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 a bond.
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.