SCENE I.
A room in Mr. GOODWIN's house.
GOODWIN and WILSON.
WILSON. This letter just now brought from our friend Andrews,
Is superscrib'd to me, and yet most surely,
By its contents, it was design'd for you. [Gives him the letter,
which he reads.]
GOODWIN. What proof this of his sad distracted state!
Nor wonder; his distress encreases hourly.
Midst which, one of his ships, it is reported,
with a rich cargo, fraught from India's shores,
Was lately wreek'd; and that by some neglect,
It had not been insur'd.—'Tis rumour'd too,
That some of his acceptances are noted.
WILSON. Most true, I have myself paid several;
The just return to him, who, from his friends,
His purse on like occasion ne'er with-held.
GOODWIN. His bosom glows with all the heav'nly feelings
Of gen'rous amity and social love.
So boundless too, he cou'd not rest and know,
That ev'n a worthy stranger felt distress.
Enter a SERVANT and delivers a letter to Mr. Goodwin,
which he opens and peruses.
'Tis all a mystery; or perfect madness.
It can't be meant for me. [To the SERVANT.] Where got you this?
SERVANT. Your neighbour Andrews sent it to your house.
GOODWIN. Do you withdraw. [SERVANT withdraws.] I pray you
hear it read. [Reads out.]
"That you are the blackest of all villains you must
yourself admit. What, induce me to suspect my wife
with another (as you did this morning) in order to
carry on your own adulterous schemes? such an attempt
against my honour, peace of mind, and all that is most
dear to me! If you regard your safety you will be
cautious of our meeting.
"James Andrews"
WILSON. Give me the letter, 'twas design'd for me.
Some like discourse as is in part there hinted,
This morning pass'd between us—Give it, pray.
GOODWIN. 'Tis plain, two misdirections have been written;
Yet, let me stipulate this one condition,
That you command yourself; for 'twill require
Your utmost fortitude. [Gives the letter.]
WILSON. By heav'n! some stratagem,
Of deep and black contrivance is on foot;
For there's no mischief, but that artful woman
Hath heart and head to scheme.
Enter a SERVANT.
SERVANT. [To GOODWIN.] Sir, your friend Andrews.
GOODWIN. [To WILSON.] And do you choose to meet him?
WILSON. Shou'd I shun him,
It might induce him to conclude me guilty.
GOODWIN. [To his SERVANT.] You—conduct him hither. I dread
the event. [SERVANT goes off.]
And yet well know your fortitude and temper.
WILSON. Fear not.—I pity him; he's much disturb'd.
Enter Mr. ANDREWS.
ANDREWS. [To GOODWIN.] Did you receive some lines from me to-day?
GOODWIN. To my surprize I did, which I suppose
By the contents were otherwise intended.
ANDREWS. Most strange mistake! I wrote them for that villain.
WILSON. Ha! villain in my teeth, what mean you, sir?
ANDREWS. Have you not wrong'd me? injur'd me most basely?
WILSON. Unhappy man! 'twas never in my thoughts.
ANDREWS. By heav'n, 'tis false! [To GOODWIN.] You have perus'd
my letter.
GOODWIN. I have by accident, as I inform'd you.
ANDREWS. Is he not then the blackest of all villains?
WILSON. Licentious railer, cease your foul invective,
Nor patience press too far: but for that amity,
In which we've liv'd, I cou'd not have endur'd
Ev'n half of this unmerited ill-treatment.
Again, I tell you, I'm an utter stranger
To ev'ry charge in your impassion'd letter,
Nor know I what it means.
ANDREWS. Again, 'tis false.
GOODWIN. O! my good friends, forbear; I've heard too much.
Permit me then to speak between you both.
What is affirm'd on one side, on the other
As firmly is denied: wherefore, it lies
On him who made the charge to shew his proof.
