Sir Row. You are fond, sir, of throwing out these hints to his disadvantage.

O'Ded. I am bold to speak it—I am possessed of a secret, sir Rowland, in regard to his lordship.

Sir Row. (alarmed.) What is it you mean?

O'Ded. I thought I told you it was a secret.

Sir Row. But to me you should have no secrets that regard my family.

O'Ded. With submission, sir Rowland, his lordship is my client, as well as yourself, and I have learned from the practice of the courts, that an attorney who blabs in his business has soon no suit to his back.

Sir Row. But this affair, perhaps, involves my deepest interest—my character—my all is at stake.

O'Ded. Have done wid your pumping now—d'ye think I am a basket full of cinders, that I'm to be sifted after this fashion?

Sir Row. Answer but this—does it relate to Charles, my son?

O'Ded. Sartinly, the young gentleman has a small bit of interest in the question.

Sir Row. One thing more. Does it allude to a transaction which happened some years ago—am I a principal concerned in it?

O'Ded. Devil a ha'porth—it happened only six months past.

Sir R. Enough—I breathe again.

O'Ded. I'm glad of that, for may-be you'll now let me breathe to tell you that as I know lord Austencourt's private character better than you do, my life to a bundle of parchment, he'll even arrest ye for the money.

Sir R. Impossible, he cannot be such a villain!

Abel Grouse. (without) What ho! is the lawyer within?

Sir Row. Who interrupts us?

O'Ded. 'Tis the strange man that lives on the common—his name is Abel Grouse—he's coming up.

Sir R. I'll wait till you dismiss him, for I cannot encounter any one at present. Misfortunes crowd upon me; and one act of guilt has drawn the vengeance of Heaven on my head, and will pursue me to the grave. [Exit to an inner room.

O'Ded. Och! if a small gale of adversity blows up such a storm as this, we shall have a pretty hurricane by and by, when you larn a little more of your hopeful nephew, and see his new matrimonial scheme fall to the ground, like buttermilk through a sieve.

Enter Abel Grouse.

Abel Grouse. Now, sir, you are jackall, as I take it, to lord Austencourt.

O'Ded. I am his man of business, sure enough; but didn't hear before of my promotion to the office you mention.

Ab. Gr. You are possessed of all his secret deeds.

O'Ded. That's a small mistake—I have but one of them, and that's the deed of settlement on Miss Helen Worret, spinster.

Ab. Gr. Leave your quibbling, sir, and speak plump to the point—if habit hasn't hardened your heart, and given a system to your knavery, answer me this: lord Austencourt has privately married my daughter?

O'Ded. Hush!

Ab. Gr. You were a witness.

O'Ded. Has any body told you that thing?

Ab. Gr. Will you deny it?

O'Ded. Will you take a friend's advice?

Ab. Gr. I didn't come for advice. I came to know if you will confess the fact, or whether you are villain enough to conceal it.

O'Ded. Have done wid your bawling—sir Rowland's in the next room!

Ab. Gr. Is he? then sir Rowland shall hear me—Sir Rowland!—he shall see my daughter righted—Ho there! Sir Rowland!

O'Ded. (aside) Here'll be a devil of a dust kicked up presently about the ears of Mr. Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law!

Enter Sir Rowland.

Sir Row. Who calls me?

Ab. Gr. 'Twas I!

Sir Row. What is it you want, friend?

Ab. Gr. Justice!

Sir Row. Justice! then you had better apply there, (pointing to O'Dedimus.)

Ab. Gr. That's a mistake—he deals only in law—'tis to you that I appeal—Your nephew, lord Austencourt, is about to marry the daughter of sir Willoughby Worret.

Sir Row. He is.

Ab. Gr. Never! I will save him the guilt of that crime at least!

Sir Row. You are mysterious, sir.

Ab. Gr. Perhaps I am. Briefly, your nephew is privately married to my daughter—this man was present at their union—will you see justice done me, and make him honourably proclaim his wife?

Sir Row. Your tale is incredible, sir—it is sufficient, however, to demand attention, and I warn you, lest by your folly you rouse an indignation that may crush you.

Ab. Gr. Hear me, proud man, while I warn you! My daughter is the lawful wife of lord Austencourt—double is the wo to me that she is his wife: but as it is so, he shall publicly acknowledge her—to you I look for justice and redress—see to it, sir, or I shall speedily appear in a new character, with my wrongs in my hand, to hurl destruction on you. [Exit.

Sir Row. What does the fellow mean?

O'Ded. That's just what I'm thinking—

Sir Row. You, he said, was privy to their marriage.

O'Ded. Bless ye, the man's mad!

Sir Row. Ha! you said you had a secret respecting my nephew.

O'Ded. Sir, if you go on so, you'll bother me!

Sir Row. The fellow must be silenced—can you not contrive some means to rid us of his insolence?

O'Ded. Sir, I shall do my duty, as my duty should be done, by Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law.

Sir Row. My nephew must not hear of this accursed loss—be secret on that head, I charge you! but in regard to this man's bold assertion, I must consult him instantly—haste and follow me to his house.

O'Ded. Take me wid ye, sir; for this is such a dirty business, that I'll never be able to go through it unless you show me the way. [Exeunt.

End of act I.



ACT II.

SCENE I.—A library at Sir Willoughby's. Enter Helen with Servant.

Helen. Lord Austencourt—true—this is his hour for persecuting me—very well, desire lord Austencourt to come in. (exit servant) I won't marry. They all say I shall. Some girls, now, would sit down and sigh, and moan, as if that would mend the matter—that will never suit me! Some indeed would run away with the man they liked better—but then the only man I ever liked well enough to marry—is—I believe, run away from me. Well! that won't do!—so I'll e'en laugh it off as well as I can; and though I wont marry his lordship, I'll teaze him as heartily as if I had been his wife these twenty years.

Enter lord Austencourt.

Lord A. Helen! too lovely Helen! once more behold before you to supplicate for your love and pity, the man whom the world calls proud, but whom your beauty alone has humbled.

Helen. They say, my lord, that pride always has a fall some time or other. I hope the fall of your lordship's hasn't hurt you.

Lord A. Is it possible that the amiable Helen, so famed for gentleness and goodness, can see the victim of her charms thus dejected stand before her.

Helen. Certainly not, my lord—so pray sit down.

Lord A. Will you never be for one moment serious?

Helen. Oh, yes, my lord! I am never otherwise when I think of your lordship's proposals—but when you are making love and fine speeches to me in person, 'tis with amazing difficulty I can help laughing.

Lord A. Insolent vixin. (aside) I had indulged a hope, madam, that the generosity and disinterested love I have evinced—

Helen. Why as to your lordship's generosity in condescending to marry a poor solitary spinster, I am certainly most duly grateful—and no one can possibly doubt your disinterestedness, who knows I am only heiress to 12,000l. a year—a fortune which, as I take it, nearly doubles the whole of your lordship's rent roll!

Lord A. Really, madam, if I am suspected of any mercenary motives, the liberal settlements which are now ready for your perusal, must immediately remove any such suspicion.

Helen. Oh, my lord, you certainly mistake me—only as my papa observes, our estates do join so charmingly to one another!

Lord A. Yes:—that circumstance is certainly advantageous to both parties (exultingly.)

Helen. Certainly!—only, as mine is the biggest, perhaps yours would be the greatest gainer by the bargain.

Lord A. My dear madam, a title and the advantages of elevation in rank amply compensate the sacrifice on your part.

Helen. Why, as to a title, my lord (as Mr. O'Dedimus, your attorney, observes) there's no title in my mind better than a good title to a fine estate—and I see plainly, that although your lordship is a peer of the realm—you think this title of mine no mean companion for your own.

Lord A. Nay, madam—believe me—I protest—I assure you—solemnly, that those considerations have very little—indeed no influence at all with me.

Helen. Oh, no!—only it is natural that you should feel (as papa again observes) that the contiguity of these estates seem to invite a union by a marriage between us.

Lord A. And if you admit that fact, why do you decline the invitation?

Helen. Why, one doesn't accept every invitation that's offered, you know—one sometimes has very disagreeable ones; and then one presents compliments, and is extremely sorry that a prior engagement obliges us to decline the honour.

Lord A. (aside) Confound the satirical huzzy—But should not the wishes of your parents have some weight in the scale?

Helen. Why, so they have; their wishes are in one scale, and mine are in the other; do all I can, I can't make mine weigh most, and so the beam remains balanced.

Lord A. I should be sorry to make theirs preponderate, by calling in their authority as auxiliaries to their wishes.

Helen. Authority!—Ho! what, you think to marry me by force! do ye my lord?

Lord A. They are resolute, and if you continue obstinate—

Helen. I dare say your lordship's education hasn't precluded your knowledge of a very true, though rather vulgar proverb, "one man may lead a horse to the water, but twenty can't make him drink."

Lord A. The allusion may be classical, madam, though certainly it is not very elegant, nor has it even the advantage of being applicable to the point in question. However I do not despair to see this resolution changed. In the mean time, I did not think it in your nature to treat any man who loves you with cruelty and scorn.

Helen. Then why don't you desist, my lord? If you'd take an answer, you had a civil one: but if you will follow and teaze one, like a sturdy beggar in the street, you must expect at last a reproof for your impertinence.

Lord A. Yet even in their case perseverance often obtains what was denied to poverty.

Helen. Yes, possibly, from the feeble or the vain; but genuine Charity, and her sister, Love, act only from their own generous impulse, and scorn intimidation.

Enter Tiffany.

Tiffany. Are you alone, madam?

Helen. No; I was only wishing to be so.

Tiff. A young woman is without, inquiring for sir Willoughby, ma'am; I thought he had been here.

Helen. Do you know her?

Tiff. Yes, ma'am; 'tis Fanny, the daughter of the odd man that lives on the common.

Helen. I'll see her myself—desire her to walk up. [Exit Tiffany.

Lord A. (seems uneasy) Indeed! what brings her here?

Helen. Why, what can be the matter now? your lordship seems quite melancholy on a sudden.

Lord A. I, madam! oh no!—or if I am—'tis merely a head ach, or some such cause, or perhaps owing to the influence of the weather.

Helen. Your lordship is a very susceptible barometer—when you entered this room your countenance was set fair; but now I see the index points to stormy.

