SCENE I.
An office in Mr. ANDREWS's house, and a CLERK sitting therein.
Enter JEFFERSON in a cloak.
JEFFERSON. Be not surpriz'd; it is an old acquaintance.
Have a few moments absence so estrang'd you?
CLERK. O Jefferson! those moments have occasion'd
Many and various rumours of your fortune;
Wherefore, permit me to rejoice to see you
But whence this sudden ghastliness of visage
The hue of death itself!
JEFFERSON. It matters not.
You never more may from this moment see me:—
But this is foreign to me, present business.
There are some matters of most deep concern
Which I must straight impart to our good master;
For which, this night I fought him at his villa,
(Whither I heard he had resorted early)
But much to my surprize, he was not there.
I pray inform me, where I now may find him.
CLERK. What shall I do? I am enjoin'd to secrecy.
Are you full sure they're of such high concern
As may excuse me in such breach of confidence?
JEFFERSON. I should not else have urg'd it to you thus.
CLERK. Try the new tavern in th' adjacent alley.
(There, melancholy man, he waits my coming,
At an approaching hour) [Aside.] But, Jefferson,
Should you disclose who pointed out your course,
I may for ever forfeit his regard.
JEFFERSON. Rest well assur'd, no motive should compel it,
And blessings wait upon thee for this kindness!
CLERK. [To JEFFERSON as he goes off.] Yet hold awhile; I nearly
had forgot.
This night, the gentle Lucia fought you here,
But disappointed, left you this remembrance.
'Tis for five hundred pounds.
JEFFERSON. Too gen'rous maid!
O! had my truant, and ungrateful heart
Her merit justly priz'd, I might this day,
In honour, as in virtue have been happy,
Not thus a wretched outcast of the world—
I pray return it with a thousand blessings—
Heart-rending kindness!—Oh!—again farewell! [He goes off.]
CLERK. His countenance betray'd some desp'rate fortune.
Enter MARIA.
MARIA. Was not that Jefferson?
CLERK. 'Twas he indeed!
MARIA. Undone!—undone for ever!—My poor husband!— [Aside]
I spoke to him, but he declin'd an answer,
And rush'd into the street.
CLERK. Unhappy youth!
He told me I should ne'er behold him more.
MARIA. Again I am at ease—[Aside.] But if for certain
He hath our master plunder'd, as 'tis rumour'd,
Should he not be secured?
CLERK. His errand hither,
Was to have seen our master.
MARIA. Undone again! [Aside as she goes off.]
CLERK. She seems not less disturb'd than him she fought.
'Tis fit I follow her, and seek her meanings,
Which from her scatter'd words I could not gather.
Besides, she mutter'd strangely to herself.
Some sad disasters are I fear approaching,
Whilst every countenance betrays distress. [He goes off.]
SCENE II.
A room in a tavern.
ANDREWS and JEFFERSON together, the first walking to and fro
in much agitation.
ANDREWS. And is this surely so? my blood runs chill.
Oh! tell me, how, or when I've been thine enemy,
That thou could'st calmly mean me all this mischief.
I cannot credit it.
JEFFERSON. 'Tis, 'tis too true— [Weeps.]
ANDREWS. I once thought Jefferson the child of virtue.
JEFFERSON. To fix me such, your lessons were not wanting.
But oh! when we indulge one vicious passion,
A train of others unforeseen will follow,
Until at length all virtue is extinguish'd.
ANDREWS. What's to be done! distress crowds on distress———
Inhuman! barbarous! most abandon'd woman!
And thou curs'd instrument!—Yet hold, my heart!—
I see contrition in his mournful eye,
And feel soft pity throbbing in my bosom:
Deluded youth!—no object for revenge— [Aside]
JEFFERSON. I am indeed accurs'd; I have betray'd
The most indulgent master, best of friends!
But you will shortly have sufficient vengeance.
A dose I this night drank will rid me speedily
Of that sad life I can endure no longer.
ANDREWS. Oh! 'twas a desp'rate act!—Could'st thou conceive,
A crime, to the Almighty so offensive,
Would for thy other failings make atonement;
May there not yet be help?
JEFFERSON. 'Tis now too late,
The deadly drug, works far, and I grow faint—
ANDREWS. 'Twere better to have liv'd whole years in penitence,
Or wild despair, to expiate your guilt.
JEFFERSON. Oh! cou'd I hope for your assisting prayers,
'Twou'd be some comfort to my fainting soul.
You are so good, you cannot but have interest
In those blest dwellings, whence my foul offences
May have excluded me, alas, for ever!
Nor dare I lift or eye or hand for mercy.
ANDREWS. Sad-fated youth! my own distracted state
Is suited ill to intercourse with heaven.
