SCENE I.
An apartment in Mr. ANDREWS's house.
Mrs. ANDREWS and MARIA.
Mrs. ANDREWS. I'm quite amaz'd at what you have related. [She
walks to and fro much agitated.]
MARIA. I must not now discover, how her husband
Receiv'd the tidings of a secret key:
She would not rest, until reveng'd of mine. [Aside.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. Can you now help me? I am much distress'd.
MARIA. You know I am devoted to your service.
Mrs. ANDREWS. So I have ever thought.—Heav'n! what a state!
Compell'd to sooth ev'n those my soul abhors. [Aside.]
MARIA. Madam, I'm griev'd to see your spirits sinking.
But hear me, and I think I can propose
A scheme by which it may be so contriv'd,
As to retort this charge on your fair character,
Cruel as false, respecting the lord Belmour,
On your base neighbour Wilson, the inventer,
With honour to yourself.
Mrs. ANDREWS. What, and he innocent?
MARIA. Hath he not wrong'd you?———beyond all redress?
Labour'd to blast your spotless fame for ever,
Whilst you are innocent?
Mrs. ANDREWS. Yet much to blame. [Aside.]
MARIA. Wherefore, your honour calls aloud for vengeance.
Mrs. ANDREWS. True; his harsh, cruel, groundless, information
Hath to my poor mind's peace been most injurious.
MARIA. It is the only means I can devise,
At once to wipe away this foul aspersion,
And all the other mischiefs that may follow.
Mrs. ANDREWS. But how, I pray? none bear more fair repute.
MARIA. Yet vers'd in gallantry.
Mrs. ANDREWS. So I have heard.
MARIA. That answers well; suppose then, in a letter,
You mention earnestly, his having made
Some overtures injurious to your honour,
And should he persevere, that you'll disclose
This breach of truth and friendship to your husband?
Then, let this letter, as it were by chance,
Fall in my master's way.—Consider this.
Mrs. ANDREWS. [Pauses] A most ingenious thought!—but to
pursue it—[Pauses again.]
Shall I at such dark villainy connive!—
Are there no means to 'scape the tongue of calumny,
But by imbibing her infectious breath,
And blasting innocence with sland'rous falsehood?
Chang'd howsoe'er I be, yet my soul shudders
Ev'n at the thought of an unjust revenge—
I ne'er could reconcile it to myself.
MARIA. Again I say, your own defence demands it.
It is the sole resource you have to save you.
Mrs. ANDREWS. I am myself the cause of all these miseries. [Aside.]
I see great difficulties in this matter.
MARIA. I, not any—do you but write this letter;
The rest be mine—but soft!—my master's voice—
Mrs. ANDREWS. What shall I do? I would not meet him now.
MARIA. You must not, till our purpose is effected.
Be not distress'd—I'll urge a fit excuse.
So, to your chamber, and prepare the letter,
No patience can submit to such indignities. [Goes off.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. I dread the very thoughts of this—and yet—
To rest beneath so vile an accusation—
It cannot—must not be—I should be false,
And to myself unjust—and then, revenge
Upon this slanderer—I'm much perplex'd. [Goes off.]
SCENE II.
Changes to another room in Mr. ANDREWS's house.
Enter Mr. ANDREWS, leaning on THOMAS and another person; CONSTANTIA
attending him.
THOMAS. This outward room is large, the air more free.
ANDREWS. Faint!—very faint!—support me to yon couch. [They seat
him on a couch.]
I hop'd at length heav'n's goodness had determin'd
To give my soul its so long wish'd-for peace.
CONSTANTIA. Of late, these fierce attacks give fresh alarm.
Preserve him, heav'n,—O sir! behold your daughter.—
ANDREWS. Tir'd nature hath got respite for a while,
Yet weaken'd much—my final rest is near.
[To the servants.] Withdraw awhile; but wait within a call.
Constantia! stay; come nearer to your father.
Give me your hand, I wish a private conference
On somewhat of much moment ere we part.
CONSTANTIA. You make your daughter happy; for of late,
I've thought, you did not see me with that pleasure
To which I had been us'd; I, therefore fear'd,
You some distress had met, or that Constantia,
Had witlessly, (when some ill fate presided,)
The best of parents and of friends offended.
ANDREWS. You never did; it is against your nature.
You've ever been affectionate as dutiful;
But the postponing thus a second time
(And on lord Weston's side) the purpos'd wedding,
Which all must say, our station weigh'd with his,
Besides his princely qualities of mind,
Would highly honour us, disturbs me much:
Yet, wou'd I hope, th' affections of your heart
Are not so fix'd upon this noble youth,
you cou'd not wean them thence, shou'd it be fit.