ANDREWS. Then, at your instance only;—'twas a letter,
From my ill-fated wife to this deceiver,
Which on the way by accident I seiz'd;
Wherein th' attempts he made (advantage taking
Of the distress her indiscretion caus'd)
To his adult'rous purpose to seduce her,
Are manifest.
WILSON. Deluded, undone man!
How this insidious woman hath depriv'd him
Of that sage judgment which he once possess'd!
GOODWIN. Where is the letter?
ANDREWS. Unluckily destroy'd.
WILSON. And are these all the grounds on which you charge
An old and faithful friend with such a breach
Of virtue, honour, and of all that's worthy?
O most abandon'd woman! weak as wicked.
ANDREWS. Recal your words, base slanderer, else this hand
Shall pluck forth the rude tongue that utter'd them.
GOODWIN. Forbear, I pray! you will alarm my family.
WILSON. [To GOODWIN.] This is too much for ev'n
a brother's bearing.
Nor can I longer answer for myself. [Goes off.]
ANDREWS. [After remaining for some time deep in thought.]
Guilty! O guilty! every thing confirms it.
Had my sworn enemy distress'd me thus,
Time might have sooth'd the anguish of my soul;
But oh! what mode of patience can endure
To find the traitor in my bosom friend!
GOODWIN. Rather think him innocent.
ANDREWS. Yet how?
Did not the blush of conscience mark his visage?
The thought, the very thought, inflames to madness.
GOODWIN. He seem'd surpriz'd, but shew'd no sign of guilt.
'Twere better sure, to sift this matter calmly;
Passion but mars the purpose it pursues.
ANDREWS. O! cou'd I hope for doubt!
GOODWIN. You've known him long?
ANDREWS. These thirty years; no brothers e'er lov'd better:
And so exalted was, so pure the friendship,
Which 'twixt our souls in harmony subsisted,
Each knew no joy the other did not feel,
And all our evils were by sharing lighten'd:
He was my second self, as I was his,
Like streams whose currents mix and flow together.
GOODWIN. And have you ever found him in a falsehood?
ANDREWS. In his fidelity I so confided,
That with the dearest treasure of my soul
I had entrusted him—and now he's lost;
For ever lost—yet, yet to think—O heav'n!
That this unhappy woman, once so virtuous,
Cou'd ever thus have chang'd. O Goodwin! Goodwin!
There's not a peasant in the clay-built hut,
Who daily with his toil-tir'd arm acquires
A scanty pittance for life's common wants,
Whose state is not a paradise to mine!
GOODWIN. Despond not thus, there's nothing certain yet;
Wherefore, compose awhile your ruffled spirit,
And bear with manly fortitude these trials:
The tempest may th' inferior regions shake,
Whilst those of higher sphere rest undisturb'd
Above the threaten'd ruin!
ANDREWS. [After some pause.] Oh! tell me then, what says
report of her?
GOODWIN. A dangerous request!
ANDREWS. But cou'd you see your friend so deeply wrong'd?
Wrong'd in the tenderest point! and yet be silent?
What says the world of this lord Belmour's visits?
You start—
GOODWIN. Its rumours may be false—however,
Since you so press it, I will thus far venture—
Suppose, that after you have left the city,
To sleep as usual at your rural dwelling,
This, or some other night, you should return?
And at some near-appointed station wait,
Until some friendly watch, whom you can trust,
Shall give you notice of the secret visit?
ANDREWS. Thanks for this hint, it shall be so this night.
GOODWIN. Mean while, you must be calm, or may prevent
The purposes you covet to accomplish. [They go off.]
SCENE II.
Mr. ANDREWS's house.
Mrs. ANDREWS and MARIA.
MARIA. Alas! what shall I do? 'tis I, 'tis I,
That should be punish'd.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Punish'd! for what?
MARIA. I've brought my husband to a shameful end.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Why this alarm? explain the mystery.
MARIA. Your safety only, and a rash resentment
(Not dreaming of the fatal consequence)
Made me convey the key into his trunk.