Lord A. Madam, you have company, or business—a good morning to you.

Helen. Stay, stay, my lord.

Lord A. Excuse me at present, I have an important affair—another time.

Helen. Surely, my lord, the arrival of this innocent girl does not drive you away!

Lord A. Bless me, madam, what an idea! certainly not; but I have just recollected an engagement of consequence—some other time—Madam, your most obedient— [Exit.

Enter Fanny.

Fan. I beg pardon, madam, I'm fearful I intrude; but I inquired for sir Willoughby, and they showed me to this room. I wished to speak with him on particular business—your servant, madam.

Hel. Pray stay, my good girl—I rejoice in this opportunity of becoming acquainted with you—the character I have heard of you has excited an affectionate interest—you must allow me to become your friend.

Fanny. Indeed, indeed, madam, I am in want of friends; but you can never be one of them.

Helen. No! Why so?

Fan. You, madam! Oh no—you are the only enemy I ever had.

Hel. Enemy! This is very extraordinary! I have scarce ever seen you before—Assuredly I never injured you.

Fan. Heaven forbid I should wish any one to injure you as deeply.

Hel. I cannot understand you—pray explain yourself.

Fan. That's impossible, madam—my lord would never forgive me.

Hel. Your lord! Let me entreat you to explain your meaning.

Fan. I cannot, madam; I came hither on business of importance, and no trifling business should have brought me to a house inhabited by one who is the cause of all my wretchedness.

Hel. This is a very extraordinary affair! There is a mixture of cultivation and simplicity in your manner that affects me strongly—I see, my poor girl, you are distressed; and though what you have said leaves on my mind a painful suspicion—

Fan. Oh heavens, madam! stay, I beseech you!—I am not what you think me, indeed I am not—I must not, for a moment, let you think of me so injuriously: yet I have promised secrecy! but sure no promise can be binding, when to keep it we must sacrifice all that is valuable in life—hear me, then madam—the struggle is violent; but I owe it to myself to acknowledge all.

Hel. No, no, my dear girl! I now see what it would cost you to reveal your secret, and I will not listen to it; rest assured, I have no longer a thought to your disadvantage: curiosity gives place to interest: for though 'tis cruelty to inflict a wound, 'tis still more deliberate barbarity to probe when we cannot hope to heal it. (going.)

Fan. Stay, madam, stay—your generosity overpowers me! oh madam! you know not how wretched I am.

Hel. What is it affects you thus?—come, if your story is of a nature that may be revealed, you are sure of sympathy.

Fan. I never should have doubted; but my father has alarmed me sadly—he says my lord Austencourt is certainly on the point of marriage with you.

Hel. And how, my dear girl, if it were so, could that affect you? Come, you must be explicit.

Fan. Affect me! merciful Heaven! can I see him wed another? He is my husband by every tie sacred and human.

Hel. Suffering, but too credulous girl! have you then trusted to his vows?

Fan. How, madam! was I to blame, loving as I did, to trust in vows so solemn? could I suppose he would dare to break them, because our marriage was performed in secret?

Hel. Your marriage, child! Good Heavens, you amaze me! but here we may be interrupted—this way with me. If this indeed be so all may be well again: for though he may be dead to feeling be assured he is alive to fear: the man who once descends to be a villain is generally observed to be at heart a coward. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—The door of a country inn.—Ponder sitting on a portmanteau.

Ponder. I've heard that intense thinking has driven some philosophers mad!—now if this should happen to me, 'twill never be the fate of my young patron, Mr. Charles Austencourt, whom I have suddenly met on his sudden return from sea, and who never thinks at all. Poor gentleman, he little thinks what—

Enter Charles Austencourt.

Charles. Not gone yet? How comes it you are not on the road to my father? Is the fellow deaf or dumb. Ponder! are ye asleep?

Pon. I'm thinking, whether I am or not.

Charles. And what wise scheme now occupies your thoughts?

Pon. Sir, I confess the subject is beneath me (pointing to the portmanteau.)

Char. The weight of the portmanteau, I suppose, alarms you.

Pon. If that was my heaviest misfortune, sir, I could carry double with all my heart. No, sir, I was thinking that as your father, sir Rowland, sent you on a cruize, for some cause best known to himself; and as you have thought proper to return for some cause best known to yourself, the chances of war, if I may be allowed the expression, are, that the contents of that trunk will be your only inheritance, or, in other words, that your father will cut you off with a shilling—and now I'm thinking—

Char. No doubt—thinking takes up so many of your waking hours, that you seldom find time for doing. And so you have, since my departure, turned your thinking faculties to the law.

Pon. Yes, sir; when you gave me notice to quit, I found it so hard to live honestly, that lest the law should take to me, I took to the law: and so articled my self to Mr. O'Dedimus, the attorney in our town: but there is a thought unconnected with law that has occupied my head every moment since we met.

Char. Pr'ythee dismiss your thought, and get your legs in motion.

Pon. Then, sir, I have really been thinking, ever since I saw you, that you are a little—(going off to a distance) a little odd hereabouts, sir; (pointing to his head) a little damned mad, if I may be allowed the expression!

Char. Ha! ha! very probably. My sudden return, without a motive, as you suppose, has put that wise notion in your head.

Pon. Without a motive! No, sir, I believe I know tolerably well the motive—the old story, sir, ha! love!

Char. Love! And pray, sirrah, how do you dare to presume to suppose, that I—that I can be guilty of such a folly—I should be glad to know how you dare venture to think that I——

Pon. Lord bless you, sir, I discovered it before you left the country.

Char. Indeed! and by what symptoms, pray?

Pon. The old symptoms, sir—in the first place, frequent fits of my complaint.

Char. Your complaint?

Pon. Yes, thinking, long reveries, sudden starts, sentimental sighs, fits of unobserving absence, fidgets and fevers, orders and counter orders, loss of memory, loss of appetite, loss of rest, and loss of your senses, if I may be allowed the expression.

Char. No, sir, you may not be allowed the expression—'tis impertinent, 'tis false. I never was unobserving or absent; I never had the fidgets; I never once mentioned the name of my adored Helen; and, heigho! I never sighed for her in my life!

Pon. Nor I, sir; though I've been married these three years, I never once sighed for my dear wife in all that time—heigho!

Char. I mustn't be angry with the fellow. Why, I took you for an unobserving blockhead, or I would never have trusted you so near me.

Pon. Then, sir, you mis-took me. I fancy it was in one of your most decided unobserving fits that you took me for a blockhead.

Char. Well, sir; I see you have discovered my secret. Act wisely, and it may be of service to you.

Pon. Sir, I haven't studied the law for nothing. I'm no fool, if I may be allowed the expression.

Char. I begin to suspect you have penetration enough to be useful to me.

Pon. And craving your pardon, sir, I begin to suspect your want of that faculty, from your not having found out that before.

Char. I will now trust you, although once my servant, with the state of my heart.

Pon. Sir, that's very kind of you, to trust your humble servant with a secret he had himself discovered ten months ago.

Char. Keep it with honour and prudence.

Pon. Sir, I have kept it. Nobody knows of it, that I know of, except a few of your friends, many of your enemies, most travelling strangers, and all your neighbours.

Char. Why, zounds! you don't mean to say that any body, except yourself, suspects me to be in love.

Pon. Suspects! no, sir; suspicion is out of the question; it is taken as a proved fact in all society, a bill found by every grand jury in the county.

Char. The devil it is! Zounds! I shall never be able to show my face—this will never do—my boasted disdain of ever bowing to the power of love—how ridiculous will it now render me—while the mystery and sacred secrecy of this attachment constituted the chief delight it gave to the refinement of my feelings—O! I'll off to sea again—I won't stay here—order a post-chaise—no—yes—a chaise and four, d'ye hear?

Pon. Yes, sir; but I'm thinking—

Char. What?

Pon. That it is possible you may alter your mind.

Char. No such thing, sir; I'll set off this moment; order the chaise, I say.

Pon. Think of it again, sir.

Char. Will you obey my orders, or not?

Pon. I think I will. (aside) Poor gentleman! now could I blow him up into a blaze in a minute, by telling him that his mistress is just on the point of marriage with his cousin, but though they say "ill news travels apace," they shall never say that I rode postillion on the occasion. [Exit into inn.

Char. Here's a discovery! all my delicate management destroyed! known all over the country! I'm off! and yet to have travelled so far, and not to have one glimpse of her! but then to be pointed at as a poor devil in love, a silly inconsistent boaster! no, that wont do—but then I may see her—yes, I'll see her once—just once—for three minutes, or three minutes and a half at most—no longer positively—Ponder, Ponder! (enter Ponder) Ponder, I say—

Pon. I wish you wouldn't interrupt me, for I'm thinking—

Char. Damn your thinking, sir!

Pon. I was only thinking that you may have altered your mind already.

Char. I have not altered my mind: but since I am here, I should be wanting in duty not to pay my respects to my father; so march on with the trunk, sir.

Pon. Yes, sir: but if that's all you want to do, sir, you may spare yourself the trouble of going further, for, most fortunately, here he comes; and your noble cousin, lord Austencourt, with him—

Char. The devil!

Pon. Yes, sir; the devil, and his uncle, your father, if I may be allowed the expression. [Exit.

Enter sir Rowland and lord Austencourt.

Char. My dear father, I am heartily glad to see you—

Sir R. How is this, Charles! returned thus unexpectedly?

Char. Unexpected pleasure, they say, sir, is always most welcome—I hope you find it so.

Sir R. This conduct, youngster, requires explanation.

Char. Sir, I have it ready at my tongue's end—My lord, I ask your pardon—I'm glad to see you too.

Lord A. I wish, sir, I could return the compliment; but this extraordinary conduct—

Char. No apologies, my lord, for your civil speech—you might easily have returned the compliment in the same words, and, believe me, with as much sincerity as it was offered.

Sir R. This is no time for dissention, sir—

Lord A. My cousin forgets, sir Rowland, that although united by ties of consanguinity, birth and fortune have placed me in a station which commands some respect.

Char. No, my lord, for I also am in a station where I too command respect, where I respect and am respected. I therefore well know what is due to my superiors; and this duty I never forget, till those above me forget what they owe to themselves.

Lord A. I am not aware, good cousin, that I have ever yet forfeited my title to the respect I claim.

