A room in Ashfield's House.

Dame Ashfield discovered at work with her needle, Henry sitting by her.

Dame. Come, come, Henry, you'll fret yourself ill, child. If Sir Philip will not be kind to you, you are but where you were.

Henry. [Rising.] My peace of mind is gone for ever. Sir Philip may have cause for hate;—spite of his unkindness to me, my heart seeks to find excuses for him—oh! that heart doats on his lovely daughter.

Dame. [Looking out.] Here comes Tummas home at last. Heyday what's the matter with the man! He doesn't seem to know the way into his own house.

Enter Ashfield, musing, he stumbles against a chair.

Tummas, my dear Tummas, what's the matter?

Ash. [Not attending.] It be lucky vor he I be's zoo pratty behaved, or dom if I—

[Doubling his fist.

Dame. Who—what?

Ash. Nothing at all; where's Henry?

Henry. Here, farmer.

Ash. Thee woultn't leave us, Henry, wou't?

Henry. Leave you! What, leave you now, when by my exertion I can pay off part of the debt of gratitude I owe you? oh, no!

Ash. Nay, it were not vor that I axed, I promise thee; come, gi'us thy hand on't then. [Shaking hands.] Now, I'll tell ye. Zur Philip did send vor I about the money I do owe 'un; and said as how he'd make all straight between us——

Dame. That was kind.

Ash. Ees, deadly kind. Make all straight on condition I did turn Henry out o'my doors.

Dame. What!

Henry. Where will his hatred cease?

Dame. And what did you say, Tummas?

Ash. Why I zivelly tould un, if it were agreeable to he to behave like a brute, it were agreeable to I to behave like a man.

Dame. That was right. I wou'd have told him a great deal more.

Ash. Ah! likely. Then a' zaid I shou'd ha' a bit a laa vor my pains.

Henry. And do you imagine I will see you suffer on my account? No—I will remove this hated form—— [Going.]

Ash. No, but thee shat'un—thee shat'un—I tell thee. Thee have givun me thy hand on't, and dom'me if thee sha't budge one step out of this house. Drabbit it! what can he do? he can't send us to jail. Why, I have corn will zell for half the money I do owe'un—and han't I cattle and sheep? deadly lean to be zure—and han't I a thumping zilver watch, almost as big as thy head? and Dame here a got——How many silk gowns have thee got, dame!

Dame. Three, Tummas—and sell them all—and I'll go to church in a stuff one—and let Mrs. Grundy turn up her nose as much as she pleases.

Henry. Oh, my friends, my heart is full. Yet a day will come, when this heart will prove its gratitude.

Dame. That day, Henry, is every day.

Ash. Dang it! never be down hearted. I do know as well as can be, zome good luck will turn up. All the way I comed whoam I looked to vind a purse in the path. But I didn't though. [A knocking at the door.]

Dame. Ah! here they are, coming to sell I suppose—

Ash. Lettun—lettun zeize and zell; we ha gotten here [Striking his breast.] what we won't zell, and they can't zell. [Knocking again.] Come in—dang it, don't ye be shy.

Enter Morrington and Gerald.

Henry. Ah! the strangers I saw this morning. These are not officers of law.

Ash. Noa!—Walk in, gemmen. Glad to zee ye wi' all my heart and zoul. Come, dame, spread a cloth, bring out cold meat, and a mug of beer.

Gerald. [To Morrington.] That is the boy. [Morrington nods.]

Ash. Take a chair, zur.

Mor. I thank, and admire your hospitality. Don't trouble yourself, good woman.—I am not inclined to eat.

Ash. That be the case here. To-day none o'we be auver hungry: misfortin be apt to stay the stomach confoundedly—

Mor. Has misfortune reached this humble dwelling?

Ash. Ees, zur. I do think vor my part it do work its way in every where.

Mor. Well, never despair.

Ash. I never do, zur. It is not my way. When the sun do shine I never think of voul weather, not I; and when it do begin to rain, I always think that's a zure zign it will give auver.

Mor. Is that young man your son?

Ash. No, zur—I do wish he were wi' all my heart and zoul.

Gerald. [To Morrington.] Sir, remember.

Mor. Doubt not my prudence. Young man, your appearance interests me;—how can I serve you?

Henry. By informing me who are my parents.

Mor. That I cannot do.

Henry. Then, by removing from me the hatred of Sir Philip Blandford.

Mor. Does Sir Philip hate you?

Henry. With such severity, that even now he is about to ruin these worthy creatures, because they have protected me.

Mor. Indeed! misfortune has made him cruel. That should not be.

Ash. Noa, it should not, indeed, zur.

Mor. It shall not be.

