abandoned, and, in your hours of
death, contemplate her!--view her, care-worn, friendless,
pennyless;--hear her tale of sorrows, fraught with her remorse,--her
want,--a hard world's scoffs, her parents' anguish;--then, if ye dare, look
inward upon your own bosoms; and if they be not conscience proof
what must be your compunctions!--Who is his father, child?
Mary. Sir Simon Rochdale, sir, of the Manor-house, hard by.
Pereg. [Surprised.] Indeed!
Mary. Perhaps you know him, sir?
Pereg. I have heard of him;--and, on your account, shall visit him.
Mary. Oh, pray, sir, take care what you do! if you should bring his son
into trouble, by mentioning me, I should never, never forgive myself.
Pereg. Trust to my caution.--Promise only to remain at this house, till I
return from a business which calls me, immediately, two miles hence; I

will hurry back to pursue measures for your welfare, with more hope of
success, than your own weak means, poor simplicity, are likely to
effect. What say you?
Mary. I hardly know what to say, sir--you seem good,--and I am little
able to help myself.
Pereg. You consent, then?
Mary. Yes, sir.
Pereg. [Calling.] Landlord!
Enter DENNIS, from the Door of the House--MRS. BRULGRUDDERY
following.
Dennis. Did you call, sir?--Arrah, now, Mrs. Brulgruddery, you are
peeping after the young woman yourself.
Mrs. Brul. I chuse it.
Pereg. Prepare your room, good folks; and get the best accommodation
you can for this young person.
Dennis. That I will, with all my heart and soul, sir.
Mrs. Brul. [Sulkily.] I don't know that we have any room at all, for my
part.
Dennis. Whew! She's in her tantrums.
Mrs. Brul. People of repute can't let in young women (found upon a
heath, forsooth), without knowing who's who. I have learn'd the ways
of the world, sir.
Pereg. So it seems:--which too often teach you to over-rate the little
good you can do in it: and to shut the door when the distressed entreat
you to throw it open. But I have learnt the ways of the world too.
[Taking out his Purse.] I shall return in a few hours. Provide all the

comforts you can; and here are a couple of guineas, to send for any
refreshments you have not in the house. [Giving