Never was the whole train of misfortunes
so united to undo a man, as this night to
ruin me. The most obstinate round of ill
luck——

What is all that? You have lost a great deal
of money, I suppose?

Every guinea I had about me, and fifteen
thousand besides, for which I have given my
word.

Fifteen thousand guineas! and I have not
won one of them.—Oh, confusion upon every
thing that has prevented me.

Lady Caroline, you are the sole person who
has profited by my loss.—Prove to me that your
design was not to ruin me; to sink me into the
abyss of misfortune,—prove to me, you love me
in return for all my tender love to you. And
(taking up the cards) give me my revenge in one
single cut.

If this is the proof you require, I consent.

Thank you.—And it is for double or quit.—
Thank you.

Ay, it will be mine—thank you.—I shall be
the winner—thank you. (He cuts—then tears the
cards and throws them on the floor.) Destraction!—
Furies of the blackest kind conspire against
me, and all their serpents are in my heart.—
Cruel, yet beloved woman! Could you thus
abuse and take advantage of the madness of my
situation?

Your misfortunes, my dear Sir George—make
you blind.

No, they have rather opened my eyes, and
have shown me what you are.—Still an object I
adore; but I now perceive you are one to my
ruin devoted.—If any other intention had directed
you, would you have thus decoyed me
to my folly?—You know my proneness to play,
your own likelihood of success, and have palpably
allured me to my destruction. Ungrateful
woman, you never loved me, but taught me to
believe so, in order to partake of my
prodigality.—Do not be suspicious, madam; the debt
shall be discharged within a week.

That will do, sir—I depend upon your word;
and that will do.

Ungrateful—cruel—she is gone without giving
me one hope.—She even insults—despises
me.

Indeed, my dear friend, I compassionate your
ill luck most feelingly; and yet I am nearly as
great an object of compassion on this occasion as
yourself; for I have not won a single guinea of
all your losses: if I had, why I could have borne
your misfortune with some sort of patience.

My dear Sir George, your situation affects me
so extremely, I cannot stay a moment longer in
your presence. [Goes to the door, and returns.]
But you may depend upon my prayers.

Sir George, if I had any consolation to offer,
it should be at your service—but you know—you
are convinced—I have merely a sufficiency
of consolation—that is, of friends and of money
to support myself in the rank of life I hold in the
world. For without that—without that rank—
I sincerely wish you a good morning.

Good morning.

Where are all my guests?—the greatest part
gone without a word in condolence, and the rest
torturing me with insulting wishes. Here! behold!
here is the sole reliance which I have prepared
for the hour of misfortune; and what is it?
—words—compliments—desertion—and
from those, whose ingratitude makes their neglect still
more poignant. [Turns and perceives Mr. Lucre.]
Lucre, my dear Lucre, are not you amazed at
what you see?

No, not at all—'tis the way of the world—
we caress our acquaintances whilst they are happy
and in power, but if they fall into misfortune,
we think we do enough if we have the good nature
to pity them.

And are you, one of these friends?

I am like the rest of the world.—I was in the
number of your flatterers; but at present you
have none—for you may already perceive, we are
grown sincere.

But have not you a thousand times desired me,
in any distress, to prove you?

And you do prove me now, do you not?—
Heaven bless you. [Shaking hands with him] I
shall always have a regard for you—but for any
thing farther—I scorn professions which I do not
mean to keep.

Nay, but Lucre! consider the anguish in
which you leave me!—consider, that to be forsaken
by my friends is more affecting than the
loss of all my fortune. Though you have nothing
else to give me, yet give me your company.

My dear friend I cannot. Reflect that I am
under obligations to you—so many indeed that
I am ashamed to see you.——I am naturally bashful;
and do not be surprised if I should never
have the confidence to look you in the face
again.

This is the world, such as I have heard it
described, but not such as I could ever believe
it to be.—But I forgive—I forget all the world
except Lady Caroline—her ingratitude fastens
to my heart and drives me to despair. She, on
whom I have squandered so much—she, whom I
loved—and whom I still love, spite of her perfidy!

Well, Bluntly—behold the friendship of the
friends I loved! This morning I was in prosperity
and had many—this night I am ruined,
and I have not one.

Ruined, sir?

Totally: and shall be forced to part with every
thing I possess to pay the sums I owe.——Of
course, I shall part with all my servants—and
do you endeavour to find some other place.

But first, sir,—permit me to ask a favour of
you?

A favour of me? I have no favours now
to grant.

I beg your pardon, sir—you have one—and
I entreat it on my knees.

What would you ask of me?

To remain along with you still.—I will never
quit you; but serve you for nothing, to the last
moment of my life.

I have then one friend left. (Embracing him.)
And never will I forget to acknowledge the
obligation.

Pardon me—sir—I beg ten thousand pardons
—pray excuse me, (In the most servile manner,)
for entering before I sent to know if you were
at leisure—but your attendants are all fast asleep
on the chairs of your antichamber.—I could
not wake a soul—and I imagined you yourself
were not yet up.

On the contrary, I have not yet been in bed.
And when I do go there, I wish never to rise
from it again.

Has any thing unexpected happened?

Yes.—That I am ruined—inevitably ruined
—Behold (Shewing the cards) the only wreck
of my fortune.

(Starting.) Lost all your fortune?

All I am worth—and as much more as I am
worth.

Lost all you are worth? He, he, he, he!
(Laughs maliciously.) Pretty news, truly! Why
then I suppose I have lost great part of what I
am worth? all which you are indebted to me?
—However there is a way yet to retrieve you.
But—please to desire your servant to leave the
room.

Bluntly, leave us a moment. (Exit Bluntly.)
Well, Mr. Blackman, what is this grand secret?

Why, in the state to which you have reduced
yourself, there is certainly no one hope
for you, but in that portion, that half of your
fortune, which the will of your father keeps
you out of.

But how am I to obtain it? The lawyer in
whose hands it is placed, will not give it up,
without being insured from any future demand
by some certain proofs.

And suppose I should search, and find proofs?
Suppose I have them already by me?—But upon
this occasion, you must not only rely implicitly
on what I say, but it is necessary you should say
the same yourself.

If you advance no falsehood, I cannot have
any objection.

Falsehood!—falsehood!—I apprehend, Sir
George, you do not consider, that there is a
particular construction put upon words and
phrases in the practice of the law, which the
rest of the world, out of that study, are not
clearly acquainted with. For instance, falsehood
with us, is not exactly what it is with other
people.

How! Is truth, immutable truth, to be corrupted
and confounded by men of the law?

I was not speaking of truth—that, we have
nothing to do with.

I, must not say so, however, sir.—And in this
crisis of my sufferings, it is the only comfort,
the only consolatory reflection left me, that
truth and I, will never separate.

Stick to your truth—but confide in me as
usual.—You will go with me, then, to Mr.
Manly, your father's lawyer, and corroborate
all that I shall say?

Tell me, but what you intend to say?

I can't do that. In the practice of the law,
we never know what we intend to say—and
therefore our blunders, when we make them,
are in some measure excusable—and if I should
chance to make a blunder or two, I mean any
trivial mistake, when we come before this lawyer,
you must promise not to interfere, or in any
shape contradict me.

A mere lapse of memory, I have nothing to
do with.

And my memory grows very bad; therefore
you must not disconcert me.

Come, let us begone—I am ready to go with
you this moment.

I must first go home, and prepare a few
writings.

But call to mind that I rely upon your honour.

Do you think Bluntly, your servant, is an
honest man?

I am sure he is.

Then, to quiet your fears, I will take him
along with us; and you will depend on what
he shall say, I make no doubt?

I would stake my being upon his veracity.

Call him in, then, and bid him do as I command
him.

Here, Bluntly. (Enter Bluntly.) Mr.
Blackman has some business with you—listen to
him with attention, and follow his directions.

You know, I suppose, the perilous situation
of your master?

Good fellow! good fellow!—and you would,
I dare say, do any thing to rescue him from the
misery with which he is surrounded?

I would lay down my life.

You can do it for less. Only put on a black
coat, and the business is done.

What's that all? Oh! if I can save him by
putting on a black coat, I'll go buy mourning,
and wear it all my life.

There's a good fellow. I sincerely thank
you for this attachment to your master.

My dear Blackman, I beg your pardon for
what I am going to say; but as you behave
thus friendly on this unfortunate occasion, I
must confess to you—that till now I always hated
you.—I could not bear the sight of you.—For
I thought you (I wish I may die if I did not)
one of the greatest rogues in the world. I fancied
you only waited on, and advised my master
to make your market of him.—But now your
attention to him in his distress, when all his
friends have forsaken him, is so kind—Heaven
bless you—Heaven bless you—I'll go buy a
black coat.

I have something more to say to you.—When
you have put on this coat, you must meet your
master and me at Mr. Manly's, the lawyer; and
when we are all there, you must mind and say,
exactly what I say.

And what will that be?

Oh! something.