Char. You have, my lord: for high rank forfeits every claim to distinction when it exacts submissive humility from those beneath it, while at the same time it refuses a graceful condescension in exchange.

Sir R. Charles, Charles, these sentiments but ill become the dependent state in which Fortune has placed you.

Char. Dependent state! Dependent upon whom! What, on him! my titled, tawdry cousin there? What are his pretensions, that he shall presume to brand me as a poor dependent!—What are his claims to independence? How does he spend the income Fortune has allotted to him? Does he rejoice to revive in the mansion of his ancestors the spirit of old English hospitality? Do the eyes of aged tenants twinkle with joy when they hope his coming? do the poor bless his arrival? I say no. He is the lord of land—and is also, what he seems still more proud of, a lord of parliament; but I will front him in both capacities, and frankly tell him, that in the first he is a burthen to his own estate, and not a benefactor; and in the second, a peer but not a prop.

Sir R. Charles, how dare you thus persevere! You cannot deny, rash and foolish boy, that you are in a dependant state. Your very profession proves it.

Char. O, father, spare that insult! The profession I glory to belong to, is above dependence—yes! while we live and fight, we feel, and gratefully acknowledge, that our pay depends on our king and country, and therefore you may style us dependant; but in the hour of battle we wish for nothing more than to show that the glory and safety of the nation depends on us; and by our death or blood to repay all previous obligation.

Sir R. Dismiss this subject.

Char. With all my heart—My cousin was the subject, and he's a fatiguing one.

Sir R. Though you do not love your cousin, you ought to pay that deference to his rank which you refuse to his person.

Char. Sir, I do; like a fine mansion in the hands of a bad inhabitant. I admire the building, but despise the tenant.

Lord A. This insolence is intolerable, and will not be forgotten. You may find, hot sir, that Where my friendship is despised, my resentment may be feared. I well know the latent motives for this insult. It is the language of a losing gamester, and is treated with deserved contempt by a successful rival. [Exit.

Char. Ha! a successful rival! Is this possible?

Sir. R. It is. The treaty of marriage between lord Austencourt and Helen is this morning concluded.

Char. And does she consent?

Sir R. There can be little doubt of that.

Char. But little doubt! False Helen! Come, come, I know my Helen better.

Sir R. I repeat my words, sir. It is not the curse of every parent to have a disobedient child.

Char. By Heaven, sir, that reflection cuts me to the heart. You have ever found in me the obedience, nay more, the affection of a son, till circumstance on circumstance convinced me, I no longer possessed the affection of a father.

Sir R. Charles, we are too warm. I feel that I have in some degree merited your severe reproof—give me your hand, and to convince you that you undervalue my feelings towards you, I will now confess that I have been employed during your absence, in planning an arrangement which will place you above the malice of fortune—you know our neighbour, Mrs. Richland—

Char. What, the gay widow with a fat jointure? What of her?

Sir R. She will make not only a rich, but a good wife. I know she likes you—I'm sure of it.

Char. Likes me!

Sir R. I am convinced she does.

Char. But—what the devil—she doesn't mean to marry me surely!

Sir R. That will, I am convinced, depend upon yourself.

Char. Will it? then by the Lord, though I sincerely esteem her, I shall make my bow, and decline the honour at once. No, sir; the heart is my aim, and all the gold I care for in the hand that gives it, is the modest ring that encompasses the finger, and marks that hand as mine forever.

Sir R. Thus I see another of my prospects blighted! Undutiful, degenerate boy! your folly and obstinacy will punish themselves. Answer me not; think of the proposal I have made you; obey your father's will, or forever I renounce you! [Exit.

Char. Whoo! here's a whirligig! I've drifted on to a pleasant lee shore here! Helen betrothed to another! Impossible.—Oh Helen! Helen! Zounds! I'm going to make a soliloquy! this will never do! no, I'll see Helen; upbraid her falsehood; drop one tear to her memory; regain my frigate; seek the enemy; fight like a true sailor; die like a Briton; and leave my character and memory to my friends—and my blessing and forgiveness to Helen. [Exit.

End of act II.



ACT III.

SCENE I.—O'Dedimus's office. Ponder discovered.

Ponder. So! having executed my commission, let me think a little (sits down,) for certain I and my master are two precious rogues (pauses.) I wonder whether or not we shall be discovered, as assistants in this sham marriage (pauses.) If we are, we shall be either transported or hanged, I wonder which:—My lord's bribe, however, was convenient; and in all cases of conscience versus convenience, 'tis the general rule of practice to nonsuit the plaintiff. Ha! who's here? The poor girl herself. (Enter Fanny.) I pity her; but I've been bribed; so I must be honest.

Fanny. Oh, sir! I'm in sad distress—my father has discovered my intercourse with lord Austencourt, and says, he is sure my lord means to deny our marriage; but I have told him, as you and your master were present, I am sure you will both be ready to prove it, should my lord act so basely.

Pon. I must mind my hits here, or shall get myself into a confounded scrape—ready to do what, did you say, ma'am, to prove your marriage?

Fan. Yes, as you both were present.

Pon. Present! me! Lord bless me, what is it you mean? Marriage! prove! me! present!

Fan. Why do you hesitate? come, come, you do but jest with me—you cannot have forgotten it—

Pon. Hey? why no! but I can't say I remember it—

Fan. Sure, sure, you cannot have the barbarity to deny that you were a witness to the ceremony!

Pon. I may be mistaken—I've a remarkably short memory; but to the best of my recollection I certainly—

Fan. Ay, you recollect it—

Pon. I certainly never was present—

Fan. Cruel! you were—indeed, indeed you were.

Pon. But at one wedding in my life.

Fan. And that was mine—

Pon. No, that was mine.

Fan. Merciful Heaven! I see my fate—it is disgrace and misery!

Pon. Bless you, if I could remember it; but I can't—however I'll speak to my master about it, and if he recollects it I dare say I shall.

Fan. I have then no hope, and the fate of the hapless Fanny is decided.

Pon. Ha! yonder I see comes my master and his lordship. I wonder what they are thinking of—they're coming this way. I think we had better retire.

Fan. O hide me! hide me! In any corner let me hide my head, from scorn, from misery, and, most of all, from him—

_Pon._ You can't escape that way, so you must come this. They wont think of coming here. (_puts her into another room_) Poor girl! I've a great mind to confess the whole affair. What shall I get by that? Nothing! nothing! Oh! that's contrary to law! [_Exit.

Enter_ lord Austencourt _and_ O'Dedimus.

Lord A. Are you certain no one can overhear us?

O'Ded. There's nobody can hear us except my ould housekeeper, and she's as deaf as St. Dunstan's clock-strikers.

Lord A. There is no time to be lost. You must immediately repair to Fanny—tell her my affection is unabated—tell her I shall ever love her, and make her such pecuniary offers, as shall convince her of my esteem and affection; but we must meet no more. (Fanny utters a cry behind.)

O'Ded. What's that?

Lord A. We are betrayed!

O'Ded. Och! 'tis only my ould housekeeper.

Lord A. Your housekeeper! I thought you told me she was deaf.

O'Ded. Yes; but she isn't dumb. Devil a word can she hear for sartin; but she's apt to say a great many, and so we may proceed.

Lord A. You will easily accomplish this business with Fanny.

O'Ded. I'm afraid not. To tell you the truth, my lord, I don't like the job.

Lord A. Indeed! and why, sir?

O'Ded. Somehow, when I see a poor girl with her pretty little eyes brim full of tears, which I think have no business to be there, I'm more apt to be busy in wiping them away, than in saying cruel things that will make them flow faster; you had better tell her all this yourself, my lord.

Lord A. That, sir, is impossible. If you decline it, I shall find some one less delicate.

O'Ded. There's reason in that, and if you send another to her, he may not be quite so delicate, as you say: so I'll even undertake it myself.

Lord A. The poor girl disposed of, if the old fool, her father, will be thus clamorous, we must not be nice as to the means of silencing him—money, I suppose, is his object.

O'Ded. May be not—If a rich man by accident disables a poor man from working, money may make him easy; but when his feelings are deliberately tortured, devil fly away with the mercenary miser, if he will take shining dirt as a compensation for cruelty.

Lord A. I can dispense with moral reflections—It may serve your purpose elsewhere, but to me, who know your practice, your preaching is ridiculous—What is it you propose? If the fellow wont be satisfied by money he must be removed.

O'Ded. Faith, 'tis a new way, sure enough, to make reparation to the feelings of a father, after having seduced daughter under the plea of a false marriage, performed by a sham priest, and a forged licence!

Fanny (behind.) Oh, heaven! let me pass—I must and will see him (enters.) Oh, my lord! my lord! my husband! (she falls at his feet, he raises her) Surely my ears deceived me—you cannot, cannot mean it! a false marriage! a pretended priest! What is to become of me! In mercy kill me! Let me not live to see my broken-hearted father expire with grief and shame, or live to curse me! Spare me but this, my lord, and I will love, forgive, will pray for you—

Lord A. This is a plot against me—You placed her there on purpose to surprise me in the moment of unguarded weakness.

O'Ded. By St. Patrick, how she came there is a most mysterious mystery to Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law.

Lord A. Fanny, I entreat you, leave me.

Fanny. Oh, do not send me from you! Can you, my lord, abandon thus to shame and wretchedness the poor deluded victim of your treachery!

Lord A. Ha! leave me, I charge you!

Fanny. No, no, my dearest lord! I cannot leave you! Whither shall I fly, if these arms deny me refuge! Am I not yours? What if these wicked men refuse me justice! There is another witness who will rise in dreadful evidence against you! 'Tis Heaven itself! 'tis there your vows were heard! 'tis there where Truth resides, your vows are registered! then oh! reflect before you plunge too deep in guilt for repentance and retreat! reflect that we are married!

Lord A. I cannot speak at present; leave me, and we will meet again.

Fanny. Do not command me from you; I see your heart is softened by my tears; cherish the stranger Pity in your breast; 'tis noble, excellent! Such pity in itself is virtue! Oh, cherish it, my lord! nor let the selfish feelings of the world step in to smother it! Now! now, while it glows unstifled in your heart! now, ere it dies, to be revived no more, at once proclaim the triumph of your virtue, and receive into your arms a fond and an acknowledged wife!