CONSTANTIA. What is't I hear! undone! be still, my heart! [Aside.]
Hath not a letter, sir, disclos'd the cause?
ANDREWS. Such letter I receiv'd, yet it is said,
His uncle, the lord Belmour, hath of late,
Spoken of this, to which he once consented,
In terms of discontent; which, if as told,
I would to the alliance of an emperour,
Prefer the badge of want.
CONSTANTIA. [She kneels] O most indulgent!
Ever-honour'd sir! let not a thought for me
Distress your tenderness. Heav'n be my judge!
That did my faithful heart approve him more
(If possible) than I have truly told you,
And that its choice was not with your assent,
My task should be, to tear it thence for ever.
And, but I know lord Weston has a soul,
Possess'd of every virtue heav'n bestows,
I wou'd far rather wed in mine own rank,
Where truth and happiness are oft'ner found,
Than midst the glaring grandeur of the great.
ANDREWS. Come to thy father's arms, thou sweet resemblance
Of the perfections of your much-lov'd mother;
A loss each day felt more—yet, my Constantia,
What tho' your charms and virtue shou'd surpass
All that e'er center'd in a virgin frame,
To be the choice of this exalted youth
Causes a thousand fears in my fond heart.
CONSTANTIA. O sir! how you alarm me! heav'n! what fears?
ANDREWS. Constantia singled out, preferr'd to numbers
Of the first rank, who would exult to win him,
Will rouse up ev'ry baneful blast of envy,
Perfections such as thine ne'er 'scape malignity.
CONSTANTIA. The example of that honour to her sex,
My dear lost mother, with the wholesome lessons
Instill'd by you, will so direct my steps,
I may those blasts escape your fondness fears.
ANDREWS. Yet, should this change in your condition happen,
This also treasure in your mind; that man,
As in his frame, so is his spirit rough;
Whilst your more tender sex was form'd by heav'n,
To sooth those cares, which from his state still flow,
With winning grace, and smooth life's rugged paths.
That she who best submits will surest reign;
In youth be idolized, in age revered.
But when perverse contention marks her conduct,
And passion's transitory joys are pall'd,
The past offence will to the mind recur,
And all that once had charm'd be quite forgot.
CONSTANTIA. Good heav'n! of two such parents make me worthy.
Enter MARIA.
ANDREWS. Some message from my wife—withdraw awhile.
CONSTANTIA. [As she goes off] Alas! I fear some deep distress
affects him.
ANDREWS. Where is your mistress?
MARIA. In her chamber, sir.
ANDREWS. Go tell her I am here, and wish to see her.
MARIA. Good sir! she has been greatly indispos'd:
But somewhat eas'd, was in a friendly slumber,
Till rous'd at hearing that some sudden ailment
Had just now seiz'd you, she dispatch'd me hither,
And most impatient waits for my return
With tidings of your health, to her so precious.
ANDREWS. This woman is so hackney'd in all baseness,
That even truth from her would be disgrac'd. [Aside.]
Had her condition far exceeded all
Your seeming tender fears; or did I hear
The peal of her death bell, I shou'd not wonder.
Was she not up all night? Was ever seen
Such rapid havock as this life of riot
Spreads o'er her bloom, which ev'ry art abash'd,
Now vainly practis'd to repair its ruin!
Sad victim to the world's most baleful fashions!
MARIA. Some friends staid later here last night than usual.
But if you knew how much she's indispos'd,
I'm sure 'twould pierce your heart; as I well know,
You love her tenderly, as she does you.
ANDREWS. Wou'd I had lov'd her less, or ne'er had seen her!
Retire awhile, I pray—I wou'd be private.
MARIA. [As she goes off] We now shall execute the scheme I plann'd.
ANDREWS. I am the veriest wretch that breathes the air,
And nought but desperation is before me.
[A Servant BOY enters hastily at a different door,
as if passing to another room, with a letter in
his hand, starts, (as if at seeing his master)
and affects to conceal the letter.]
ANDREWS. You seem confus'd—What paper's that?
BOY. 'Tis, sir—'tis a letter—
ANDREWS. From whom? and to whom?
BOY. From, sir,—Why, 'tis—
[He seizes the boy's hand, who drops the letter, and whilst
his master is taking it up, runs off.]
ANDREWS. Ha! what, gone off! how guilt betrays itself!