And Jefferson by note, without his signature,
Inform'd your husband he shou'd find it there.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Suspend, I pray you, your distress awhile.
As yet, he's but imprison'd in his room:
You know my husband has a tender heart,
And loves him much.
MARIA. Alas! his doom is fix'd:
With everlasting infamy to wait
On him, and his, how innocent soever;
Nor shall I 'scape the bitter tongue of scandal.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Ere that shou'd happen, I'd accuse myself.
Again then, I beseech you, be compos'd.
And now, Maria, I've been just inform'd,
That Jefferson withdrew some hours ago,
And is not to be found.
MARIA. And what of this?
Mrs. ANDREWS. Shou'd it be true, it must be thought by all,
That the discovery of the secret key
Was schem'd by him alone to screen himself.
MARIA. You've quite reviv'd my spirits with the thought.
I think the whole is like to fall on Jefferson.
Mrs. ANDREWS. This night, I am to be at lady Meldmay's;
But lady Belmour claims my first attention.
MARIA. I thought that those unfortunate discoveries
Had lower'd your spirits so, you had resolv'd
To keep at home this night.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Your hit is just.
But it is now too late to send excuse.
Where's my husband?
MARIA. He left the city, early.
Mrs. ANDREWS. 'Tis time to dress—attend me at my toilet———
[They go off.]
SCENE III.
Mr. ANDREWS's house.
LUCIA alone.
LUCIA. I but now met him, and methought he shunn'd me.
Unusual this from his most gentle nature.
But deep distress seem'd on his brow imprinted,
And rumours are unkind to him of late,
Though none stood higher once in fair repute.
O Jefferson! would I cou'd tear thee hence,
From this fond heart, and its lost peace restore!—-
But soft! I hear my dear Constantia's voice.
Enter CONSTANTIA.
CONSTANTIA. O Lucia! I'm of women most unhappy;
No more must I of that chos'n youth have hope,
In whom my ev'ry thought, my soul is center'd.
LUCIA. You quite astonish me—it cannot be.
Even the day was fix'd for your espousals.
CONSTANTIA. O! but lord Belmour, his relentless uncle,
Hath just now charg'd my father, that henceforth
His visits here be countenanced no more;
Vowing most solemnly, that shou'd we wed,
He'd disinherit him. Besides in speech
He hath much flighted us.
LUCIA. Most distressful!
CONSTANTIA. From such examples, Lucia, we may learn
To dread those prospects of illusive fortune,
Which shew like havens on a treach'rous shore,
And lure us to our ruin.
LUCIA. Happy man!
How by the tyrant custom art thou favour'd!
Canst speak the anguish of the love-sick heart,
And from the hand that wounds implore relief:
Whilst we in silent secrecy must shelter
The deadly shaft, that rooted rankles there,
And wastes the virgin bloom. Nor is this all;
Should but the modest blush, the fault'ring speech,
Or the disorder of the conscious soul,
Betray the fondness it would fain conceal;
Not only cold indifference, but neglect,
Is full too oft the base return we meet.—
CONSTANTIA. Ha! Lucia! whence these fears? am I despis'd?
What have I done! I have betray'd myself.
O! I conjure thee, by the sacred tie
Of honour, friendship, confidence and love,
Speak nought of this, but leave me to despair!
LUCIA. Alas! 'tis my poor heart betrays itself. [Aside]
Why to despair? by all those sacred ties!
Thou wert not in my thoughts in what I've utter'd.
Hath yet lord Weston heard these fatal tidings?
CONSTANTIA. Full well you know how long he hath been absent:
'Tis that distracts my soul.—How hath he vow'd,
That if a day pass'd by, and we asunder,
He felt it as the absence of an age!
LUCIA. My dear Constantia! banish all such thoughts.
He hath a soul superior to all falsehood.
Affairs, 'tis said, of moment call'd him hence,
And his return is ev'ry hour expected.