I have no objection to say something—but I
hope you won't make me say any thing.

You seem to doubt me once more, sir?

No, I am doubting you now for the first time;
for I always thought I was certain before.

And will you not venture to say yes, and no,
to what I shall advance?

Why—I think I may venture to say yes to
your no, and no to your yes, with a safe conscience.

If you do not instantly follow me and do
all that I shall propose, your master is ruined.—
Would you see him dragged to prison?

No, I would sooner go myself.

Then why do you stand talking about a safe
conscience. Half my clients would have been
ruined if I had shewn my zeal as you do.
Conscience indeed! Why, this is a matter of law,
to serve your master in his necessity.

I have heard necessity has no law—but if it
has no conscience, it is a much worse thing than
I took it for.—No matter for that—come along.
—Oh my poor master!—I would even tell a lie
to save him.

Who do you say wants to speak with me?

Mr. Lucre, sir.

And who else?

A person who says his name is Willford, he
looks as if he came from the country, and seems
in mean circumstances.

Show him to me directly. And take Mr.
Lucre, or any other person of fashion that may
call, to my clerks. [Exit Servant.] But for the
poor, let them be under my protection.

Come in—walk in, and let me know what I
can do to serve you.

I deposited, sir, in your clerk's hands, a sum
of money to set me free from confinement for debt.
—On his word, I was discharged—he owns he has
not yet paid away this money, still he refuses to
restore it to me, though in return I again render
up my person.

And why would you do this?

Because my honour—I mean my conscience—
for that's the poor man's honour—is concerned.

Explain yourself.

A son of mine, received this sum I speak of,
and thought it given him; while it was only
meant as a purchase—a purchase of what we
had no right to sell—and therefore it must be
restored to the owner.

And who is he?

Sir George Splendorville—I suppose you have
heard of him?

He, you mean, who by the desire of his father's
will, lately changed his name from Blandford?

Sir!

The name, which some part of the family,
while reduced, had taken.

Good Heaven! Is there such a circumstance
in his story?

Why do you ask with such emotion?

Because he is the man, in search of whom I
left my habitation in the country, to present before
him a destitute young woman, a near relation.

What relation?—Be particular in your answer.

A sister.

I thank you for your intelligence. You have
named a person who for these three years past, I
have in vain endeavoured to find.—But did you
say she was in poverty?

I did.

I give you joy then—for I have in my possession
a deed which conveys to a lost daughter of Sir
George's father, the other half of the fortune he
bequeathed his son—but as yet, all my endeavours
have been in vain to find where she, and
an uncle, to whose care she was entrusted in her
infancy, are retired.

Now, Eleanor, arm yourself with fortitude—
with fortitude to bear not the frowns, but the
smiles of fortune. Be humble, collected, and
the same you have ever been, while I for the
first time inform you—you are not my daughter.
—And from this gentleman's intelligence
add, you are rich—you are the deceased Blandford's
child, and Splendorville's sister.

Oh! Heavens! Do I lose a father such as you,
to gain a brother such as he is?

There can be no mistake on this occasion—
And you, if I am not deceived, are the brother
of the late Mr. Blandford. Your looks, your
person, your very voice confirms it.

I have writings in my care, shall prove it beyond
a doubt; with the whole narrative of our
separation when he with his son, then a youth,
embarked for India; where I suppose, riches, soon
succeeded poverty.

Lady Caroline Seymour, sir, is at the door in
her carriage, and will not be denied admittance.
She says she must see you upon some very urgent
business.

Will you do me the favour to step for a moment
into this room? Lady Caroline will not
stay long. I'll not detain you.

Dear Mr. Manly, I have a thousand apologies
to make—And yet I am sure you will excuse
the subject of my visit, when you consider——

Your ladyship will please to sit down.

You cannot be ignorant, Mr. Manly—you
must know, the terms of acquaintance on which
Sir George Splendorville and I have been, for
some time past?—you were his father's agent;
his chief solicitor; and although you are not
employed by Sir George, yet the state of his
affairs cannot be concealed from you—Has he,
or has he not, any inheritance yet to come?

Pardon me, madam—though not entrusted by
Sir George, I will, nevertheless, keep his secrets.

That is plainly telling me he is worth nothing.

By no means—Sir George, in spite of his
profusion, must still be rich. He has preserved
his large estate in Wales; and as to money, I
do not doubt but he has a considerable sum.

Not a guinea. I won it all from him last
night.

You? You, who are to become his wife?

I might, had I not been thus fortunate. But
why should I marry him, when his riches are
mine, without that ceremony.