Here is some secret scheme—'tis in my wife's hand.
The superscription to my old friend Wilson—
I never yet approv'd of opening letters
By any, save by those to whom address'd;
But to detect deceit, such means are just;
And here it seems, as matters were on foot,
With which, 'tis meant I should not be acquainted.
Besides, of late, I have at times surpriz'd them
in close and intimate discourse together;
When, it now strikes me, they seem'd much confounded.
Upon the whole, I think I ought to read it:
Necessity demands the doubtful deed. [He opens and reads the letter.]
"Sir,
I might have thought the repulse you so lately receiv'd,
with the declaration I then made of acquainting my husband
with your conduct, would have deterred you from ever making
any further attempt.—How fatal might the consequences prove
should I discover your behaviour to him? Is this your
friendship? Know, base man! that whatever my follies and
indiscretions may be in other respects, there is not any
distress shall lead me to an act against the honour of
Elizabeth Andrews."
Am I awake! or is this all a dream?
My friend—seduce my wife? it cannot be! [Looks again on the letter.]
It surely is her hand—it must be so.
She's now but in her prime, and few so beautiful—
Then his strict charge this morning, not to mention
What he himself had told me was reported
Of her and the lord Belmour, with this letter,
Are proofs which make this matter nearly certain.
What ruin is at hand!——— [He pauses.]
Enter MARIA hastily.
Woman, your business?
MARIA. My lady, sir, is up, and begs to see you;
Or she will wait on you.
ANDREWS. I choose the latter. [She goes off.]
How wond'rous condescending of a sudden!
Shou'd this be a true charge in this dread letter,
All he has mentioned of her and lord Belmour,
May be a base invention for his purpose—
Yet, may not both be true?—distracting state!
Enter Mrs. ANDREWS.
[He in profound thought, and not observing her.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. He heeds me not. The letter strongly works. [Aside.]
I've been inform'd, sir, that you wish'd to see me.
You seem disturb'd; acquaint me with the cause.
ANDREWS. Forbear to question me. I am not well.
Mrs. ANDREWS. You yield too much to melancholy thoughts.
ANDREWS. True—Melancholy hath been long my portion;
As I've too long the fatal cause conceal'd:
But ev'ry duty now, to heaven, to you,
To my poor children, to myself, all, all
Demand it from the husband and the father,
That you, oh! you, are the sole, fatal cause. [She offers to
withdraw, he shuts the door.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. How your looks scare me! what have I committed?
ANDREWS. O! many things you should not have committed.
To number all the mischiefs which your conduct,
Your most misguided conduct hath induc'd
On those, to whom, each law divine and human
Had bound you in affection's strongest ties,
Were but a needless waste of time and speech.
[Aside] Heav'n! what contempt and scorn her looks betray!
O Gaming! cursed vice! parent of all!
How callous grow the hearts of all thy votaries!
And how hast thou this once soft bosom chang'd!
Nor is her form less alter'd than her mind.
[Turning to her] Perverse and obstinate! as adders deaf!
Mrs. ANDREWS. Your words are not unheard.
ANDREWS. It matters not;
Without due heed, 'twere speaking to the winds.
Have you yet thought, how you could bear the change,
The bitter change from affluence to poverty,
Which ev'ry want will bring to your remembrance?
We both must in one ruin be involv'd.
Mrs. ANDREWS. I know no life I lead that is not suited
To what I am entitled by my birth:
An honour, sir, of which you seem insensible.
ANDREWS. True honour only lies in virtuous deeds.
But had you been the daughter of a prince,
'Twere fit you suitably demean'd yourself,
To that condition you had freely chosen.
Mrs. ANDREWS. By gloomy minds, and years by ailments sour'd,
Remembring not past seasons in themselves,
Ev'n pleasures innocent are deem'd offence.
ANDREWS. No—no; it lies not in their decent use;
'Tis the extreme that constitutes the fault,
By which, ev'n Virtue's sacred self might err;
But they who break a single law, would others,
If lured alike; so violate the whole.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Ha! is it come to this? arraign my virtue?
ANDREWS. This quick impatience is self-accusation.
I have not even hinted at it yet.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Whilst I am conscious of my own heart's innocence,
I scorn the censure of a slanderous world;
It cannot injure me.
ANDREWS. Soft! have a care.
No virtue with that thought is safe a moment.
O! 'tis a jewel of such brilliant lustre,
And so resistless wins the admiration,
That even vice, in its appearance mansk'd,
Pays homage at its shrine.