But lose no time yourself: that righteous judge,
Whom you have so repeatedly offended,
Abounds in mercy, as he doth in justice;
And pray'r is at his throne a pow'rful advocate.
JEFFERSON. And you, as sure as that Great Pow'r is just,
Will meet the due reward of all your virtues.
When I go hence, I pray you read this paper—
My fate draws near—-so now, farewel for ever! [He goes off.]
ANDREWS. What horrid images crowd on my soul!
Yet worse may follow—blood perchance and murder—
But will not injur'd honour,—ruin'd peace,
For ever ruin'd, justify revenge!— [Pauses.]
I am resolv'd—So for this writing now— [He opens it and reads.]
"Most injured Sir,
Inclos'd you have my will by which, as some small recompense
for the many wrongs I have done you, I have bequeathed you
all the little fortune I have left. Oh! lend your prayers,
and pity a repentant wretched sinner.
William Jefferson."
Some recompense!—There can be none for me.
The moment is at hand, the fearful moment,
When I'm to seek for that, which, when discover'd,
My sure perdition seals—yet even certainty
Were ease to that I feel—tremendous state!
Like some benighted traveller quite 'wilder'd,
I see no friendly ray to guide my steps—
But 'midst my woes, I've let this hapless youth,
Plung'd in despair, escape me unattended.
I'll haste to seek him out—Yet, cannot now:
Troubles more intimate claim ev'ry thought.
Enter one of his CLERKS.
I near despair'd of seeing you: 'tis almost light.
What has delay'd you so?
CLERK. It was your wife.
ANDREWS. My wife!
CLERK. Yes, sir, she's but at home some moments.
ANDREWS. Was she attended?
CLERK. One went in before her.
ANDREWS. What, into my house?
CLERK. Yes, sir.
ANDREWS. Man, or woman?
CLERK. A man, sir.
ANDREWS. Hah!—And know you who he is?
CLERK. Lord Belmour, sir.
ANDREWS. Are you sure?
CLERK. As I exist—
For waiting, as 'twas your desire I should,
'Till I could warn you of your wife's return,
And walking 'twixt the dwelling and the warehouse,
I by a light, which glimmer'd from the moon,
Then almost waned, descry'd a man and woman
Close standing at the wicket of the gate,
That leads into the lane. I stood conceal'd,
Until lord Belmour and Maria pass'd me
Towards the house.
ANDREWS. Can I now pass that way?
CLERK. You may; I lock'd the doors, and have the keys.
ANDREWS. Come, deep and sweet revenge! 'twere virtue here. [Aside]
It must be near the dawn. Go on, I'll follow.
Life's now a curse; death then my only wish.
SCENE III.
Mr. ANDREWS's house.
THOMAS and MARIA.
MARIA. Who releas'd you?
THOMAS. Our unhappy master.
MARIA. Is he in town, and up at this late hour?
THOMAS. He's in the house; and heaven grant, Maria,
He holds his reason: for he rush'd impetuous,
With looks as madness wild, into the room,
Where I sat tied; when falling on his knees,
He crav'd my pardon; then, from my bruis'd arms
He cut the cords, and hastily ran off.
MARIA. Which way?
THOMAS. Towards the compting-house.
MARIA. O heav'n!
THOMAS. Why this alarm?
MARIA. His arms are there.
THOMAS. 'Tis true,
And never man appear'd more desperate.
Wherefore, as ev'n a moment's loss were dangerous;
I'll for his neighbours speed, Wilson and Goodwin. [He goes off.]
MARIA. The mischief is at hand, and 'twill require
My deepest skill, or I'm undone for ever.
But to the last I will assert my innocence. [A bell rings.]
This is my mistress, and from her bedchamber. [Rings again.]
Again it rings; and with unusual violence.—
I must away—What fights may meet me now!— [She goes off.]
SCENE IV.
Another apartment.
CONSTANTIA and LUCIA.
CONSTANTIA. Oh! Lucia, Lucia, I shall die with terrours—
What can these noises mean? [A groan is heard.] Heard you
that groan?
LUCIA. Sure life expir'd with it!—A woman's voice—
Enter hastily WILSON and GOODWIN, THOMAS and other Servants,
at which CONSTANTIA and LUCIA shriek.
CONSTANTIA. Protect us, heaven!—what are you?
WILSON. A messenger,
In utmost hurry rous'd us from our beds,
And pray'd us to haste hither with all speed,
To save a family.
CONSTANTIA. Oh sirs!—heav'n grant
'Tis not too late—some sad event, I dread— [A groan, and
then another]
They're from the room where Mrs. Andrews sleeps. [CONSTANTIA
swoons, and is taken of with LUCIA.]
Enter MARIA.