CONSTANTIA. True, he is all that's gen'rous, great and noble,
All that stirs envy and respect in man,
Or love in woman. O my friend, my Lucia!
Thou know'st not half the fondness of mine heart:
Oft have I wish'd (so will love's fancy rave)
That he had been the guardian of a flock,
And I the sovereign of unbounded realms,
To make him partner of that heart and throne:
Or that we had been rear'd, 'midst rural innocence,
A low, yet happy pair; with what delight,
My tender frame had shared the harvest toil,
To close with intercourse of souls the day!
Enter a SERVANT.
SERVANT. Madam, lord Weston's in the anti-chamber.
CONSTANTIA. [To the SERVANT] Withdraw awhile— [He withdraws.]
Be still, my flutt'ring heart!
Haste, Lucia, if thou lov'st me, make excuse:
Say, I am indispos'd—retir'd—yet stay.
Why thus conceal the truth which must be known?
Tell him, I cannot, must not, dare not see him—
Yet, stay again—where is my father now?
LUCIA. I know not; he went forth some hours ago.
CONSTANTIA. 'Tis fit, lord Weston knows my father's orders,
That I no more admit his visits here.
Say, what would you advise? pause not, but speak.
LUCIA. I'd see him, for the reason you have mention'd;
Not rashly cast away a gem so precious.
CONSTANTIA. How soon we yield to that the heart approves!
Who waits without? [Enter a SERVANT] Conduct lord Weston hither.
Enter Lord WESTON. LUCIA withdraws.
Lord WESTON. Am I so bless'd to view thee once again!
O! my Constantia, could'st thou but conceive
What I have suffer'd in this tedious absence,
Of which the cause hath been conceal'd from thee!
Yet, whilst I languish'd on the verge of fate,
Thy image ne'er forsook my tortur'd fancy,
And its wild ravings were of nought but thee.
CONSTANTIA. Would heav'n this interview had not been now! [Aside]
Lord WESTON. Ha! not a word! not even a look this way!
All ailments, every pang were ease to this.
I read some dreadful sentence in thine eye.—
What mean those shiverings?———Why that look of anguish?
Sure, cruelty ne'er wore a form like thine!
CONSTANTIA. What can I say? my tongue denies its office. [Aside]
My lord, you have by this untimely visit,
Led me to break my father's strict injunction.
A father, dear as my heart's vital drops.
Lord WESTON. What do I hear? O! are we not united?
By sacred, mutual, faithful vows united?
Of which I now am come to claim performance.
CONSTANTIA. It is forbid—forbid, most sure, for ever!
I'm but the daughter of a bankrupt citizen,
(Th' ungentle terms with which I am reproach'd,)
Of whom, shou'd you think more—
Lord WESTON. What is't you mean?
CONSTANTIA. Lord Belmour would renounce you then for ever;
And 'tis most fit, my lord, you should comply.
He is your uncle, and can much befriend you.
Lord WESTON. O my Constantia! cruel, dear Constantia!
Can'st thou conceive that any earthly views,
Could for the loss of thee requite an heart,
That cannot form a bliss from heav'n without thee?
By that chaste passion, which no time can alter!
Not mines of wealth, nor all life's splendid pomp,
Can weigh with me against that worth of soul,
With which thou art enrich'd so far above
All others of thy sex I yet have seen,
Far as thy beauteous form excels them all.
Do but pronounce a peril, or a suffering
To prove my constancy, save loss of thee.
CONSTANTIA. My lord, these honours far exceed my merit.
Lord WESTON. By heav'n! this coldness may to madness drive me.
Am I to suffer for another's rashness,
Of which, the new-born babe is not more innocent?
Perhaps, some other hath usurp'd thine heart?
'Tis plain; too plain—You cannot doubt my truth!
CONSTANTIA. Do not distress me thus—you know my heart;
As well you know, that on that truth alone
I would repose my ev'ry hope in life.—
Lord WESTON. Then haste thee with me, and for ever bless me:
A reverend priest attends to do the office,
To which your father hath long since consented.