Mrs. ANDREWS. What is't I hear?
I see th' ill-natur'd purpose of your summons.
But who are they, sir, who have dar'd traduce me?
Some, it is like, of your low-rank'd associates?
ANDREWS. This war of words is wandering from the purpose.
Now, mark me well—the man who dares insult
A woman's modesty, must have descry'd
Somewhat in her behaviour that would warrant
Such outrage of abuse.—Is this your hand? [Shewing her the letter.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. Let me see it. [He gives her the letter,
which she reads hastily, then tears it to pieces.]
Now, let me tell you, sir,
'Twas a base action to unclose this letter,
Or any other not to you address'd.
What a curs'd hellish plot hath here been schem'd
Against my peace! oh! oh! Maria—oh! [She faints upon the sofa.]
Enter MARIA.
MARIA. Alas! alas! my poor lady! good sir!
What hath she done to merit this unkindness?
You've always been the tenderest of husbands.
ANDREWS. Forbear this idle talk; attend your mistress.
[Aside] What fool was I to trust her with this letter!
Yet, why was she so hasty to destroy it?
Heav'n! in what deep perplexities I'm plung'd! [He goes off.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. What! gone! Leave me in the sad seeming state
In which I call myself!—and unconcern'd!
Would I had died before I wrote that letter!
Desperate act! I knew not what I did.
MARIA. Madam, despair not; this will soon blow over,
You're young and beauteous; he, in his decline.
You can command him, as best suits your pleasure;
But let not scruples rule you at this crisis:
In my poor judgment, 'twould undo us all.
Consult your friend, the faithful lady Belmour;
None can advise you better on this subject.
Mrs. ANDREWS. O! but Maria, this is not the whole.
My ill success at play for some time past,
Hath far exceeded all hath yet befall'n me:
This hurried me to borrow of lord Belmour
A thousand pieces, which, with the several sums
I've lost to him (not small), must now be paid;
But above all,—ill fate! is the discovery
Of the false key to my wrong'd husband's chest:
Which must be so; as other locks are fix'd
On it, and every door that leads thereto.
MARIA. The work this, of my old officious husband. [Walks apart
and pauses.]
Now for due vengeance for the killing flights,
That youth, the scornful Jefferson, hath cast
On me, and my ill-fated fondness for him. [Returning.]
What think you of a further application
To the cashier; your worthy friend young Jefferson?
Mrs. ANDREWS. I cannot: he already hath assur'd me,
He dares not venture to supply me further.
MARIA. I doubt not but he told you so; and yet,
My hopes are surety still for his compliance.
There is no danger he'd not risk to serve you.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Whence comes this zeal?
MARIA. From a passion for you,
As violent perhaps, as e'er possess'd
The heart of man, and which he cannot hide.
You surely must have seen it? It destroys him.
Mrs. ANDREWS. I have, 'tis true, observ'd him much confus'd
At times I spoke to him; but this, I thought,
Might have proceeded from a bashful modesty,
As I conceive his readiness to serve me,
Did from a generous spirit to oblige.
MARIA. I tell you, madam, 'tis the height of fondness.
A fever, that he lately had, in which
His ceaseless ravings were of you, confirm'd 'it.
He shuns all company, neglects his food,
And wanders often, as would one insane.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Astonishment!
MARIA. He cannot quit the house
His 'prenticeship has full two years expir'd,
And twice he hath prepar'd him for the Indies.
I know the inmost secrets of his soul:
Besides, of late, he's often much intoxicated,
Who was before the paragon of temperance.
Do but consent to let me call him hither;
One look from you will banish every fear,
Unlock each chest, and lay its stores before you.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Stop! at your peril stop! the very thought
Chills my whole blood—I'd perish first in want.
MARIA. Then you must quit your honourable friends,
And live for ever in forlorn obscurity.
But pardon me, if I've been too officious.
Mrs. ANDREWS. My present calls require at least a thousand:
For though my fund be not quite exhausted,
Fortune hath made me bankrupt yet to numbers.
'Tis true, that many are far more my debtors,
Yet are not all like me in payment punctual.
But I will instant haste to lady Belmour,
My faithful counsel in the time of trouble.
MARIA. As I could wish.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Then for awhile withdraw. [MARIA goes off.]
How dreadful now, is ev'n a moment's privacy!
How different from those happy hours of innocence,
When my sweet little ones were prattling round me,
With a fond husband and a tender father,
Pouring his blessings upon them and me!
But now I can no more endure to see them,
Than I can bear to look into myself.