MARIA. Woe! woe unutterable!—fights of horrour!
All welt'ring in their gore—haste! haste with me. [They go off.]
[Back Scene opens and discovers Mrs. ANDREWS's bedchamber—
Lord BELMOUR on the ground with his sword in his hand bloody,
and Mr. ANDREWS with his also drawn and bloody, in a fix'd
posture, resting on it, and looking on the ground.]
GOODWIN. O heav'n! what havock's here! [To ANDREWS] Alas!
my friend,
What have you done?
WILSON. He's quite insensible.
Perhaps this woman can inform us—speak—
MARIA. I will, I will. Hearing the bell twice rung
With violence unusual from the chamber
In which my mistress lay, I thither flew;
Where entering, with amazement I beheld
Lord Belmour there, and her upon her knees:
Sudden, my master, with an unsheath'd sword
In rage rush'd in, and instantly assail'd him,
(Who also had drawn his) they fought awhile;
When with a hideous groan lord Belmour reel'd,
Bit quick recovering, with doubled fury
At his assailant made—when, she, quite wild,
Rush'd on lord Belmour's sword, and fell with him.
WILSON. 'Tis better done by him, than by our friend.
ANDREWS. Done—What done? all is not done as yet—this—
[He is going to stab himself, GOODWIN and WILSON rush on him,
and wrest his sword from him.]
GOODWIN. What would your madness do? too much already,
This fatal scene exhibits to our view.
ANDREWS. Deaf, deaf to all,—away,—away with counsel!—
'Tis clear as noonday light—burst—burst, my brain!—
Lord BELMOUR. Listen—oh listen to a dying criminal—
Your wife is innocent—I, I alone—
ANDREWS. Peace, villain, peace!—how came you in her chamber?
Lord BELMOUR. Without her knowledge—Oh! 'twas by that woman,
[Pointing to MARIA]
My vile accomplice in the soul attempt.
MARIA. Mercy! O mercy! and I'll tell the whole.
Oh! she is innocent—I, all to blame—
WILSON. 'Tis fit a magistrate be sent for instantly;
As also meet assistance to these wounded,
Who seem to need it much. [A servant goes off.]
Lord BELMOUR. Good sirs!
Let me be hence convey'd—I can't escape—
And heav'n will in some moments give full justice. [He is led out.]
ANDREWS. And let me also fly these scenes of horrour,
Or I shall wilder be than the chain'd wretch
That beats the dungeon walls.
[As he is passing by Mrs. ANDREWS, she seizes the skirt of his coat.]
Mrs. ANDREWS. Oh sir!—my husband!—
ANDREWS. Take! take the vile adultress from my sight.
Mrs. ANDREWS. For charity, forbear those bitter words.
True, I have injur'd you beyond all hopes
Either of your indulgence, or heav'n's mercy.
But by that Pow'r! before whose just tribunal,
I shortly shall be summon'd to appear,
My soul abhors the base imputed guilt,
(How strong soe'er appearance speak against me)
Ev'n in thought.
ANDREWS. Abandon'd, faithless woman!
Oh! that her foul disgrace clos'd with her eyes!
Then might I undisturb'd behold this havock. [Aside]
Did not I, find you on your knees to him?
Mrs. ANDREWS. I was beseeching him to leave the room.
ANDREWS. How came he there?
Mrs. ANDREWS. By the same Pow'r supreme!
You're not yourself of that event more ignorant.
Soon as my woman for the night had left me,
He from the closet rush'd into my chamber.
ANDREWS. Oh! I have been too hasty—much too rash.———
Mrs. ANDREWS. You will not think so, when you hear the whole.
The wretched nobleman, you now have punish'd,
Is not less guilty than if I had yielded.
Yet, think not that I mean t' acquit myself;
My conduct led him to the vile attempt:
And, oh! with rage and thirst of vengeance fir'd,
I was too busy in th' infernal plot,
Contain'd in that false letter to your friend,
The honest, gen'rous, and most faithful Wilson.
I also had your old and trusty steward
Accus'd of crimes to which he was a stranger;
And Jefferson to me owes his perdition.
ANDREWS. Cease! cease! pour self-convicting mourner, cease!—
This cannot be—'tis the sick fancy's dream.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Oh! that it were untrue, as thou art kind.
Yes; this, all this, and more I have committed.
I have undone thee—I, thy bosom's favourite,—
And am the fatal source of all these horrors.
But my swift hast'ning fate will be some recompence.—
I bleed within apace, and grow most faint———
How happy was I once, and how ungrateful!
ANDREWS. 'Tis, 'tis too much—
Mrs. ANDREWS. Alas! I see it is.—
How these reflections rack my madding brain!—
Turn, Oh! turn that tender aspect from me!