Lord A. Ha! impossible! Urge me no more! I cannot, will not hear you—My heart has ever been your own, my hand must be another's; still we may love each other; still we may sometimes meet.

Fanny (after a struggle.) I understand you! No, sir! Since it must be, we will meet no more! I know that there are laws; but to these laws I disdain to fly! Mine is an injury that cannot be redressed; for the only mortal witnesses to our union you have suborned: the laws, therefore, cannot do me justice, and I will never, inhuman as you are, I will never seek them for revenge. [Exit.

O'Ded (aside.) I'm thinking, that if I was a lord, I should act in a clean contrary way; by the powers now, that man has got what I call a tough constitution; his heart's made of stone like a brick wall—Oh! that a man should have the power of a man, and not know how to behave like a man!

Lord A. What's to be done? speak, advise me!

O'Ded. That's it: have you made up your mind already, that you ask me to advise you?

Lord A. I know not how to act.

O'Ded. When a man's in doubt whether he should act as an honest man or a rogue, there are two or three small reasons for choosing the right side.

Lord A. What is't you mean, sir?

O'Ded. I mean this thing—that as I suppose you're in doubt whether to persecute the poor souls, or to marry the sweet girl in right earnest.

Lord A. Marry her! I have no such thoughts—idiot!

O'Ded. Idiot! That's no proof of your lordship's wisdom to come and ask advice of one.—Idiot, by St. Patrick! an idiot's a fool, and that's a Christian name was never sprinkled upon Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law!

Lord A. I can feel for the unfortunate girl as well as you; but the idea of marrying her is too ridiculous.

O'Ded. The unfortunate girl never knew misfortune till she knew you, my lord; and I heartily wish your lordship may never look more ridiculous than you would do in performing an act of justice and mercy.

Lord A. You presume strangely, sir, on my confidence and condescension!

O'Ded. What! are you coming over me now with the pride of your condescension. That for your condescension! When a great man, my lord, does me the honour to confide in me, he'll find me trusty and respectful; but when he condescends to make me an agent and a partner in his iniquity, by your leave from that moment there's an end of distinction between us.

Lord A. There's no enduring this! Scoundrel!

O'Ded. Scoundrel! ditto, my lord, ditto! If I'm a scoundrel, it was you that made me one, and by St. Patrick, there's a brace of us.

Lord A. (aside) The fellow has me in his power at present—you see me irritated, and you ought to bear with me—let us think of this no more. The father and daughter must both be provided for out of that money which sir Rowland still holds in trust for me.

O'Ded. And if you depend upon that money to silence the old man, you might as well think to stop a mouse-hole with toasted cheese.

Lord A. Pray explain, sir.

O'Ded. Devil a penny of it is there left. Sir Rowland ventured it in a speculation, and all is lost—Oh! blister my tongue, I've let out the secret, sure enough!

Lord A. Indeed! and what right had sir Rowland to risk my property? Be assured I will exact every guinea of it.

O'Ded. That's just what I told him. Sir, says I, his lordship is one of the flinty-hearted ones, and devil a thirteener will he forgive you—but, my lord, it will utterly ruin sir Rowland to replace it.

Lord A. Sir Rowland should have thought of that before he embarked my property in a hazardous enterprise. Inform him, sir, from me that I expect an instant account of it.

O'Ded. I shall do that thing, sir: but please to reflect a little—the money so laid out was honestly intended for your advantage.

Lord A. Another word sir, and I shall think it necessary to employ another attorney.

O'Ded. Sir, that's a quietus—I've done—only remember that if you proceed to extremities, I warrant you'll repent it.

Lord A. You warrant—

O'Ded. Ay, sir, and a warrant of attorney is reckoned decent good security.

Lord A. Since my uncle has so far forgotten his duty as a guardian, I have now an opportunity, which I shall not neglect, to bring him to a proper recollection—you have nothing to do but to obey my orders; and these are that the fourteen thousand pounds, of which he has defrauded my estate, shall be immediately repaid. Look to it, sir, and to the other affair you are entrusted with, and see that the law neglects no measures to recover what is due to me. [Exit.

O'Ded. And by St. Patrick, if the law gives you what is due to you, that's what I'm too polite to mention. You've had your swing in iniquity long enough, and such swings are very apt to end in one that's much too exalted for my notions. [Exit.

SCENE II.—an apartment at sir Willoughby's.—Enter sir Willoughby, and William meeting him, the latter delivers a letter.

Will. The gentleman desired me to say he is below, sir.

Sir W. Hey! (reads) "My dear Worret, I hope that a long absence from my native land has not obliterated the recollection of our friendship. I have thought it right to adopt this method of announcing my return, lest my too sudden appearance should hurt your feelings, by deranging the delicate nerves of your amiable lady" Hey!

"Ever yours, "FREDERICK FALKNER."

Bless my soul! Falkner alive? show the gentleman up.

Will. He's here, sir.

Enter Falkner.

Falk. My old friend, I rejoice to see you.

Sir W. Friend Falkner, I shan't attempt to say how welcome your return is. We all thought you dead and buried. Where have you been all these years?

Falk. A wanderer. Let that suffice.

Sir W. I see you still retain your old antipathy to answering questions, so I shall ask none—Have you been in France, or among the savages? Hey! I remember you had a daughter at school—is she alive? is she merry or miserable? Is she married?

Falk. Zounds what a medley! France and savages! marriage and misery!

Sir W. Ods life, I'm happy to see you! I haven't been so cheerful or happy for many a day.

Falk. How's your wife?

Sir W. Hey! thank ye, sir! why that excellent good woman is in high health, in astonishing health! by my troth I speak it with unspeakable joy, I think she's a better life now than she was when I married her! (in a melancholy tone.)

Falk. That must be a source of vast comfort to you. I don't wonder at your being so cheerful and happy.

Sir W. True—but it isn't that—that is, not altogether so: no, 'tis that I once more hold my friend Falkner by the hand, and that my daughter—you remember your little favourite Helen—

Falkner. I do indeed!

Sir W. You are arrived at a critical moment: I mean shortly to marry her—

Falkner. I forbid the banns!

Sir W. The devil you do!

Falkner. Pshaw! (aside) my feelings o'erstep my discretion. Take care what you're about—If you're an honest man, you'd rather see her dead than married to a villain.

Sir W. To be sure I would; but the man I mean her to marry—

Falkner. Perhaps will never be her husband.

Sir W. The devil he wont! why not?

Falkner. Talk of something else—you know I was always an eccentric being—

Sir W. What the devil does he mean? yes, yes you was always eccentric; but do you know—

Falkner. I know more than I wish to know; I've lived long enough in the world to know that roguery fattens on the same soil where honesty starves; and I care little whether time adds to information which opens to me more and more the depravity of human nature.

Sir W. Why, Falkner, you are grown more a misanthrope than ever.

Falkner. You know well enough I have had my vexations in life; in an early stage of it I married—

Sir W. Every man has his trials!

Falkner. About two years afterwards I lost my wife.

Sir W. That was a heavy misfortune! however you bore it with fortitude.

Falkner. I bore it easily; my wife was a woman without feelings: she had not energy for great virtue, and she had no vice, because she had no passion: life with her was a state of stagnation.

Sir W. How different are the fates of men!

Falkner. In the next instance, I had a friend whom I would have trusted with my life—with more—my honour—I need not tell you then I thought him the first of human beings; but I was mistaken—he understood my character no better than I knew his: he confided to me a transaction which proved him to be a villain, and I commanded him never to see me more.

Sir W. Bless me! what was that transaction?

Falkner. It was a secret, and has remained so. Though I should have liked to hang the fellow, he had trusted me, and no living creature but himself and me at this day is possessed of it.

Sir W. Strange indeed; and what became of him.

Falkner. I have not seen him since, but I shall see him in a few hours.

Sir W. Indeed, is he in this neighbourhood?

Falkner. That circumstance of my friend, and a loss in the West Indies, which shook the fabric of my fortune to its foundation, drove me from the world—I am now returned to it with better prospects—my property, which I then thought lost, is doubled—circumstances have called me hither on an important errand, and before we are four and twenty hours older, you may see some changes which will make you doubt your own senses for the remainder of your days—

Sir W. You astonish me mightily.

Falkner. Yes, you stare as if you were astonished: but why do I stay chattering here? I must be gone.

Sir. W. Nay, pr'ythee now—

Falkner. Pshaw! I have paid my first visit to you, because you are the first in my esteem: don't weaken it by awkward and unseasonable ceremony—I must now about the business that brings me here: no interruption, if you wish to see me again let me have my own way, and I may, perhaps, be back in half an hour.

Sir W. But I want to tell you that—

Falkner. I know—I know—you want to prove to me that you are the least talker, and the best husband in the county: but both secrets must keep till my return, when I shall be happy to congratulate you—and so farewell— [Exit.

Sir W. Bless my soul! what can he mean? 'I forbid the banns'—'lost my wife'—'horrid transaction'—'back again in half an hour'—dear me—John—Thomas! lady Worret! Helen! [Exit.

SCENE III.—A room in sir Willoughby's house—Helen and Charles meeting—Helen screams—they run towards each other, as if to embrace—Charles stops suddenly.

Helen. Charles! is it you, or is it your spirit?

Char. 'Tis I, madam, and you'll find I have brought my spirit with me.

Helen. Hey! why what the deuce ails the man?

Char. My presence here, no doubt astonishes you.

Helen. Yes, sir, your presence does astonish me, but your manner still more.

Char. I understand you—you would still keep a poor devil in your toils, though in his absence you have been sporting with nobler game.

Helen. My good friend, will you descend from your heroical stilts, and explain your meaning in plain English?

Char. There needs no explanation of my conduct—call it caprice—say, if you please, that I am altered—say I have changed my mind, and love another better—

Helen. Indeed! and is it come to this! he shall not see he mortifies me, however—(aside) Since you are in this mind, sir, I wish you had been pleased to signify the same by letter, sir—

Char. By letter?

Helen. Yes, sir,—for this personal visit being rather unexpected, does not promise to be particularly pleasant—

Char. I believe so, madam—you did not calculate, I fancy, on this sudden return.

Helen. No, indeed, sir—and should have shown all Christian patience if this sudden return hadn't happened these twelve months.