CONSTANTIA. Oh! oh! forbear,—I shudder at the thought.
I've told you all—You know a parent's right;
Parent, not only of my life, but mind,
Wherein he every wholesome seed implanted,
And watch'd with never ceasing care their growth.
Lord WESTON. Nor hath the soil been faithless to its trust.
CONSTANTIA. Could you then hope from an unduteous daughter,
To meet in wedded state, the due compliance
Heav'n hath ordain'd, or I expect its blessings?
You would yourself on serious thoughts condemn me.
Lord WESTON. [He falls on his knees.] How far thou soar'st
above all human excellence!
And how thy virtues raise those peerless charms!
I have transgress'd—-but Oh! vouchsafe thy pity!
It was the zeal of fondness, and the fear
Of losing thee, that urg'd me to the question,
Which hath thy delicacy so offended.
CONSTANTIA. O! if you ever lov'd me—prize my peace!
Go, whilst my wav'ring heart can hold its purpose.
These tell-tale eyes proclaim an interest there,
Which time or fortune never can erase.
But now this meeting might to both prove fatal.
Lord WESTON. Wipe, wipe away that tear! thy sovereign pow'r
Needs not an aid to bid my heart obey.
Yet, O permit me, like the sentenc'd criminal,
Who dreads the fatal stroke, awhile to parley!
But go where e'er I may, my heart will bear
The dear impression of thy image on it,
Nor time nor absence ever shall efface it. [He goes off.]
CONSTANTIA. How have I suffer'd by this forc'd behaviour,
Gainst my soul's feelings, to this matchless youth!
But O! in what enchanting, phrase, he urg'd
His love, his fears and never-failing constancy!
I cannot rest, till Lucia knows it all. [She goes off.]
SCENE IV.
Lord BELMOUR's house.
To Lady BELMOUR, enter a SERVANT.
SERVANT. Mrs. Andrews waits upon your ladyship.
Lady BELMOUR. Mrs. Andrews!—why did you admit her?
SERVANT. I had conceiv'd it was your general order.
Lady BELMOUR. I've chang'd my mind—I will not be at home;
yet stay a little—tell her, I shall see her,
At lady Meldmay's drawing-room to-night. [He goes off.]
'Tis like, she comes for what I got this morning:
All which and more ill fortune swept away.
Enter Mrs. ANDREWS.
Mrs. ANDREWS. What! my good friend! my dearest lady Belmour!
Not see her Andrews! her most faithful Andrews!
'Tis some mistake? perhaps, the servant's fault?
Lady BELMOUR. He had my orders, though you thus intrude.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Such a behaviour!—I am all amazement.—
Whence is the cause? I pray explain yourself.
Lady BELMOUR. If, madam, you are bent on altercation,
I speedily shall leave you to yourself.
So to your business, brief.—
Mrs. ANDREWS. As you could wish;
Then, the five hundred you this morning borrow'd.
Lady BELMOUR. You surely dream, or are not in your senses!
Mrs. ANDREWS. If I retain them long, 'tis not your fault.
Lady Belmour! Honour!—
Lady BELMOUR. Ha! this from you!
When persons of my station condescend
To such connexions, they most justly merit
The treatment you have now presum'd to offer.
Mrs. ANDREWS. You cannot surely mean to rob me thus?
Lady BELMOUR. To rob you! you mistake; you owe me more
Than will be ever in your pow'r to pay.
Mrs. ANDREWS. For what I pray?
Lady BELMOUR. You are not ignorant.
Mrs. ANDREWS. I am, as I shall answer it to heaven.
Lady BELMOUR. Not only for my husband's fond affection,
But his fortune; which, (tis well known to all)
He lavishes on you—so that your visits
Can but reflect dishonour; wherefore, cease them.
Mrs. ANDREWS. [Going off.] This is too much; ungrateful,
faithless woman! [She goes off.]
Lady BELMOUR. This treatment may hereafter serve her much.
Even the meanest with the highest vie:
Their manners as their fashions vainly aping,
As might provoke the sourest spleen to laughter. [Exit.]
SCENE V.
An inn on Cornhill near Mr. ANDREWS's house
MARIA to the HOSTESS.
MARIA. Madam, a ticket from this inn informs me,
That some one in the house has wish'd to see me.
HOSTESS. A person in a common peasant's habit,
Came here some moments since and sent for you,
Upon some pressing business, as he told me.
MARIA. Is he here now?
HOSTESS. He is; I'll shew the room. [They go off.]
SCENE VI.
Changes to a back room.
Lord BELMOUR in the habit of a countryman, and MARIA.
Lord BELMOUR. Am I not well disguis'd?
MARIA. Lord Belmour!—Wondrous!
You might have pass'd me twenty times unknown.
But pray, my lord, the purpose of this meeting?
Lord BELMOUR. First say, how fares it with your lovely mistress?
MARIA. Her present troubles are beyond expression.
Oh! her distress is great.
Lord BELMOUR. I'm on the rack.
My fortune, life, my all's at her command.
Unfold yourself, if you regard my peace.
MARIA. Know then, her very ill success at play,
(Which has of late ev'n all conception pass'd)
Hath led her to use means, and such assistance,
That she some honourable claims might answer,
As otherwise she would have shudder'd at.
And many a tale has reach'd her husband's ear.
Lord BELMOUR. As I could wish. [Aside.] Unmerited ill fortune!
MARIA. Oh! but this is not all.
Lord BELMOUR. 'Tis, 'tis too much.
Yet would I know the whole, that I may fly
On expedition's wing to her relief.—
Speak on.—
MARIA. I cannot.
Lord BELMOUR. Torture me no further.
MARIA. Alas! my master cruelly hath charg'd her,
(How shall I name it!) with indecent conduct;
But chiefly, sir, with you.
Lord BELMOUR. Most fortunate!
This will outrun whole years of fond entreaty—[Aside]
Ungen'rous, false accuser! thus to treat
The loveliest of her sex; but first, Maria,
We must relieve her from her present exigencies;
With which somewhat acquainted, I, her friend,
(None more sincere) am with the means prepar'd;
And 'twas for that alone I schem'd this meeting.
But for the purpose, you must so contrive it,
As to convey me to her chamber secretly,
This very night.
MARIA. Heav'n! how you frighten me!
I would not for the world do such an act.
Lord BELMOUR. Your fears are without cause; I mean it only,
Lest any prying babbler might observe us,
At such late hour, as we must be together.
And I can have none other opportunity,
Of giving her the quick relief she needs.
Wherefore, her friend must serve her at this juncture.
I know your faithful heart.—
MARIA. O! but my lord.—
Lord BELMOUR. Behold these two, Maria; [Shews her two purses]
each of these
Contains an hundred pieces; one of them,
You must vouchsafe at present to accept;
The other, trust me, shall be also yours,
Soon as I safely gain the wish'd-for station. [Puts one
of the purses into her hand.]
Your master left the city just at sunset?
MARIA. My lord! my lord!
Lord BELMOUR. You must, you shall accept it.
MARIA. Well, my good lord, to save my injur'd mistress—[She
puts up the purse in her pocket.]
The backway thro' the warehouse is the safest,
When the moon's down; for 'twill be late to-night,
When she returns from lady Meldmay's supper.
Lord BELMOUR. As sure as I exist—till then farewell! [He goes off.]
MARIA. To what have I agreed?—Yet why repent?
If not temptation proof, it matters not,
When first she fails, or by whose means it happens;
If she refills, I'll stand out to the last,
And swear a thousand oaths, that I am innocent.
At all events, there are two hundred pieces,
Which will be most convenient, should my husband
Be to a trial brought—So chance direct! [She goes off.]
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