'Tis worse than scorpion rods, or whips of steel.
Abhor me; scorn me; tear me from thy fondness,
And every imprecation pour upon me:
For hope is fled, and I would court despair.
Some suff'rings here might lessen those hereafter,
I would not covet else a moment's life.—
ANDREWS. Would I could sooth her tortur'd soul to rest!
Her sorrows rend my heart.—Oh thou sweet penitent!
There's not an angel in the heav'nly mansions,
That will not sue for thee.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Yet, there is something
I would petition as my last request—
Let me conjure thee then, most injur'd excellence!
By all the happy hours we liv'd together,
Ere one infernal passion seiz'd my heart!
Have pity on the harmless, dear-lov'd innocents,
Whom I must leave amidst a cruel world!
And when you shall my rueful story tell,
Be thus far kind, and say, as is the truth,
Oh! say, she was not an adultress.
ANDREWS. I will, I'll speak thee as my soul conceives thee,
Spotless, and free as Virtue's self from blemish.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Then, may with me, thy sorrows have an end!—
ANDREWS. Oh! canst thou then forgive my wild upbraiding?
Mrs. ANDREWS. I blame thee not—so let me be convey'd
From thy dread presence, and this fatal spot:
They are too much for weakness to endure.
ANDREWS. No, no, I'll watch thee whilst a single spark
Of that lov'd life remains, and sooth thy woes.
Mrs. ANDREWS. Too kind!—Forbear!—Were your fond wish indulg'd,
It would but add new weight to your afflictions.
Oh! agonizing thoughts!—Oh! my pour soul!—
ANDREWS. She droops; she dies—and oh! by saving me—
Physicians, surgeons, ev'ry help be sent for!—
Mrs. ANDREWS. 'Twere fruitless all unless their friendly aid
Some balm could minister to deep despair—
Rage on, distress—-haste, madness! quench my soul—
Hark! hark! that voice!———the door of mercy's clos'd—
ANDREWS. [To the attendants.] Straightaway, convey her hence
to mine own chamber.
[She is carried off, and as he is following her,
several bailiffs enter rudely with CONSTANTIA.]
CONSTANTIA. Protect my father, heav'n! undone—undone—
WILSON. What can these ruffians mean? whom do you seek?
Bailiff. He is our prisoner on several writs. [Pointing
to Mr. ANDREWS]
ANDREWS. Ay, ay, come on—'Tis fit I shou'd be punish'd.
Take, drag me hence, ye ministers of justice!
Death, death, or madness only can relieve me.
GOODWIN. What is the whole demand?
Bailiff. Above four thousand?
WILSON. He shall not sink for that: I'll be his pledge.
ANDREWS. Most gen'rous, injur'd friend, this is too much.
GOODWIN. [To WILSON.] I'll join you in the bonds.—Prepare them,
sirs. [To the bailiffs, who go off]
CONSTANTIA. Thanks, best of friends! but you shall never suffer.
My fortune, independent of my father,
Far more than this for which you have engag'd,
Shall be our pledg'd security.
ANDREWS. Daggers!———daggers!
Wasted—all wasted, in the general wreck. [Aside]
WILSON. 'Tis fit lord Weston should be straight appriz'd
Of the sad fate of his unhappy uncle;
These two nights past, since his return to town,
He hath repos'd with me.
GOODWIN. I hear his voice.
Enter lord WESTON hastily.
Lord WESTON. Where, where's my father! take, O take your son!
And let me fly as such into your arms!
Just hearing of your undeserv'd calamities,
From your remorseless creditors below,
I have engag'd for all their claim'd demands,
And come to wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.
ANDREWS. Cold sweats bedew my feeble, trembling limbs,
And ev'ry object round me grows a blank.
Good heav'n! support me, to these tasks unequal———[As he is
falling, WILSON and THOMAS support him.]
WILSON. The feelings of his heart o'erpow'r him so,
He cannot give them vent; it may prove fatal———
He's all convuls'd: let's place him on this seat. [CONSTANTIA
attends him.]
Lord WESTON. [He moves towards CONSTANTIA.]
My angel—My Constantia! O those tears!
And looks of desperation pierce my soul.
Your father lives—Fortune again may favour:
But I am your's, and will be so for ever.
WILSON. O my good lord!
There are disasters yet within these walls,
More fatal far, which claim our instant aid.
Lord WESTON. I've heard them all—my uncle is no more—
Would that he had not fall'n in such a cause!
WILSON. But heav'n hath will'd it, and we must submit.
With smiles delusive, other crimes decoy,
To hazard future ills for present joy:
Gaming alone no transient rapture knows,
No gleam of pleasure for eternal woes;
Distrust and anxious fears its birth attend;
And wild distraction waits its guilty end.
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