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.