Ash. Shan't it, zur? But how shan't it?

Mor. I will prevent it.

Ash. Wool ye faith, and troth? Now, dame, did not I zay zome good luck would turn up?

Henry. Oh, sir, did I hear you rightly? Will you preserve my friends?—will you avert the cruel arm of power, and make the virtuous happy? my tears must thank you.

[Taking his hand.

Mor. [Disengaging his hand.] Young man, you oppress me—forbear! I do not merit thanks—pay your gratitude where you are sure 'tis due—to Heaven. Observe me—here is a bond of Sir Philip Blandford's for 1000l.—do you present it to him, and obtain a discharge for the debt of this worthy man. The rest is at your own disposal—no thanks.

Henry. But, sir, to whom am I thus highly indebted?

Mor. My name is Morrington. At present that information must suffice.

Henry. Morrington.

Ash. [Bowing.] Zur, if I may be so bold—

Mor. Nay, friend——

Ash. Don't be angry, I hadn't thanked you, zur, nor I won't.—Only, zur, I were going to ax, when you wou'd call again. You shall have my stamp note vor the money, you shall, indeed, zur. And in the mean time, I do hope you'll take zomeit in way of remembrance as 'twere.

Dame. Will your honour put a couple of turkies in your pocket?

Ash. Or pop a ham under your arm? don't ye zay no, if it's agreeable.

Mor. Farewell, good friends, I shall repeat my visit soon.

Dame. The sooner the better.

Ash. Good bye to ye, zur,—Dame and I wool go to work as merry as crickets. Good bye, Henry.

Dame. Heaven bless your honour—and I hope you will carry as much joy away with you, as you leave behind you—I do indeed.

[Exeunt Ashfield and Dame.

Mor. Young man, proceed to the Castle, and demand an audience of Sir Philip Blandford. In your way thither, I'll instruct you further.—Give me your hand.

[Exeunt Morrington, looking stedfastly on Henry, Gerald following.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Castle.

Sir Philip Blandford discovered—Miss Blandford reading.

Miss B. Shall I proceed to the next essay?

Sir Philip. What does it treat of?

Miss B. Love and friendship.

Sir Philip. A satire?

Miss B. No, father;—an eulogy.

Sir Philip. Thus do we find, in the imaginations of men, what we in vain look for in their hearts.—Lay it by. [A knocking at the door.] Come in—

Enter Evergreen.

Everg. My dear master, I am a petitioner to you.

Sir Philip. [Rises.] None possesses a better claim to my favour—ask, and receive.

Everg. I thank you, sir. The unhappy Henry—

Miss B. What of him?

Sir Philip. Emma, go to your apartment.

Miss B. Poor Henry!

Sir Philip. Imprudent man!

Everg. [Sir Philip turns from hint with resentment.] Nay, be not angry; he is without, and entreats to be admitted.

Sir Philip. I cannot, will not, again behold him.

Everg. I am sorry you refuse me, as it compels me to repeat his words: "If," said he, "Sir Philip denies my humble request, tell him, I demand to see him."

Sir Philip. Demand to see me! well, his high command shall be obeyed then [Sarcastically]. Bid him approach.

[Exit Evergreen.

Enter Henry.

Sir Philip. By what title, sir, do you thus intrude on me?

Henry. By one of an imperious nature, the title of a creditor.

Sir Philip. I your debtor!

Henry. Yes; for you owe me justice. You, perhaps, withhold from me the inestimable treasure of a parent's blessing.

Sir Philip. [Impatiently.] To the business that brought you hither.

Henry. Thus then—I believe this is your signature.

[Producing abond.

Sir Philip. Ah! [Recovering himself.] it is—

Henry. Affixed to a bond of 1000l. which, by assignment, is mine. By virtue of this I discharge the debt of your worthy tenant Ashfield! who, it seems, was guilty of the crime of vindicating the injured, and protecting the unfortunate. Now, Sir Philip, the retribution my hate demands is, that what remains of this obligation may not be now paid to me, but wait your entire convenience and leisure.

Sir Philip. No! that must not be.

Henry. Oh, sir! why thus oppress an innocent man?—why spurn from you a heart, that pants to serve you? No answer, farewell.

[Going.

Sir Philip. Hold—one word before we part—tell me—I dread to ask it [Aside.]—How came you possessed of this bond?

Henry. A stranger, whose kind benevolence stepped in and saved—

Sir Philip. His name?

Henry. Morrington.

Sir Philip. Fiend! tormenter! has he caught me!—You have seen this Morrington?

Henry. Yes.

Sir Philip. Did he speak of me?

