What's o'clock? [Rubbing his eyes.

Just noon, sir.

Why was I waked so early?

You were not waked, sir—You rung.

Then it was in my sleep—and could not you
suppose so?——After going to bed at five, to
make me rise at noon! (in a violent passion) What
am I to do with myself, sir, till it is time to go
out for the evening?

You have company to dinner you know, sir.

No, it is to supper—and what am I to do with
myself till that time?

Company again to supper, Sir?

Yes, and the self-same company I had last
night—I invited them upon Lady Caroline's
account—to give her an opportunity of revenge,
for the money she lost here yesterday evening—
and I am all weariness—I am all lassitude and
fretfulness till the time arrives.—But now I call
to mind, I have an affair that may engage my
attention a few hours. You were giving me an
account, Bluntly, of that beautiful girl I saw
enter at Blackman's?

Yes, sir, I saw her late last night in Mr.
Blackman's house—she lodges there.

Indeed? In Blackman's house? I am glad to
hear it.

And he has assured me, sir, that she and her
family are in the greatest poverty imaginable.

I am glad to hear it.

They have been it seems above a twelvemonth
in London, in search of some rich relations; but
instead of meeting with them, the father was
seen and remembered by an old creditor who
has thrown him into prison.

I am very glad to hear it.

But the young woman, Sir, has been so short
a time in town, she has, seemingly, a great deal
of modesty and virtue.

And I am very glad to hear of that too—
I like her the better—you know I do—for I am
weary of that ready compliance I meet with
from the sex.

But if I might presume to advise, sir—as you
are so soon to be married to her ladyship, whom
you love with sincere affection, you should give
up this pursuit.

And I shall give it up, Bluntly, before my
marriage takes place—for, short as that time may
be, I expect this passion will be over and forgotten,
long before the interval has passed away.—
But that brother you were mentioning——

I have some reason to think, that with all his
poverty, he has a notion of honour.

Oh! I have often tried the effect of a purse of
gold with people of honour.—Have you desired
them to be sent for as I ordered.

I have, Sir.

See if they are come. [Exit Bluntly.] Ah!
my dear Lady Caroline, it is you, and only you,
whom I love with a sincere passion! but in waiting
this long expected event of our marriage,
permit me to indulge some less exalted
wishes.

Are they come?

The young man is in the anti-chamber, sir,
but his sister is not with him. (Speaking to
Henry who is without) Please to walk this way
—my master desires to see you.

No, no, no—I do not desire to see him, if
his sister is not there.—Zounds you scoundrel
what did you call him in for?

Young man, I am told you are very poor—
you may have heard that I am very rich—and I
suppose you are acquainted with the extensive
meaning of the word—generosity.

[After an hesitation.] Perhaps not, sir.

The meaning of it, as I comprehend, is, for
the rich to give to the poor.—Have you any
thing to ask of me in which I can serve you?

Your proposal is so general, I am at a loss
what to answer—but you are no doubt acquainted
with the extensive meaning of the word, pride,—
and that will apologize for the seeming indifference
with which I receive your offer.

Your pride seems extensive indeed.—I heard
your father was in prison, and I pitied him.

Did you, Sir?—Did you pity my father:—
I beg your pardon—if I have said any thing to
offend you pray forgive it—nor let my rudeness
turn your companion away from him, to any
other object.

Would a small sum release him from confinement?
Would about a hundred pounds——

I have no doubt but it would.

Then take that note.——Be not surprised—
I mean to dispose of a thousand guineas this way,
instead of fitting up a theatre in my own house.—
That (giving him the note) is a mere trifle; my
box at the opera, or my dinner; I mean to dine
alone to morrow, instead of inviting company.

Sir George, I spoke so rudely to you at first,
that I know no other way to shew my humility,
than to accept your present without reluctance.—
I do therefore, as the gift of benevolence,
not as the insult of better fortune.

You have a brother, have not you?

No, Sir—and only one sister.

A sister is it? well, let me see your father and
your brother—your sister I mean—did not you
say?—you said a sister, did not you?

Yes, Sir.

Well, let me see your father and her; they
will rejoice at their good fortune I imagine, and
I wish to be a witness of their joy.

I will this moment go to our lawyer, extricate
my father, and we will all return and make you
the spectator of the happiness you have bestowed.

Forgive my eagerness to disclose your bounty,
sir, if, before I have said half I feel, I fly to
reveal it to my father; to whom I can more powerfully
express my sensations—than in your presence.

That bait has taken—and now, if the sister
will only be as grateful.

Dear sir, what can you have said to the young
man? I never saw a person so much affected!

In what manner?

The tears ran down his cheeks as he passed
along, and he held something in his hand which
he pressed to his lips, and then to his heart,
as if it was a treasure.

It is a treasure, Bluntly—a hundred Guineas.

But for which, I believe, you expect a greater
treasure in return.

Dost think so Bluntly?—dost think the girl is
worth a hundred pounds?

If she refuses, she is worth a thousand—but if
she complies, you have thrown away your money.

Just the reverse.

But I hope, sir, you do not mean to throw
away any more thus—for although this sum, by
way of charity, may be well applied, yet indeed,
sir, I know some of your creditors as much in
want as this poor family.

How!—You are in pay by some of my creditors
I suppose?

No, Sir, you must pay them, before they can
pay any body.

You are impertinent—leave the room instantly,
and go in search of this sister; now, while
the son is gone to release his father.—Tell her,
her brother is here, and bring her hither immediately.

But, sir, if you will only give me leave to
speak one word—

Do, speak; [Goes to the chimney-piece and takes
down a pistol] only speak a single syllable, and
I'll send a ball instantly through your head.

I am dumb, Sir—I don't speak indeed, Sir—
upon my life I don't. I wish I may die if I speak a word.

Go on the errand I told you; and if you dare
to return without the girl this is your fate.

Impertinent puppy; to ruffle the temper of a
man of fashion with hints of prudence and morality,
and paying his debts—all this from a servant
too. The insolent, chattering——

May I speak now, sir?

What have you to say?

Mr. Blackman, sir.

Bid him come in.

Good morning, Mr. Blackman; come, sit
down.

I am glad, Sir George, I have found you
alone, for I come to speak to you on important
business.

Business!——no—not now if you please.

But I must, sir—I have been here ten times
before, and have been put off, but now you
must hear what I have to say.

Don't be long then—don't be tedious, Mr.
Blackman—for I expect a, a—in short, I expect
a pretty woman.

When she comes, I will go.

Very well, speak quickly then. What have
you to say?

I come to speak upon the subject of your father's
will; by which you know, you run the
hazard of losing great part of what he left behind.

But what am I to do?

There is no time to be lost. Consider, that
Mr. Manly, the lawyer, whom your father employed,
is a man who pretends to a great deal
of morality; and it was he who, when your father
found himself dying, alarmed his conscience,
and persuaded him to make this Will in favour
of a second person. Now, I think that you and
I both together, ought to have a meeting with
this conscientious lawyer.

But I should imagine, Mr. Blackman, that if
he is really a conscientious man, you and he will
not be upon good terms.

Oh! people of our avocation differ in respect
to conscience. Puzzle, confound, and abuse
each other, and yet are upon good terms.

But I fear——

Fear nothing.—There are a vast number of
resources in our art.—It is so spacious, and yet
so confined—so sublime, and yet so profound—
so distinct, and yet so complicated—that if ever
this person with whom your fortune is divided
should be found, I know how to envelope her
in a labyrinth, where she shall be lost again in
a hurry.——But your father's lawyer being a
very honest—I mean a very particular man in
his profession,—I have reason to fear we cannot
gain him over to our purpose.—If, therefore,—

My visitor is come, as I told you.

And I am gone, as I told you.

My lodger! ah! ah! (To her in a whisper)
You may stay another quarter.

(To Eleanor) I am glad to see you.—Bluntly—

Sir?

Sir?——

I bid you go. [Angrily.

You bid me go, sir?—Oh yes, sir.—Very
well, sir.—But indeed, sir, I did not hear you
before, sir.—Indeed I did not.

Pardon me, sir.—I understood my brother
was here, but I find he is not.

He is but this instant gone, and will return
immediately.—Stay then with me till he comes.
(Takes her hand.) Surely you cannot refuse to
remain with me a few moments; especially as I
have a great deal to say to you that may tend
to your advantage.

Why do you cast your eyes with such impatience
on that door? (Goes and locks it.)
There, now you may look at it in vain.

For heaven sake, why am I locked in?

Because you should not escape.

That makes me resolve I will—Open the
door, sir.

Nay, listen to me. Your sentiments, I make
no doubt, are formed from books.

No, from misfortunes—yet more instructive.

You shall never know misfortune more—you,
nor your relations.—But this moment I presented
your brother with a sum of money, and he left
me with professions of the deepest gratitude.

My brother!—Has he received money from
you? Ah! he promised me he'd not disgrace
his family.

How! Family, indeed!

I cannot remain here a moment longer. Open
the door, sir—open it immediately.

Sir, sir, sir,—open the door, if you please—
you are wanted, sir.

S'death! who can want me in such haste?

Well, sir!

——Did you call, sir?

It was you who called, sir.

Who, I, sir?

Yes, sir, you—Who wants me?

Perhaps it was you that called, Ma'am.

It was I that called: and pray be so kind as
to conduct me to my own lodgings.

Dare not to touch her—or to stay another
moment in the room.—Begone.

And now, my fair Lucretia——

No, it's not myself I'll kill—'Tis you.

Nay, nay, nay, lay it down.—Lay that foolish
thing down; I beg you will. (Trembling.) It
is charged—it may go off.

I mean it to go off.

But no jesting—I never liked jesting in my
life.

Nor I—but am always serious.—Dare not,
therefore, insult me again, but let me go to my
wretched apartments.

Go to the——

What would you do?—Here Bluntly! Bluntly!

Did you call or no, sir?

Yes, sir, I did call now. (In a threatening
accent.) Don't you think you have behaved very
well this morning?

Yes, sir, I think I have.

I am not joking.

Nor am I, sir.

And do not you think I should behave very
well, if I was to discharge you my service?

As well as can be expected, sir.

Why did you break in upon me just now?
Did you think I was going to murder the girl?

No, sir, I suspected neither love nor murder.

What then did you suspect?

Why, sir, if I may make bold to speak—I
was afraid the poor girl might be robbed: and
of all she is worth in the world.

Blockhead! I suppose you mean her virtue?

Why, to say the truth, sir, virtue is a currency
that grows scarce in the world now-a-days—
and some men are so much in need of it, that
they think nothing of stopping a harmless female
passenger in her road through life, and plundering
her of it without remorse, though its loss, embitters
every hour she must afterwards pass in her
journey.

Sir George, my father, liberated from prison
by your bounty, is come gratefully to offer——

Oh, my father! whither are you going? Turn
back—turn back.

This is your benefactor—the man whose benevolence
has put an end to your sufferings.

How, sir, can I ever repay what I owe to you?
—or how describe those emotions, which your
goodness at this moment makes me feel?

Very well—very well—'tis all very well.
(Aside) I wish it was.—(To him) I am glad I
have been of service to you.

You have been like mercy to us all. My
daughter's gratitude overflows in tears.—But why,
my child, do you keep apart from us? Can you
be too timid to confess your obligation?

Let her alone—let her indulge her humour.

Speak, Eleanor.

No, I had rather she would be silent.

You offend me by this obstinacy.

Oh, my father!—Oh! I cannot——I cannot
speak.

Wherefore?—Explain this moment, what
agitates you thus.

You must return to confinement again.

How?

The money that has set you free, was given
for the basest purposes—and by a man as far beneath
you in principle, as you are beneath him
in fortune. Disdain the obligation—and come
my father, return to prison.

Yes.—And with more joy than I left it. (To
Sir George) Joy, in my daughter's virtuous
contempt of thee. (To his children) Leave the
house instantly.

Your present is but deposited in a lawyer's
hands, whose word gained me my liberty—
he shall immediately return it to you, while I return
to imprisonment.

If the money is in a lawyer's hands, my good
friend, it may be some time before you get it
returned.

Stay, Sir George—(he returns) And look me
in the face while you insult me. (Sir George
looks on the floor.) You cannot.—I therefore triumph,
while you stand before me abashed like
a culprit.—Yet be assured, unthinking, dissipated
man, that with all your insolence and
cruelty towards me and mine, I have still the
charity to rejoice, even for your sake, at seeing
you thus confounded. This shame is at least one
trait in your favour; and while it revenges my
wrongs, gives me joy to find, you are not a
hardened libertine.