Inconsiderate man!—what will be the end
of his imprudence! Yet, Heaven be praised!
he has still that fine estate, I just now mentioned.

Indeed he has not—that has belonged to me
these three months.

To you!

Yes—Bought for me under another name by
agents; and for half its value.

Madman!—Yet your ladyship must excuse
me. I know your income stinted, and till the
death of the Earl, your father, where could you
raise sufficient to make even half the purchase.

From Splendorville's own prodigality—from
lavish presents made to me by him.

Sir George Splendorville, sir, desires to speak
with you—he is at the door with Mr. Blackman.

Oh Heavens! do not let him see me here.

I have company there—walk in here, if you
Please.

Desire Sir George to walk in.

Sir George, do me the favour to sit down.

Mr. Manly, my attorney will let you know
the business on which I am come.

Why yes, Mr. Manly, it is extremely hard
that Sir George has for so long a time been kept
out of a very large part of his fortune; particularly,
as he has had occasion for it.

I have had occasion for it I assure you Mr.
Manly; and I have occasion for it at this very
time.

But so may the person, sir, from whom you
would take it. In a word, Sir George, neither
your lawyer nor you, shall prevail on me to give
up the trust reposed in me by your father, without
certain evidence, that your sister will never
come to make her claim.

You are not afraid of ghosts, are you?

No, nor of robbers either:——you cannot
frighten me, Mr. Blackman.

Then depend upon it, the sister of Sir George
can never appear in any other manner than as a
spirit. For, here, sir, (taking from his pocket a
parcel of papers) here are authentic letters to prove
her death. (Sir George looks confused.)

Her death!

Yes, her death. Here is a certificate from
the curate of the parish in which she was buried.

Buried too!

Yes, sir, buried. Here is also an affidavit
from the sexton of the said village, signed by
the overseer and churchwardens, testifying the
same.—You see, (shewing him the paper, and reading
at the same time) "Died Anno Domini, one
thousand seven hundred and eighty nine, the
seventeenth of June——"

How near to the brink of infamy has my
imprudence led me! And s'death, my
confusion takes from me the power to explain, and
expose the scoundrel.

Mr. Manly, I will leave you for the present;
but you shall hear from me shortly,—when this
matter shall be accounted for clearly—perfectly
to your satisfaction, you may depend upon it.—(Going.)

Stay, Sir George, and——

Aye, Sir George, stay and see Mr. Manly's
objections wholly removed. He seems to doubt
the evidence of paper; I must, therefore, beg
leave to produce a living witness—the gentleman
whom I appointed to meet me here.

And who is he?

The apothecary, who attended Sir George's
sister in her dying illness.

Desire him to walk in by all means. What is
the matter, Sir George, you look discomposed?

Sir George is something nervous, Mr. Manly;
and you know the very name of a medical gentleman,
will affect the nerves of some people.

Bluntly!—But I will see the end of this.

(Bowing to him). You are an apothecary, I
think, sir?

Yes, sir.

(After seeming inclined to say, No). Yes, sir.

Pray sir, what disorder took the young lady,
on whose account you have been brought hither,
out of the world?

Oh! the old disorder, I suppose.

The old disorder.

And pray what may that be, sir? (Blackman
offers to reply). Mr. Blackman, Please to let this
gentleman speak for himself.—What is it you
mean, pray sir, by the old disorder?

I—I—mean—Love, sir.

You will not pretend to say, that love, was the
cause of her death?

(Confused and hesitating). That—and a few fits
of the gout.

I fear, sir, you are not in perfect health yourself
—you tremble and look very pale.

That is because the subject affects him.

Do you then never mention the young lady
without being affected?

Never, sir—for had you seen her as I did—
um—Had you seen her.——She was in very
great danger from the first; but after I attended
her, she was in greater danger still.—I
advised a physician to be called in; on which she
grew worse.—We had next a consultation of
physicians; and then it was all over with her.

(Rising from his chair). Blackman, this is too
much—all my calamities are inferior to this—
Desist, therefore, or——

(To Bluntly.) Desist—He cannot bear to hear
the pathetic description. Consider the lady was
his sister—and though he had not the pleasure of
knowing her—yet, poor thing—(affecting to
weep)—poor young woman! he cannot help lamenting
her loss.

No more can I—for though she was not my
relation—yet she was my Patient. (pretending to
weep also).