Henry. He did—and of your daughter. "Conjure him," said he, "not to sacrifice the lovely Emma, by a marriage her heart revolts at. Tell him, the life and fortune of a parent are not his own; he holds them but in trust for his offspring. Bid him reflect, that, while his daughter merits the brightest rewards a father can bestow, she is by that father doomed to the harshest fate tyranny can inflict."

Sir Philip. Torture! [With vehemence.] Did he say who caused this sacrifice?

Henry. He told me you had been duped of your fortune by sharpers.

Sir Philip. Aye, he knows that well. Young man, mark me:—This Morrington, whose precepts wear the face of virtue, and whose practice seems benevolence, was the chief of the hellish banditti that ruined me.

Henry. Is it possible?

Sir Philip. That bond you hold in your hand was obtained by robbery.

Henry. Confusion!

Sir Philip. Not by the thief who, encountering you as a man, stakes life against life, but by that most cowardly villain, who, in the moment when reason sleeps, and passion is roused, draws his snares around you, and hugs you to your ruin.

Henry. On your soul, is Morrington that man?

Sir Philip. On my soul, he is.

Henry. Thus, then, I annihilate the act—and thus I tread upon a villain's friendship.

[Tearing the bond.

Sir Philip. Rash boy! what have you done?

Henry. An act of justice to Sir Philip Blandford.

Sir Philip. For which you claim my thanks?

Henry. Sir, I am thanked already—here. [Pointing to his heart.] Curse on such wealth! compared with its possession, poverty is splendour. Fear not for me—I shall not feel the piercing cold; for in that man, whose heart beats warmly for his fellow creatures, the blood circulates with freedom—My food shall be what few of the pampered sons of greatness can boast of, the luscious bread of independence; and the opiate, that brings me sleep, will be the recollection of the day passed in innocence.

Sir Philip. Noble boy!—Oh Blandford!

Henry. Ah!

Sir Philip. What have I said?

Henry. You called me Blandford.

Sir Philip. 'Twas error—'twas madness.

Henry. Blandford! a thousand hopes and fears rush on my heart. Disclose to me my birth—be it what it may, I am your slave for ever. Refuse me, you create a foe, firm and implacable as——

Sir Philip. Ah! am I threatened? Do not extinguish the spark of pity my breast is warmed with.

Henry. I will not. Oh! forgive me.

Sir Philip. Yes, on one condition—leave me.—Ah! some one approaches. Begone, I insist—I entreat.

Henry. That word has charmed me! I obey: Sir Philip, you may hate, but you shall respect, me. [Exit.

Enter Handy, jun.

Handy, jun. At last, thank Heaven, I have found somebody. But, Sir Philip, were you indulging in soliloquy?—You seem agitated.

Sir Philip. No, sir; rather indisposed.

Handy, jun. Upon my soul, I am devilish glad to find you. Compared with this castle, the Cretan labyrinth was intelligible; and unless some kind Ariadne gives me a clue, I shan't have the pleasure of seeing you above once a-week.

Sir Philip. I beg your pardon, I have been an inattentive host.

Handy, jun. Oh, no; but when a house is so devilish large, and the party so very small, they ought to keep together; for, to say the truth, though no one on earth feels a warmer regard for Robert Handy than I do—I soon get heartily sick of his company—whatever he may be to others, he's a cursed bore to me.

Sir Philip. Where's your worthy father?

Handy, jun. As usual, full of contrivances that are impracticable, and improvements that are retrograde; forming, altogether, a whimsical instance of the confusion of arrangement, the delay of expedition, the incommodiousness of accommodation, and the infernal trouble of endeavouring to save it—he has now a score or two of workmen about him, and intends pulling down some apartments in the east wing of the Castle.

Sir Philip. Ah! ruin!—Within there!—Fly to Sir Abel Handy—Tell him to desist! order his people, on the peril of their lives, to leave the Castle instantly! Away!

Handy, jun. Sir Philip Blandford, your conduct compels me to be serious.

Sir Philip. Oh, forbear! forbear!

Handy, jun. Excuse me, sir,—an alliance, it seems, is intended between our families, founded on ambition and interest. I wish it, sir, to be formed on a nobler basis, ingenuous friendship and mutual confidence. That confidence being withheld, I must here pause; for I should hesitate in calling that man father, who refuses me the name of friend.

Sir Philip. [Aside.] Ah! how shall I act?

Handy, jun. Is my demand unreasonable?

Sir Philip. Strictly just—But oh!—you know not what you ask—Do you not pity me?

Handy, jun. I do.

Sir Philip. Why then seek to change it into hate?

Handy, jun. Confidence seldom generates hate—Mistrust always.

Sir Philip. Most true.

Handy, jun. I am not impelled by curiosity to ask your friendship. I scorn so mean a motive. Believe me, sir, the folly and levity of my character proceed merely from the effervescence of my heart—you will find its substance warm, steady, and sincere.

Sir Philip. I believe it from my soul.—Yes, you shall hear my story; I will lay before your view the agony, with which this wretched bosom is loaded.

Handy, jun. I am proud of your confidence, and am prepared to receive it.

Sir Philip. Not here—let me lead you to the eastern part of the castle, my young friend—mark me: This is no common trust I repose in you; for I place my life in your hands.

Handy, jun. And the pledge I give for its security is, what alone gives value to life, my honour.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A gloomy Gallery in the Castle—in the centre a strongly barred door.—The gallery hung with portraits.

Henry discovered examining a particular portrait, which occupies a conspicuous situation in the gallery.

Henry. Whenever curiosity has led me to this gallery, that portrait has attracted my attention—the features are peculiarly interesting. One of the house of Blandford—Blandford—-my name—perhaps my father. To remain longer ignorant of my birth, I feel impossible. There is a point when patience ceases to be a virtue—Hush! I hear footsteps—Ah! Sir Philip and another in close conversation. Shall I avoid them?—No—Shall I conceal myself, and observe them?—Curse on the base suggestion!—No—

Enter Sir Philip and Handy, jun.

Sir Philip. That chamber contains the mystery.

Henry. [Aside.] Ah!

Sir Philip. [Turning round.] Observe that portrait. [Seeing Henry—starts.] Who's there?

Handy, jun. [To Henry.] Sir, we wish to be private.

Henry. My being here, sir, was merely the effect of accident. I scorn intrusion. [Bows.] But the important words are spoken—that chamber contains the mystery.

[Aside.—Exit.

Handy, jun. Who is that youth?

Sir Philip. You there behold his father—my brother—[Weeps.]—I've not beheld that face these twenty years.—Let me again peruse its lineaments. [In an agony of grief.] Oh, God! how I loved that man!—

Handy, jun. Be composed.

Sir Philip. I will endeavour. Now listen to my story.

Handy, jun. You rivet my attention.

Sir Philip. While we were boys, my father died intestate. So I, as elder born, became the sole possessor of his fortune; but the moment the law gave me power, I divided, in equal portions, his large possessions, one of which I with joy presented to my brother.

Handy, jun. It was noble.

Sir Philip. [With suppressed agony.] You shall now hear, sir, how I was rewarded. Chance placed in my view a young woman of superior personal charms; my heart was captivated—Fortune she possessed not—but mine was ample. She blessed me by consenting to our union, and my brother approved my choice.

Handy, jun. How enviable your situation!

Sir Philip. Oh! [Sighing deeply.] On the evening previous to my intended marriage, with a mind serene as the departing sun, whose morning beam was to light me to happiness, I sauntered to a favourite tree, where, lover-like, I had marked the name of my destined bride, and, with every nerve braced to the tone of ecstasy, I was wounding the bark with a deeper impression of the name—when, oh, God!——

Handy, jun. Pray proceed.

Sir Philip. When the loved offspring of my mother, and the woman my soul adored—the only two beings on earth, who had wound themselves round my heart by every tie dear to the soul of man, placed themselves before me; I heard him—even now the sound is in my ears, and drives me to madness—I heard him breathe vows of love, which she answered with burning kisses—He pitied his poor brother, and told her he had prepared a vessel to bear her for ever from me.—They were about to depart, when the burning fever in my heart rushed upon my brain—Picture the young tiger, when first his savage nature rouses him to vengeance—the knife was in my gripe—I sprang upon them—with one hand I tore the faithless woman from his damned embrace, and with the other—stabbed my brother to the heart.

Handy, jun. The wretched woman——

Sir Philip. Was secretly conveyed here—even to that chamber.—She proved pregnant, and in giving birth to a son, paid the forfeit of her perjury by death. My task being ended, yours begins.

Handy, jun. Mine!

Sir Philip. Yes, that chamber contains evidence of my shame; the fatal instrument, with other guilty proofs, lie there concealed—can you wonder I dread to visit the scene of horror—can you wonder I implore you, in mercy, to save me from the task? Oh! my friend, enter the chamber, bury in endless night those instruments of blood, and I will kneel and worship you.

Handy, jun. I will.

Sir Philip. [Weeps.] Will you? [Embraces him.] I am unused to kindness from man, and it affects me. Oh! can you press to your guiltless heart that bloodstained hand!

Handy, jun. Sir Philip, let men without faults condemn—I must pity you.

[Exeunt Handy, jun. leading Sir Philip.