Char. The devil you would! madam!—but I'll be cool—I'll cut her to the heart with a razor of ice—I'll congeal her with indifference—you must know, madam—

Helen. Bless me, Charles, how very strangely you look—you're pale and red, and red and pale, in the same moment! why you can scarcely breathe! and now you tremble so! I'm afraid you are very ill.

Char. Sarcastic!

Helen. You move all over like a ship in a storm!

Char. Vastly well, madam—and now—

Helen. Your teeth chatter!—

Char. Fire and fagots, madam, I will speak!

Helen. Do, dear Charles, while your are able—your voice will be gone in a minute or two, and then—

Char. I will be heard! (bawling)

Helen. That you will, indeed, and all over the house, too.

Char. Madam, will you hear me or not?

Helen. I am glad to find there's no affection of the lungs!

Char. Death and torments! may I be allowed to speak—yes, or no?

Helen. Yes, but gently; and make haste before they call the watch.

Char. Madam, madam—I wish to keep my temper—I wish to be cool.

Helen. Perhaps this will answer the purpose (Fanning him).

Char. (In confusion, after a pause, aside) Is she laughing at me now, or trying to wheedle me into a good humour? I feel, Miss Worret, that I am expressing myself with too much warmth—I must therefore inform you, that being ordered home with despatches, and having some leisure time on my hands on my return, I thought it but proper as I passed the house to call at your door—just to say—a—a—just civilly to say—false! cruel! perfidious girl! you may break the tough heart of a sailor, but damn me if he will ever own it broke for love of you!

Helen. On my honour, sir, I do not understand what all this means.

Char. You don't?

Helen. No, sir—if your purpose here is insult, you might, methinks, have found some fitter object than one who has so limited a power to resent it! [Going.

Char. Stay, madam, stay—what a face is there! a smile upon it too: oh, Helen, spare those smiles! they once could wake my soul to ecstasy! but now they rouse it into madness: save them, madam, for a happier lover—save them for lord Austencourt.

Helen. Charles, Charles, you have been deceived: but come, sit down and hear me.

Char. I am all attention, and listen to you with all that patience which the subject demands.

Helen. As you know the world, Charles, you cannot wonder that my father (in the main a very good father, but in this respect like all other fathers) should wish to unite his daughter to a man whose rank and fortune—

Char. (Rising in anger) Spare yourself the trouble of further explanation, madam; I see the whole at once—you are now going to tell me about prudence, duty, obedience, filial affection, and all the canting catalogue of fine phrases that serve to gloss over the giddy frailty of your sex, when you sacrifice the person and the heart at the frequented shrine of avarice and ambition!

Helen. (Rising also) When I am next inclined to descend to explanation, sir, I hope you will be better disposed to attend to me. [Going.

Char. A moment, madam! The whole explanation lies in a word—has not your father concluded a treaty of marriage between you and lord Austencourt?

Helen. He has—

Char. There—'tis enough! you have confessed it—

Helen. (Stifling her tears) Confessed what? you monster! I've confessed nothing.

Char. Haven't you acknowledged that you are to be the wife of another?

Helen. No.

Char. No! won't you consent then?

Helen. Half an hour ago nothing on earth should have induced me to consent—but since I see, Charles, of what your temper is capable, I shall think it more laudable to risk my happiness by obedience to my father, than by an ill-judged constancy to one who seems so little inclined to deserve it. [Exit.

Char. Hey! where am I! zounds, I see my whole error at once! Oh, Helen, Helen—for mercy's sake one moment more!—She's gone—and has left me in anger! but I will see her again, and obtain her forgiveness—fool, idiot, dolt, ass, that I am, to suffer my cursed temper to master reason and affection at the risk of losing the dearest blessing of life—a lovely and an amiable woman! [Exit.

End of Act III.



ACT IV.

SCENE I.—O'Dedimus's office—Enter Charles pulling in Ponder by the collar.

Char. This way, sirrah, this way, and now out with your confession, if you expect mercy at my hands.

Pon. I will, sir, I will: but I expect no mercy at your hands, for you've already handled me most unmercifully—(Charles shakes him) what would you please to have me confess, sir?

Char. I have seen old Abel Grouse—he has told me the story of his daughter's marriage with this amiable cousin of mine: now, sirrah, confess the truth—were you present, or were you not? out with it (shakes him).

Pon. Now pray recollect yourself—do, sir—think a little.

Char. Recollect myself?

Pon. Ay, sir, if you will but take time to reflect, you'll give me time to collect my scattered thoughts, which you have completely shaken out of my pericranium.

Char. No equivocation, answer directly, or though you're no longer my servant, by heavens I'll—

Pon. Sir—for heaven's sake!—you'll shake nothing more out of me, depend on't—if you'll be pleased to pause a moment, I'll think of an answer.

Charles. It requires no recollection to say whether you were a witness—

Pon. No indeed, sir, ask my master if I was; besides if I had been, my conscience wouldn't let me disclose it.

Charles. Your conscience! good, and you're articled to an attorney!

Pon. True, sir, but there's a deal of conscience in our office; if my master knew I betrayed his secrets even to you, I believe (in conscience,) he'd hang me if he could.

Charles. If my old friend O'Dedimus proves a rogue at last, I shan't wonder that you have followed his example.

Pon. No, sir, for I always follow my master's example, even though it should be in the path of roguery; compliment apart sir, I always followed yours.

Charles. Puppy, you trifle with my patience.

Pon. No indeed, sir, I never play with edg'd tools.

Charles. You wont acknowledge it then.

Pon. Yes, sir, I'll acknowledge the truth, but I scorn a lie.

Charles. 'Tis true I always thought you honest. I have ever trusted you, Ponder, even as a friend: I do not believe you capable of deceiving me.

Pon. Sir, (gulping) I can't swallow that! it choaks me (falling on his knees); forgive me, dear master that was; your threats I could withstand, your violence I could bear, but your kindness and good opinion there is no resisting; promise you wont betray me.

Charles. So; now it comes. I do.

Pon. Then, sir, the whole truth shall out, they are married, sir, and they are not married, sir.

Charles. Enigma too!

Pon. Yes, sir, they are married, but the priest was ordained by my master, and the license was of his own granting, and so they are not married, and now the enigma's explained.

Charles. Your master then is a villain!

Pon. I don't know, sir, that puzzles me: but he's such an honest follow I can hardly think him a rogue—though I fancy, sir, between ourselves, he's like the rest of the world, half and half, or like punch, sir, a mixture of opposites.

Charles. So! villany has been thriving in my absence. If you feel the attachment you profess why did you not confide this to me before?

Pon. Sir, truth to speak, I did not tell you, because, knowing the natural gentleness of your disposition, which I have so often admired, I was alarmed, lest the sudden shock should cause one of those irascible fits, which I have so often witnessed, and produce some of those shakes and buffets, which to my unspeakable astonishment, I have so often experienced.

Charles. And which, I can tell you, you have now so narrowly escaped.

Pon. True sir, I have escaped as narrowly as a felon who gets his reprieve five minutes after execution.

Charles. Something must be done. I am involved in a quarrel with Helen too! curse on my irritable temper.

Pon. So I say, sir—try and mend it; pray do.

Charles. I am resolved to have another interview with her;—to throw myself at her feet, and sue for pardon! Though fate should oppose our union, I may still preserve her from the arms of a villain, who is capable of deceiving the innocent he could not seduce: and of planting a dagger in the female heart, where nature has bestowed her softest attributes, and has only left it weak, that man might cherish, shelter, and protect it. [Exit.

Pon. So! now I'm a rogue both ways—If I escape punishment one way, I shall certainly meet it the other. But if my good luck saves me both ways I shall never more credit a fortune-teller: for one once predicted, that I was born to be hanged. [Exit.

SCENE II.—Sir Rowland's.

Enter Sir Rowland and O'Dedimus.

Sir R. You have betrayed me then!—Did not I caution you to keep secret from my nephew this accursed loss.

O'Ded. And so you did sure enough, but somehow it slipt out before I said a word about it; but I told him it was a secret, and I dare say he wont mention it.

Sir R. But you say, that he demands the immediate liquidation.

O'Ded. Ay, sir, and has given me orders to proceed against you.

Sir R. Is it possible! in a moment could I arrest his impious progress; but I will probe him to the quick, did he threaten me, say you?—There is however one way to save him from this public avowal of his baseness, and me from his intended persecution—a marriage between Charles and Mrs. Richland.

O'Ded. The widow's as rich as the Wicklow mines!

Sir R. The boy refuses to comply with my wishes; we may find means, however, to compel him.

O'Ded. He's a sailor; and gentlemen of his kidney are generally pretty tough when they take a notion in their heads.

Sir R. I am resolved to carry my point. I have reason to believe you advanced him a sum of money.

O'Ded. I did that thing—he's a brave fellow; I'd do that thing again.

Sir R. You did wrong, sir, to encourage a young spendthrift in disobedience to his father.

O'Ded. I did right, sir, to assist the son of a client and the nephew of a benefactor, especially when his father hadn't the civility to do it.

Sir R. Mr. O'Dedimus, you grow impertinent.

O'Ded. Sir Rowland, I grow old; and 'tis one privilege of age to grow blunt. I advanced your son a sum of money, because I esteemed him. I tack'd no usurious obligation to the bond he gave me, and I never came to ask you for security.

Sir R. You have his bond then—

O'Ded. I have, sir; his bond and judgment for two hundred pounds.

Sir R. It is enough: then you can indeed assist my views,—the dread of confinement will, no doubt, alter his resolution: you must enter up judgment, and proceed on your bond.

O'Ded. If I proceed upon my bond, it will be very much against my judgment.

Sir R. In order to alarm him, you must arrest him immediately.

O'Ded. Sir Rowland, I wish to treat you with respect—but when without a blush on your cheek you ask me to make myself a rascal, I must either be a scoundrel ready-made to your hands, for respecting you, or a damn'd hypocrite for pretending to do it—I see you are angry, sir, and I can't help that; and so, having delivered my message, for fear I should say any thing uncivil or ungenteel, I wish you a most beautiful good morning. [Exit.

Sir R. Then I have but one way left—my fatal secret must be publicly revealed—oh horror! ruin irretrievable is preferable—never—never—that secret shall die with me—(Enter Falkner) as 'tis probably already buried in the grave with Falkner.

Falk. 'Tis false—'tis buried only in his heart!

Sir R. Falkner!

Falk. 'Tis eighteen years since last we met. You have not, I find, forgotten the theme on which we parted.

Sir R. Oh, no! my heart's reproaches never would allow me! Oh Falkner—I and the world for many years have thought you numbered with the dead.

Falk. To the world I was so—I have returned to it to do an act of justice.

Sir R. Will you then betray me?

Falk. During eighteen years, sir, I have been the depositary of a secret, which, if it does not actually affect your life, affects what should be dearer than life, your honor. If, in the moment that your ill-judged confidence avowed you as the man you are, and robbed me of that friendship which I held sacred as my being—If in that bitter moment I concealed my knowledge of your guilt from an imperious principle of honor, it is not likely, that the years which time has added to my life, should have taught me perfidy—your secret still is safe.

Sir R. Oh, Falkner—you have snatched a load of misery from my heart; I breathe, I live again.

Falk. Your exultation flows from a polluted source—I return to the world to seek you, to warm and to expostulate; I come to urge you to brave the infamy you have deserved; to court disgrace as the punishment you merit: briefly to avow your guilty secret.

Sir R. Name it not for mercy's sake! It is impossible! How shall I sustain the world's contempt, its scorn, revilings and reproaches?

Falk. Can he, who has sustained so long the reproaches of his conscience, fear the world's revilings?—Oh, Austencourt! Once you had a heart.

Sir R. Sir, it is callous now to every thing but shame; when it lost you, its dearest only friend, its noblest feelings were extinguished: my crime has been my punishment, for it has brought on me nothing but remorse and misery: still is my fame untainted by the world, and I will never court its contumely.

Falk. You are determined—

Sir R. I am!

Falk. Have you no fear from me?

Sir R. None! You have renewed your promise, and I am safe.

Falk. Nothing then remains for me but to return to that obscurity from whence I have emerged—had I found you barely leaning to the side of virtue, I had arguments to urge that might have fixed a wavering purpose; but I find you resolute, hardened and determined in guilt, and I leave you to your fate.

Sir R. Stay, Falkner, there is a meaning in your words.

Falk. A dreadful precipice lies before you: be wary how you tread! there is a being injured by your——by lord Austencourt, see that he makes her reparation by an immediate marriage—look first to that.

Sir R. To such a degradation could I forget my noble ancestry, he never will consent.

Falk. Look next to yourself: he is not a half villain, and it is not the ties of consanguinity will save you from a jail. Beware how you proceed with Charles—you see I am acquainted with more than you suspected; look to it, sir; for the day is not yet passed that by restoring you to virtue, may restore to you a friend; or should you persevere in guilty silence, that may draw down unexpected vengeance on your head— [Exit.

Sir R. Mysterious man! a moment stay! I cannot live in this dreadful uncertainty! whatever is my fate, it shall be decided quickly. [Exit.

SCENE III.—An apartment at sir Willoughby's; a door in the flat. Enter Helen and Charles.

Helen. I tell you, it is unless to follow me, sir. The proud spirit you evinced this morning, might have saved you methinks from this meanness of solicitation.

Charles. Surely now a frank acknowledgment of error deserves a milder epithet than meanness.

Helen. As you seem equally disposed, sir, to quarrel with my words, as you are to question my conduct, I fear you will have little cause to congratulate yourself on this forced and tiresome interview.

Charles. Forced interview! Did ever woman so consider the anxiety of a lover to seek explanation and forgiveness! Helen, Helen, you torture me; is this generous?—is it like yourself? surely if you lov'd me—

Helen. Charles—I do love you—that, is, I did love you, but—I don't love you, but (aside) ah! now I'm going to make bad worse.

Charles. But what, Helen?

Helen. The violence of temper you have discovered this morning, has shown me the dark side of your character; it has given a pause to affection, and afforded me time to reflect—now though I do really and truly believe that—you—love me Charles.

Sir W. (behind) I must see my daughter directly—where is she!

Enter Tiffany running.

Tiffany. Ma'am, ma'am, your father's coming up stairs, with a letter in his hand, muttering something about Mr. Charles; as sure as life you'll be discovered.

Helen. For heav'n's sake hide yourself; I would not have him find you here for worlds—here, step into the music-room.

Charles. Promise me first your forgiveness.

Helen. Charles, retire, I entreat you—make haste, he is here.

Charles. On my knees—

Helen. Then kneel in the next room.

Charles. Give me but your hand.

Helen. That is now at my own disposal—I beseech you go—(Charles just gains the door when enter sir Willoughby with a letter in his hand, and Lady Worret.)

Sir W. Gadzooks! Here's a discovery!

Helen. A discovery, sir? (Helen looks at the door)

Sir W. Ay, a discovery indeed!—Ods life! I'm in a furious passion!

Helen. Dear sir, not with me I hope—

Lady W. Let me entreat you sir Willoughby to compose yourself; recollect that anger is very apt to bring on the gout.

Sir W. Damn the gout, I must be in a passion—my—life—harkye, daughter—

Helen. They know he's here! so I may as well own it at once.

Lady W. Pray compose yourself, remember we have no proof.

Sir W. Why that's true—that is remarkably true—I must compose myself—I will—I do—I am composed—and now let me open the affair with coolness and deliberation! Daughter, come hither.

Helen. Yes, sir—now for it!—

Sir W. Daughter, you are in general, a very good, dutiful, and obedient child—

Helen. I know it, papa—and was from a child, and I always will be.

Lady W. Allow me, sir Willoughby—you are in general, child, a very headstrong, disobedient, and undutiful daughter.

Helen. I know it, mamma—and was from a child, and always will be.

Lady W. How, madam!—Remember, sir Willoughby—there is a proper medium between too violent a severity, and too gentle a lenity.

Sir W. Zounds, madam, in your own curs'd economy there is no medium—but don't bawl so, or we shall be overheard.

Lady W. Sir Willoughby, you are very ill I'm sure; but I must now attend to this business, daughter, we have heard that Charles—

Sir W. Lady Worret, my love, let me speak—you know, child, it is the duty of an obedient daughter, to obey her parents.

Helen. I know it, papa, and when I obey you, I am generally obedient.

Lady W. In short, child, I say again, we learn that Charles——

Sir W. Lady Worret, lady Worret, you are too abrupt, od-rabbit it, madam, I will be heard: this affair concerns the honor of my family, and on this one occasion, I will be my own spokesman.

Lady W. Oh heavens! Your violence affects my brain.

Sir W. Does it? I wish it would affect your tongue, with all my heart: bless my soul, what have I said! Lady Worret! lady Worret! you drive me out of my senses, and then wonder that I act like a madman.

Lady W. Barbarous man, your cruelty will break my heart, and I shall leave you, sir Willoughby, to deplore my loss, in unavailing despair, and everlasting anguish. [Exit.

Sir W. (aside) I am afraid not: such despair and anguish will never be my—happy—lot!—bless me, how quiet the room is—what can be—oh, my wife's gone! now then we may proceed to business—and so daughter, this young fellow, Charles, has dared to return, in direct disobedience to his father's commands.

Helen. I had better confess it all at once—he has, he has, my dear papa. I do confess it was very, very wrong; but pray now do forgive—

Sir W. I—forgive him! never; nor his father will never forgive him; sir Rowland writes me here, to take care of you; I have before given him my solemn promise to prevent your meeting, and I am sorry to say, I haven't the least doubt that you know he is here, and will—

Helen. I do confess, he is here, papa.

Sir W. Yes, you'll confess it fast enough, now I've found it out.

Helen. Indeed I was so afraid you would find it out, that I——

Sir W. Find it out! his father writes me word, he has been here in the village these three hours!

Helen. In the village! Oh, what, you heard he was in the village!

Sir W. Yes, and being afraid he should find his way to my house—egad I never was brisker after the fox-hounds than I was after you, in fear of finding you at a fault, you puss.

Helen. Oh! you were afraid he should come here, were you?

Sir W. Yes; but I'll take care he shan't; however, as my maxim is (now my wife doesn't hear me) to trust your sex no farther than I can possibly help, I shall just put you, my dear child, under lock and key, 'till this young son of the ocean, is bundled off to sea again.

Helen. What! lock me up!

Sir W. Damme if I don't. Come, walk into that room, and I'll take the key with me. (pointing to the room where Charles entered.)

Helen. Into that room?

Sir W. Yes.

Helen. And do you think I shall stay there by myself?

Sir W. No, no. Here Tiffany! (enter Tiffany) Miss Pert here shall keep you company. I'll have no whisperings through key-holes, nor letters thrust under doors.

Helen. And you'll really lock me up in that room!

Sir W. Upon my soul I will.

Helen. Now, dear papa, be persuaded; take my advice, and don't.

Sir W. If I don't, I wish you may be in Charles Austencourt's arms in three minutes from this present speaking.

Helen. And if you do, take my word for it I might be in his arms if I chose, in less than two minutes from this present warning.

Sir W. Might you so? Ha, ha! I'll give you leave if you can: for unless you jump into them out of the window, I'll defy the devil and all his imps to bring you together.

Helen. We shall come together without their assistance, depend on it, papa.

Sir W. Very well; and now, my dear, walk in.

Helen. With all my heart; only remember you had better not. (He puts her in.)

Sir W. That's a good girl; and you, you baggage, in with you (to Tiffany, who goes in.)

Sir W. (shuts the door and locks it) "Safe bind, safe find," is one of my lady Worret's favourite proverbs; and that's the only reason why I in general dislike it (going.)

Enter Falkner.

Sir W. Once more welcome, my dear Falkner. What brings you back so soon?

Falk. You have a daughter—

Sir W. Well, I know I have.

Falk. And a wife.

Sir W. I'm much obliged to you for the information. You have been a widower some years I believe.

Falk. What of that? do you envy me?

Sir W. Envy you! what! because you are a widower? Eh? Zounds, I believe he is laughing at me (aside.)

Falk. I am just informed that every thing is finally arranged between your lady and his lordship respecting Helen's marriage.

Sir W. Yes, every thing is happily settled.

Falk. I am sincerely sorry to hear it.

Sir W. You are! I should have thought Mr. Falkner, that my daughter's happiness was dear to you.

Falk. It is, and therefore I do not wish to see her married to lord Austencourt.

