JARVIS. He! the dog, he'll certainly commit some blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a day.
OLIVIA. No matter. Fly, Garnet; any body we can trust will do. _Exit_ GARNET. Well, Jarvis, now we can have nothing more to interrupt us. You may take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. Have you no hands, Jarvis?
JARVIS. Soft and fair, young lady. You, that are going to be married, think things can never be done too fast: but we that are old, and know what we are about must elope methodically, madam.
OLIVIA. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be done over again—
JARVIS. My life for it you would do them ten times over.
OLIVIA. Why will you talk so? If you knew how unhappy they make me—
JARVIS. Very unhappy, no doubt: I was once just as unhappy when I was going to be married myself. I'll tell you a story about that—
OLIVIA. A story! when I'm all impatient to be away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature?—
JARVIS. Well, madam, if we must march, why we will march; that's all. Though, odds-bobs we have still forgot one thing we should never travel without—a case of good razors, and a box of shaving-powder. But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved by the way.
GARNET. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jarvis, you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment reading it to himself in the hall.
OLIVIA. Unfortunate! we shall be discovered.
GARNET. No, madam, don't be uneasy, he can make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks as if he was broke loose from Bedlam about it, but he can't find what it means for all that. O Lud, he is coming this way all in the horrors!
OLIVIA. Then let us leave the house this instant, for fear he should ask farther questions. In the mean time, Garnet, do you write and send off just such another.
CROAKER. Death and destruction! Are all the horrors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me? Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder-plots, combustibles and conflagration? Here it is—An incendiary letter dropped at my door. 'To Muster Croaker, these, with speed.' Ay, ay, plain enough the direction: all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as the devil, 'With speed!' O, confound your speed. But let me read it once more. (_Reads_). 'Muster Croakar as sone as yoew see this leve twenty gunnes at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for or yowe and yower experetion will be al blown up.' Ah, but too plain. Blood and gunpowder in every line of it. Blown up! murderous dog! All blown up! Heavens! what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown up! (_Reads_). 'Our pockets are low, and money we must have.' Ay, there's the reason; they'll blow us up, because they have got low pockets. (_Reads_). 'It is but a short time you have to consider; for if it takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame.' Inhuman monsters! blow us up, and then burn us. The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. (_Reads_). 'Make quick dispatch, and so no more at present. But may cupid, the little God of Love, go with you wherever you go.' The little God of Love! Cupid, the little God of Love go with me! Go you to the devil, you and your little Cupid together; I'm so frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder! We shall be all burnt in our beds; we shall be all burnt in our beds.