How often hath he said, "One hour's remorse
Outweighs whole years of transitory joys!"
How true he spoke! but wherefore these reflections?
When every mischief hath been done already,
And cannot be recall'd!
Re-enter MARIA.
MARIA. Madam, the coach.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Be not you absent; I shall soon return,
And may have business of some moment with you.
MARIA. I fear we have too much on hand already. [Aside.] [They
go off.]
SCENE III.
Another room in Mr. ANDREWS's house.
JEFFERSON alone.
JEFFERSON. My actions must at length fall heavy on me,
And crush me at a blow: but oh! this passion,
This fruitless passion, I've so long indulg'd
For this enchanting woman, drives me on,
Alas! from one transgression to another,
And I deceive myself.—Ha! here's Maria.
Wou'd I cou'd shun her! as of late her visits
Have been more frequent than occasions warrant.
Yet much she hath profess'd herself my friend,
And my heart's secret won.
Enter MARIA.
MARIA. I disturb you.
JEFFERSON. Why to speak truly, I had just now sought
Some private intercourse with mine own heart.
MARIA. Of late, I think you use too much of that.
But if you knew from whom I am a messenger,
I also think, I should not be unwelcome.
But I'll withdraw.
JEFFERSON. No, speak your business quickly.
MARIA. Alas! my poor mistress!
JEFFERSON. What of her? speak———
MARIA. Fortune has been of late to adverse to her,
And she's become indebted to such numbers,
I fear she can no more appear in publick,
But must retire, unless your goodness serves her.
She often speaks with gratitude of Jefferson:
Did you but see in what distress she languishes,
You'd hazard worlds to minister relief.
JEFFERSON. Full well you know, how I'm inclin'd to serve her;
But her demands encrease with my compliance,
And I have injur'd much the best of masters.
I know no other banker cou'd support it.
MARIA. Most happy youth! there does not live another,
Of whom my mistress would have sought these favours.
O! cou'd I venture, I could say much more.—
Thus far however, I'll be bold to utter;
That were our worthy master gone to rest,
(And all observe he's every day declining)
You are the only man her heart would choose.—
But I have gone too far.
JEFFERSON. Transporting sounds!
My soul is all attention!—Pray proceed.
MARIA. I cannot—O! I must not.
JEFFERSON. Why?
MARIA. Her honour.
JEFFERSON. Say, are you truly serious in this matter?
Or, but amusing me with idle hopes?
MARIA. Pray have you ever found me such a trifler?
JEFFERSON. I cannot say I have, and yet——
MARIA. Yet, what?
JEFFERSON. Her virtue!
MARIA. Why you are virtuous, yet cannot avoid
This passion for the loveliest of women:
Nor may she be insensible to you.
No youth more wins our sex's admiration.
Among the rest, the beauteous, gentle Lucia,
In secret languishes: it is too plain:
Though ev'ry art be practis'd to conceal it.
JEFFERSON. Forbear this now. None prize her virtues more:
Nor am I to her outward charms insensible.
But when the heart is to one object wedded,
No lure can win it thence.———You flatter me?
MARIA. I don't.—You under-prize yourself.—View this.—
JEFFERSON. View what? [Eagerly]
MARIA. It is a locket with her precious hair,
Which she has sent by me. Refuse it not.
JEFFERSON. Refuse it!—O! whilst life exists I'll wear it,
Close to that heart which is for ever hers.
I am all ecstacy, delicious woman! [He kisses it.]
MARIA. [Aside.] A lucky hit, and works as I could wish.
JEFFERSON. Gratefully thank her for the precious token.
MARIA. And now as to her present exigencies?
JEFFERSON. To what may they amount?
MARIA. About a thousand.
JEFFERSON. 'Tis quite impossible.
MARIA. Less will not do.
JEFFERSON. Besides the mischief I have done my master,
I stand myself upon the verge of ruin.
MARIA. Were you to see her, you'd not lose a moment
In this last act, so be yourself the messenger.
JEFFERSON. First, tell her then, that she shall be supply'd,
Let the event be fatal as it may.
MARIA. Most gen'rous youth! she shall know all your goodness. [She
goes off.]
JEFFERSON. How quickly every resolution vanishes!
And how am I now chang'd from what I was!
Like some weak skiff, that for a while had stood
Safe on the tranquil bosom of the flood;
Until at length, the mountain torrents sweep
Its faint resistance headlong to the deep,
Where in large gulps the foamy brine it drinks,
And in the dread abyss for ever sinks. [Exit.]
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg