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Dur. My lord
Gar. "Tis bold, sir,-nay, methinks
Dur. My patron!
Gar. I would keep down this swelling of my heart To reason calmly with your haughtiness.
Dur. My haughtiness!
Gar. Ay, haughtiness; what else
Dur. By your favor, sir,
Gar. But to change,
Dur. Indeed !
Dur. Advise the world
Gar. You would not make
Dur. I might chance
Gar. Have you not crawled your way to this?
Dur. 'Twas fate
Gar. Yet hear me patiently.—Your tale this morning
than you should, and what you've done Be, by your rashness, undone.
Dür. Have you aught
I know how calmly you can bear it;
Gar. I came not here to listen to this rudeness.
Dur. Nay, I've some notion of the cause that brought you. Was it to try the terror of your frown?
Gar. Did I not raise you—make you what you are ?
Dur. Went your intention with it, when you knew not
Gar. No matter now; 'Tis now enough to wonder at your fortunes.
Dur. You see in what a changeful world we live :
Gar. I'll hear no more.
Penruddock. Here then was the residence of my once loved Arabella ; here then she reigned and reveled; a sympathetic gloom comes over me. Woodville is in my power.
(Enter Henry.) Henry. Where am I! What has happened? Why is this house so changed in its appearance ?
Pen. Whom do you seek?
Henry. A father and a mother who dwelt here. If you have heard the name of Woodville and can ease my anxious mind, tell me they survive.
Pen. Be satisfied—they live.
Henry. Devoutly I return heaven thanks, and bless you for the tidings. Long absent and debarred all correspondence with my family, I came with trembling heart, uncertain of their fate, and I confess the ominous appearance of a deserted house struck me with alarm ; but I may hope they have some other residence at hand. If
you know where, direct me.
Henry. Why not proceed? You know they live, can you not tell me where ?
Pen. I cannot.
not live in London? Pen. No. Henry. What is your name, occupation? Where do you inhabit? How comes it to pass that you know so well to answer me one question, and are dumb to all the rest ?
Pen. I am not used to interrogatories, nor quite so patient as may suit with your impetuosity.
Henry. I stand corrected; I am too quick. You will excuse the feelings of a son.
Pen. Most willingly; only I'm sorry to perceive they are so sensitive, because this world abounds in misery.
Henry. Now I am sure you know more than you yet reveal; but having said my parents are still alive, you fortify me against lesser evils. I know
father's failings, and can well suppose that his affairs have fallen into decay.
Pen. To utter ruin. Gaming has undone him.
Henry. Oh! execrable vice, fiend of the human soul, that tears the heart of parent, child, and friend! What crimes, what shame, what complicated misery hast thou brought upon us! Rash, desperate, wretched man! This house was swallowed in the general wreck ?
Pen. With every thing else : Sir George Penruddock had it for a debt, as it is called, of honor.
Henry. A debt of infamy-and may the curse entailed upon such debts descend on him and all that may inherit from him!
Pen. There you outrun discretion : he is dead, and you would not extend your curse to him that now inherits.
Henry. Light where it will, I'll not revoke it. He that is fortune's minion, well deserves it.
Pen. But he that's innocent does not.
Henry. Can he be innocent, who stains his hands with ore drenched in the gamester's blood, dug from the widow's, and the orphan's hearts, with tears, and cries, and agonies unutterable? 'Tis property accurst; were it a mine as deep as to the centre, I would not touch an atom to preserve myself from starving
Pen. You speak too strongly, sir.
Henry. So you may think : I speak as I feel. Who is the wretched heir ?
Pen. Roderick Penruddock.
Henry. My father knew him well—a gloomy misanthrope, shunning and shunned by all mankind. When such a being, after long seclusion, lost to all social charities, and hardened into savage insensibility, comes forth into the world, armed with power and property, he issues like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and devour.
Pen. Stop your invective! Know him before you condemn him.-He stands before you.
Henry. Indeed! and I am then in company with Mr. Penruddock?
Pen. You are,
Henry. Then I must throw myself upon your mercy; I have spoken rashly, and abide by any measures you may choose to dictate.
Pen. You can hardly expect much candor in a character such as you have painted-savage, insensible, lost to all social charities, a gloomy misanthrope.
Henry. I have spoken, as men are apt to speak, upon report. If you mean only to retort the words on me as their retailer, you still leave the original authority in force; but if you can refute that, you at once vindicate your own character from aspersion, and bring me to shame for my credulity and levity.
Pen. You have quoted your own father as the authority on which you rest: very well—of him, then, in the first place, I will speak;, of myself in the last. (Puts chairs.) Sit down. (They sit.) Your father and myself were intimates through all that happy age, when nature wears no mask; our boyish sports, our college studies, our traveling excursions, united us in friendship.—This may be tedious talk; and yet I study to be brief for my own sake as well as yours.
Henry. I'm all attention-pray proceed.
On our return from travel, it was my fortune to gain the affections of a lady—whom, at this distant period, I cannot name without emotions which unman and shake my foolish heart—therefore, no more of her. Your father was our mutual confident, passed and repassed between us on affairs of trust and secrecy, while I was busied in providing for our marriage settlement: I struggled against difficulties that tortured my impatience, and at length overcame them. In that interval a villain had traduced my character, poisoned her credulous mind, and by the display of a superior fortune, prevailed upon her parents to revoke their promises to me, and marry her to him. -What did this wretch deserve ?
Henry. Death from your hands, and infamy from all the world.
Pen. And yet upon his credit you arraign my character:for that wretch (Rises) is your own father.
Henry. I am dumb with horror.
Pen. Now can you wonder, if, when armed with power to extinguish this despoiler of my peace, this still inveterate defamer of my character, I issue, as your own words describe me, like a hungry lion from his den, to ravage and devour ?
Henry. I'll answer that hereafter; and, by the honor of a soldier, I will answer it as truth and justice shall exact of me. But a charge so strong, so serious, so heart-rending to a son, who feels himself referred to in a case so touching, demands