Sir W. Why then what the devil is it you mean?

Falk. To see her married to the man of her heart, with whom I trust to see her as happy—as you are with lady Worret.

Sir W. Yes, ha! ha! ha! yes! but you are in jest respecting my daughter.

Falk. No matter! where is Helen?

Sir W. Safe under lock and key.

Falk. Under lock and key!

Sir W. Ay, in that very room. I've locked her up to keep her from that hot-headed young rogue, Charles Austencourt. Should you like to see her? She's grown a fine young woman.

Falk. With all my heart.

Sir W. You'll be surprised, I can tell you.

Falk. I dare say.

Sir W. We'll pop in upon her when she least expects it. I'll bet my life you'll be astonished at her appearance.

Falk. Well, I shall be glad to see your daughter; but she must not marry this lord.

Sir W. No! Who then?

Falk. The man she loves.

Sir W. Hey! oh yes! but who do you mean! Charles Austencourt? (opening the door.)

Enter Lady Worret, suddenly.

Lady W. Charles Austencourt!

Falk. (aloud, and striking the floor with his stick.) Ay, Charles Austencourt!

Charles (entering.) Here am I. Who calls?

Helen and Tiffany come forward, and Tiffany goes off.

Sir W. Fire and fagots! what do I see?

Lady W. Ah Heavens defend me! what do I behold?

Falk. Why, is this the surprise you promised me? The astonishment seems general. Pray, sir Willoughby, explain this puppet show!

Lady W. Ay! pray sir Willoughby explain—

Sir W. Curse me if I can.

Helen. I told you how it would be, papa, and you would not believe me!

Sir W. So! pray, sir, condescend to inform lady Worret and me, how you introduced yourself into that most extraordinary situation.

Charles. Sir, I shall make no mystery of it, nor attempt to screen you from her ladyship's just reproaches, by concealing one atom of the truth. The fact is, madam, that sir Willoughby not only in my hearing, gave Miss Helen his unrestricted permission to throw herself into my arms, but actually forced her into the room where I was quietly seated, and positively and deliberately lock'd us in together!

Lady W. Oh! I shall expire!

Sir W. I've heard of matchless impudence, but curse me if this isn't the paragon of the species! Zounds! I'm in a wonderful passion! Daughter, I am resolved to have this affair explained to my satisfaction.

Helen. You may have it explained, papa, but I fear it won't be to your satisfaction.

Charles. No, sir, nor to her ladyship's either, and now, as my situation here is not remarkably agreeable I take my leave: madam, your most obedient, and sir Willoughby, the next time you propose an agreeable surprise for your friends—

Sir W. Harkye sir, how you came into my house I can't tell, but if you don't presently walk out of it.

Charles. I say, I heartily hope that you may accomplish your purpose.

Sir W. Zounds, sir, leave my house.

Charles. Without finding yourself the most astonished of the party! [Exit.

Sir W. Thank heaven my house is rid of him.

Lady W. As usual, sir Willoughby, a precious business you've made of this!

Sir W. Death and furies, my Lady Worret—

Falk. Gently, my old friend, gently: I'm one too many here during these little domestic discussions; but before I go, on two points let me caution you; let your daughter choose her own husband if you wish her to have one without leaping out of the window to get at him; and be master of your own house and your own wife if you do not wish to continue, what you now are, the laughing-stock of all your acquaintance.— [Exit.

Lady W. Ah! the barbarian!

Sir W. (appears astonished) I'm thunderstruck (makes signs to Helen to go before.)

Helen. Won't you go first, papa?

Sir W. Hey? If I lose sight of you till you've explained this business, may I be laid up with the gout while you are galloping the Gretna Green! "Be master of your house and wife if you don't wish to continue, what you now are!—Hey? the laughing-stock of all your acquaintance!" Sir Willoughby Worret the laughing stock of all his acquaintance! I think I see my self the laughing-stock of all my acquaintance (pointing to the door) I'll follow you ladies! I'll reform! 'tis never too late to mend! [Exeunt.

End of Act. IV.



ACT V.

SCENE I.—An apartment at sir Willoughby Worret's. Enter sir Willoughby and lady Worret.

Sir W. Lady Worret! lady Worret! I will have a reform. I am at last resolved to be master of my own house, and so let us come to a right understanding, and I dare say we shall be the better friends for it in future.

Lady W. You shall see, sir Willoughby, that I can change as suddenly as yourself. Though you have seen my delicate system deranged on slight occasions, you will find that in essential ones I have still spirit for resentment.

Sir W. I'll have my house in future conducted as a gentleman's should be, and I will no longer suffer my wife to make herself the object of ridicule to all her servants. So I'll give up the folly of wishing to be thought a tender husband, for the real honour of being found a respectable one. I'll make a glorious bonfire of all your musty collection of family receipt-books! and when I deliver up your keys to an honest housekeeper, I'll keep one back of a snug apartment in which to deposit a rebellious wife.

Lady W. That will be indeed the way to make yourself respectable. I have found means to manage you for some years, and it will be my own fault if I don't do so still.

Sir W. Surely I dream! what? have you managed me? Hey? Zounds! I never suspected that. Has sir Willoughby Worret been lead in leading-strings all this time? Death and forty devils, madam, have you presumed to manage me?

Lady W. Yes, sir; but you had better be silent on the subject, unless you mean to expose yourself to your daughter and all the world.

Sir W. Ay, Madam, with all my heart; my daughter and all the world shall know it.

Enter Helen.

Helen. Here's a pretty piece of work!—what's the matter now, I wonder?

Lady W. How dare you overhear our domestic dissentions. What business have you to know we were quarrelling, madam?

Helen. Lord love you! if I had heard it, I should not have listened, for its nothing new, you know, when you're alone; though you both look so loving in public.

Sir W. That's true—that is lamentably true—but all the world shall know it—I'll proclaim it; I'll print it—I'll advertise it!—She has usurped my rights and my power; and her fate, as every usurper's should be, shall be public downfall and disgrace.

Helen. What, papa! and won't you let mamma-in-law rule the roast any longer?

Sir W. No,—I am resolved from this moment no longer to give way to her absurd whims and wishes.

Helen. You are!

Sir W. Absolutely and immovably.

Helen. And you will venture to contradict her?

Sir W. On every occasion—right or wrong.

Helen. That's right—Pray, madam, don't you wish me to marry lord Austencourt?

Lady W. You know my will on that head, Miss Helen!

Helen. Then, papa, of course you wish me to marry Charles Austencourt.

Sir W. What! no such thing—no such thing—what! marry a beggar?

Helen. But you won't let mamma rule the roast, will you, sir?

Sir W. 'Tis a great match! I believe in that one point we shall still agree—

Lady W. You may spare your persuasions, Madam, and leave the room.

Sir W. What—my daughter leave the room? Stay here, Helen.

Helen. To be sure I shall—I came on purpose to tell you the news! oh, tis a pretty piece of work!

Sir W. What does the girl mean?

Helen. Why, I mean that in order to ruin a poor innocent girl, in our neighbourhood, this amiable lord has prevailed on her to consent to a private marriage—and it now comes out that it was all a mock marriage, performed by a sham priest, and a false license!

Lady W. I don't believe one word of it.

Sir W. But I do—and shall inquire into it immediately.

Lady W. Such a match for your daughter is not to be relinquished on slight grounds; and though his lordship should have been guilty of some indiscretion, it will not alter my resolution respecting his union with Helen.

Sir W. No—but it will mine—and to prove to you, madam, that however you may rule your household, you shall no longer rule me—if the story has any foundation—I say—she shall not marry lord Austencourt.

Lady W. Shall not?

Sir W. No, Madam, shall not—and so ends your management, and thus begins my career of new-born authority. I'm out of leading-strings now, and madam, I'll manage you, damn me if—I—do—not! [Exit Sir Willoughby.

Helen (to Lady W.) You hear papa's will on that head, ma'am.

Lady W. I hear nothing!—I see nothing!—I shall go mad with vexation and disappointment, and if I do not break his resolution, I am determined to break his heart; and my own heart, and your heart, and the hearts of all the rest of the family. [Exit.

Helen. There she goes, with a laudable matrimonial resolution. Heigho! with such an example before my eyes, I believe I shall never have resolution to die an old maid. Oh, Charles, Charles—why did you take me at my word!—Bless me! sure I saw him then—'tis he indeed! So, my gentleman, are you there? I'll just retire and watch his motions a little (retires.)

Enter Charles Austencourt, cautiously.

Charles. What a pretty state am I reduced to? though I am resolved to speak with this ungrateful girl but once more before I leave her for ever; here am I, skulking under the enemy's batteries as though I was afraid of an encounter!—Yes, I'll see her, upbraid her, and then leave her for ever! heigho! she's a false, deceitful—dear, bewitching girl, and—however, I am resolved that nothing on earth—not even her tears, shall now induce me to forgive her. (Tiffany crosses the stage.)

Charles. Ha!—harkye, young woman! pray are the family at home?

Tiffany. My lady is at home, sir—would you please to see her?

Charles. Your lady—do you mean your young lady?

Tiffany. No, sir, I mean my lady.

Charles. What, your old lady?—No—I don't wish to see her. Are all the rest of the family from home—

Tiffany. No, sir—sir Willoughby is within—I'll tell him you are here. (going.)

Charles. By no means—stay—stay! what then, they are all at home except Miss Helen.

Tiffany. She's at home too, sir—but I suppose she don't wish to see you.

Charles. You suppose!

Tiffany. I'm sure she's been in a monstrous ill-humour ever since you came back, sir.

Charles. The devil she has!—and pray now are you of opinion that my return is the cause of her ill-humour?

Tiffany. Lord, sir—what interest have I in knowing such things?—

Charles. Interest!—oh, ho! the old story! why harkye, my dear—your mistress has a lord for her lover, so I suppose he has secured a warmer interest than I can afford to purchase—however, I know the custom, and thus I comply with it, in hopes you will tell me whether you really think my return has caused your young mistress' ill-humour——(gives money).

Tiffany. A guinea! well! I declare! why really, sir—when I say Miss Helen has been out of humour on your account, I don't mean to say it is on account of your return, but on account of your going away again—

Charles. No! my dear Tiffany!