I can bear no more.—Mr. Manly, you are imposed
upon. But think not, however appearances
may be against me, that I came here as the
tool of so infamous a deceit.—Thoughtlessness,
Mr. Manly, has embarrassed my circumstances;
and thoughtlessness alone, has made me employ a
villain to retrieve them.

Mighty fine!

I have no authority, sir, to affirm, that my
sister is not alive; and I am confident the account
you have just now heard, of her death, is
but an artifice. My indiscretions have reduced
me nearly to beggary; but I will perish in confinement
—cheerfully perish—rather than owe
my affluence to one dishonourable action.

Grief has turned his brain.

Sir George, I honour your feelings; and as for
the feelings of these gentlemen, I am extremely
happy, that it is in my power to dry up their
tears, and calm all their sorrows.

Sir!

How? In what way?

(Going to the door where Willford and his
niece are.) Come forth, young lady, to the arms
of a brother, and relieve the anguish of these
mourners, who are lamenting your decease.
(Eleanor and Willford enter)—Yes, Sir
George, here is that sister, whom those gentlemen
assure us, is dead;—and this is the brother
of your father.—These are proofs, as convincing,
I hope, as any Mr. Blackman can produce.

She, my sister! Her pretended father my
uncle too! (Aside) Blackman, you would have
plunged me into an anguish I never knew before;
you would have plunged me into shame.

And so you have me.

Pshaw.—Mr. Manly, notwithstanding you
are these people's voucher, this appears but a
scheme.—These persons are but adventurers,
and may possibly have about them forgeries, such
as an honest man, like myself, would shudder at.

Who's there? [Enter Servant.] Shew that—
that Mr. Blackman, out of my house instantly;
and take care you never admit him again.

Sir George, will you suffer this?

Aye, and a great deal more.

Look'ee Blackman.—If you don't fall
down upon your knees, and beg my pardon at
the street door, for the trick you have put upon
me, in assuring me my master's sister was really
dead, and that I could do her no injury, by doing
him a service—if you don't beg my pardon
for this, I'll give you such an assault and battery
as you never had to do with in your life.

Beat me—do, beat me—I'll thank you for
beating me—I'd be beat every hour of the day,
to recover damages.

My sister—with the sincerest joy I call you
by that name—and while I thus embrace you,
offer you a heart, that beats with all the pure
and tender affection, which our kindred to
each other claims.—In you (embracing his uncle)
I behold my father; and experience an awful
fear, mingled with my regard.

Continue still that regard, and even that fear
—these filial sentiments may prove important;
and they shall ever be repaid with my paternal
watchings, friendship, and love.

My brother——

I have been unworthy of you—I will be so
no more, but imitate your excellence. Yet,
when I reflect——

My brother, do not imagine——

Leave me, leave me to all the agonies of my
misconduct.—Where is my fortune? Now all
irrecoverably gone—My last, my only resource
is now to be paid to another—I have lost every
thing.

No, Sir George, nothing—since I possess all
that was yours.

How!

Behold a friend in your necessities—a mistress
whom your misfortunes cannot drive away—
but who, experiencing much of your unkindness,
still loves you; and knowing your every folly,
will still submit to honour, and obey you.

I received your lavish presents, but to hoard
them for you—made myself mistress of your
fortune, but to return it to you—and with it,
all my own.

Can this be real? Can I be raised in one
moment, from the depths of misery to unbounded
happiness?

A young man, who says he is Mr. Willford's
son, is called to enquire for him.

Shew him in.

Come, Henry, and take leave of your sister
for ever.

How so, sir?—What do you mean? To be
parted from her, would be the utmost rigour of
fortune.

The affection with which you speak, young
gentleman, seems to convey something beyond
mere brotherly love.

I some years since revealed to him she was
not his sister.

And he, some years since, implied it to me.
Yet, in such doubtful terms, I knew not which
of us had the sorrow not to be your child.—
I now find it is myself—and I aver it to be a
sorrow, for which, all the fortune I am going
to possess will not repay me.

Then, my dearest sister, indulge the hope you
may yet be his daughter. This young man's
merit deserves a reward, and in time he may
learn to love you by a still nearer tie than that,
you have so long known to exist between you;
nay, even by a nearer tie than that of brother.

I am in doubt of what I hear—Eleanor, since
our short separation, there cannot surely have
been any important discovery—

Be not surprised—great discoveries, which we
labour in vain for years to make, are frequently
brought about in one lucky moment, without
any labour at all.

True—for till this day arose, I had passed
every hour since my birth, without making one
discovery to my advantage—while this short,
but propitious morning, has discovered to me
all my former folly—and discovered to me—
how to be in future happy.