Tiffany. And I am sure I don't wonder at her being cross about it, for if I was my mistress I never would listen with patience (any more than she does) to such a disagreeable creature as my lord, while such a generous nice gentleman as you was ready to make love to me.

Charles. You couldn't?

Tiffany. No, sir—and I'm sure she's quite altered and melancholy gone since you quarrelled with her, and she vows now more than ever that she never will consent to marry my lord, or any body but you—(Helen comes forward gently.)

Charles. My dear Tiffany!—let me catch the sounds from your rosy lips. (Kisses her)—

Helen. (separating them) Bless me! I am afraid I interrupt business here!

Charles. I—I—I—Upon my soul, Madam—what you saw was—

Tiffany. Ye—ye—yes—upon my word, ma'am—what you saw was—

Helen. What I saw was very clear indeed!—

Charles. Hear me but explain—you do not understand.—

Helen. I rather think I do understand.

Tiffany. Indeed, Ma'am, Mr. Charles was only whispering something I was to tell you—

Helen. And pray, ma'am, do you suffer gentlemen in general to whisper in that fashion?—what do you stand stammering and blushing there for?—why don't you go?

Tiffany. Yes, ma'am,—but I assure you—

Helen. What! you stay to be whispered to again, I suppose. [Exit Tiffany.

Charles. Let me explain this,—oh, Helen—can you be surprised?

Helen. No, sir, I can't be surprised at any thing after what I have just witnessed—

Charles. On my soul, it was excess of joy at hearing you still lov'd me, that led me into this confounded scrape.

Helen. Sir, you should not believe it—I don't love you. I wont love you,—and after what I have just seen, you can't expect I should love you—

Charles. Helen! Helen! you make no allowance for the fears of a man who loves you to distraction. I have borne a great deal, and can bear but very little more—

Helen. Poor man! you're sadly loaded with grievances, to be sure; and by and by, I suppose, like a horse or a mule, or some such stubborn animal, having more than you can bear, you'll kick a little, and plunge a little, and then down on your knees again!

Charles. I gloried even in that humble posture, while you taught me to believe you loved me.

Helen. 'Tis true, my heart was once your own, but I never can, nor ought to forgive you—for thinking me capable of being unfaithful to you.

Charles. Dearest dear Helen! and has your anger then no other cause? surely you could not blame a resentment which was the offspring of my fond affection?

Helen. No! to be sure I couldn't, who could!—but what should I not have to dread from the violence of your temper, if I consented—to run away with you?

Charles. Run away with me!—no!—zounds I've a chaise in waiting—

Helen. Have you?—then pray let it wait,—no! no! Charles—though I haven't scrupled to own an affection for you, I have too much respect for the world's opinion,—let us wait with patience,—time may rectify that impetuosity of character, which is now, I own, my dread; think of it, Charles, and beware; for affection is a frail flower, reared by the hand of gentleness, and perishes as surely by the shocks of violence as by the more gradual poison of neglect.

Charles. Dearest Helen! I will cherish it in my heart—'tis a rough soil I own, but 'tis a warm one; and when the hand of delicacy shall have cultivated this flower that is rooted there, the blossom shall be everlasting love!

Helen. Ah you men!—you men! but—I think I may be induced to try you.—Meantime, accept my hand, dear Charles, as a pledge of my heart, and as the assurance that it shall one day be your own indeed (he kisses her hand.) There you needn't eat it—there!—now make your escape, and farewell till we meet again.—(They are going out severally)

Enter sir Rowland and sir Willoughby, at opposite sides.

Charles. Zounds! my father!

Helen. Gad-a-mercy! my papa!

Sir R. So, sir! you are here again I find!

Sir W. So! so! Madam! together again, hey? sir Rowland, your servant.

Sir R. I need not tell you, sir Willoughby, that this undutiful boy's conduct does not meet with my sanction.

Char. No! sir Willoughby—I am sorry to say my conduct seldom meets with my father's sanction.

Sir W. Why look ye, sir Rowland, there are certain things that we do like, and certain things that we do not like—now sir, to cut the matter short, I do like my daughter to marry, but I do not like either your son or your nephew for her husband.

Sir R. This is a very sudden change, sir Willoughby—

Sir W. Yes, sir Rowland, I have made two or three sudden changes to day!—I've changed my resolution—I feel changed myself—for I've changed characters with my wife, and with your leave I mean to change my son-in-law.

Sir R. Of course, sir, you will give me a proper explanation of the last of these changes.

Sir W. Sir, if you'll meet me presently at your attorney's, the thing will explain itself: this way, young lady if you please—Charles, I believe you are a devilish honest fellow, and I want an honest fellow for a son-in-law—but I think it is rather too much to give twelve thousand a year for him—this way Miss Helen. [Exit sir Willoughby and Helen.

Sir R. This sudden resolution of sir Willoughby will still more exasperate him—I must seek him instantly, for the crisis of my fate is at hand; my own heart is witness against me—Heaven is my judge, and I have deserved my punishment! [Exit sir R.

Char. So! I'm much mistaken, or there'll be a glorious bustle presently at the old lawyer's—He has sent to beg I'll attend, and as my heart is a little at rest in this quarter, I'll e'en see what's going forward in that—whether his intention be to expose or to abet a villain, still I'll be one amongst them; for while I have a heart to feel and a hand to act, I can never be an idle spectator when insulted virtue raises her supplicating voice on one side, and persecution dares to lift his unblushing head on the other. [Exit.

SCENE II.—O'Dedimus's Office.

Enter O'Dedimus and Ponder.

O'Ded. You've done the business, you say!

Pon. Ay, and the parties will all be here presently.

O'Ded. That's it! you're sure you haven't blabbed now?

Pon. Blabbed! ha, ha, ha! what do you take me for?

O'Ded. What do I take you for, Mr. Brass? Why I take you for one that will never be choked by politeness.

Pon. Why, Lord, sir, what could a lawyer do without impudence? for though they say "honesty's the best policy" a lawyer generally finds his purpose better answered by a Policy of Assurance.

O'Ded. But hark! somebody's coming already, step where I told you, and make haste.

Pon. On this occasion I lay by the lawyer and take up the Christian. Benevolence runs fast—but law is lazy and moves slowly. [Exit.

Enter Falkner as Abel Grouse.

Abel Grouse. I have obeyed your summons. What have you to say in palliation of the injury you have done me?

O'Ded. Faith and I shall say a small matter about it. What I have done I have performed, and what I have performed I shall justify.

Ab. Gr. Indeed! Can you justify fraud and villany? To business, sir; wherefore am I summoned here?

O'Ded. That's it! Upon my conscience I'm too modest to tell you.

Ab. Gr. Nature and education have made you modest: you were born an Irishman and bred in attorney—

O'Ded. And take my word for it, when Nature forms an Irishman, if she makes some little blunder in the contrivance of his head, it is because she bestows so much pains on the construction of his heart.

Ab. Gr. That may be partially true; but to hear you profess sentiments of feeling and justice reminds me of our advertising money-lenders who, while they practise usury and extortion on the world, assure them that "the strictest honor and liberality may be relied on;" and now, sir once more, your business with me.

O'Ded. Sure, sir, I sent for you to ask one small bit of a favour.

Ab. Gr. From me!

O'Ded. Ay, from you; and the favour is, that before you honor me with the appellation of scoundrel, villain, pettyfogger, and some other such little genteel epithets, you will be pleased to examine my title to such distinctions.

Ab. Gr. From you, however, I have no hopes. You have denied your presence at the infamous and sacrilegious mockery of my daughter's marriage.

O'Ded. That's a mistake, sir; I never did deny it.

Ab. Gr. Ha! you acknowledge it then!

O'Ded. That's another mistake, sir; for I never did acknowledge it.

Ab. Gr. Fortunately my hopes rest on a surer basis than your honesty. Circumstances have placed in one of my hands the scales of Justice, and the other her sword for punishment.

O'Ded. Faith, sir, though you may be a fit representative of the old blind gentlewoman called Justice, she showed little discernment when she pitched upon you, and overlooked Mr. Cornelius O'Dedimus, attorney at law. And now, sir, be pleased to step into that room, and wait a moment, while I transact a little business with one who is coming yonder.

Ab. Gr. I came hither to obey you; for I have some suspicion of your intentions; and let us hope that one virtuous action, if you have courage to perform it, will serve as a sponge to all the roguery you have committed, either as an attorney or as a man. [Exit to an inner room.

O'Ded. That blunt little fellow has got a sharp tongue in his head. He's an odd compound, just like a great big roasted potato, all crusty and crabbed without, but mealy and soft-hearted within. He takes me to be half a rogue and all the rest of me a scoundrel—Och, by St. Patrick! I'll bother his brains presently.

Enter sir Rowland, lord Austencourt, and Charles.

Lord A. Further discussion, sir, is useless. If I am to be disappointed in this marriage, a still more strict attention to my own affairs is necessary.

Sir R. I appeal fearlessly to this man, who has betrayed me, whether your interest was not my sole motive in the appropriation of your property.

Lord A. That assertion, sir, I was prepared to hear, but will not listen to.

Sir R. Beware, lord Austencourt, beware how you proceed!

Lord A. Do you again threaten me? (to O'Dedimus) are my orders obeyed? is every thing in readiness?

O'Ded. The officers are in waiting!

Charles. Hold, monster! Proceed at your peril. To me you shall answer this atrocious conduct.

Lord A. To you!

Charles. Ay, sir, to me, if you have the courage of a man.

Lord A. I will no longer support these insults. Call in the officers.

Enter sir Willoughby, lady Worret, and Helen.

Sir W. Hey! zounds! did you take me and my lady Worret for sheriff's officers, my lord?

Lord A. I have one condition to propose—if that lady accepts my hand, I consent to stop the proceedings. That alone can alter my purpose.

Charles. Inhuman torturer!

Helen. Were my heart as free as air I never would consent to a union with such a monster!

Sir W. And if you would, curse me if I would—nor my lady Worret either.

Sir R. Let him fulful his purpose if he dare! I now see the black corruptness of his heart; and though my life were at stake I would pay the forfeit, rather than immolate innocence in the arms of such depravity.

Lord A. Call in the officers, I say!

O'Ded (without moving.) I shall do that thing.

Lord A. 'Tis justice I demand! Justice and Revenge alike direct me, and their united voice shall be obeyed.