[A Servant BOY enters hastily at a different door,as if passing to another room, with a letter inhis 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 whilsthis 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 lettersBy 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 themin 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 husbandwith your conduct, would have deterred you from ever makingany further attempt.—How fatal might the consequences proveshould I discover your behaviour to him? Is this yourfriendship? Know, base man! that whatever my follies andindiscretions may be in other respects, there is not anydistress shall lead me to an act against the honour ofElizabeth 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 mentionWhat he himself had told me was reportedOf 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, allDemand it from the husband and the father,That you, oh! you, are the sole, fatal cause. [She offers towithdraw, 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'dOn those, to whom, each law divine and humanHad 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 suitedTo 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 insultA woman's modesty, must have descry'dSomewhat in her behaviour that would warrantSuch 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'dAgainst 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 stateIn 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 BelmourA thousand pieces, which, with the several sumsI've lost to him (not small), must now be paid;But above all,—ill fate! is the discoveryOf the false key to my wrong'd husband's chest:Which must be so; as other locks are fix'dOn it, and every door that leads thereto.MARIA. The work this, of my old officious husband. [Walks apartand pauses.]Now for due vengeance for the killing flights,That youth, the scornful Jefferson, hath castOn me, and my ill-fated fondness for him. [Returning.]What think you of a further applicationTo 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'dThe 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'dAt 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 whichHis 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 houseHis '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 thoughtChills 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 remorseOutweighs 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.] [Theygo 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'dFor 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 visitsHave 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 soughtSome 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 avoidThis 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 momentIn 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. [Shegoes 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 stoodSafe on the tranquil bosom of the flood;Until at length, the mountain torrents sweepIts faint resistance headlong to the deep,Where in large gulps the foamy brine it drinks,And in the dread abyss for ever sinks. [Exit.]
SCENE I.A chamber in lord BELMOUR's house.Lady BELMOUR at her toilet, her Waiting-woman attending.Lady BELMOUR. How pale I look!ATTENDANT. My lady rose too early.Lady BELMOUR. Why, what's the time?ATTENDANT. 'Tis past the noon, but it is scarce four hoursSince you lay down to rest. [A tap at the door]Lady BELMOUR. Who can this be? [The ATTENDANT goes tothe door and returns.]ATTENDANT. 'Tis Mrs. Andrews, madam, in her chariot.Lady BELMOUR. What, at this hour?—and yet in truth no wonder,That thus her rest's disturb'd. It would requireThe wealth of India to support her losses.And were she now possess'd of all its stores,I and my friends cou'd rid her of the burthen.Perhaps, she comes to pay me the five hundredI won of her, when last we play'd together?Or with the flattering hopes to make reprisals?So I may double it before we part:For she's unskill'd enough to lose a million.Away!—I'll wait her in the damask chamber. [They go offdifferent ways.]
SCENE II.Changes to another apartment.Lady BELMOUR alone. Enter Mrs. ANDREWS.Lady BELMOUR. My dearest Andrews! I rejoice to see you.Mrs. ANDREWS. I always found you friendly and obliging.Lady BELMOUR. But why this gloom on that angelic face?Why not as sprightly as you us'd to be?Surely you'll not conceal the cause from me,Whose wishes for you are sincere as earnest!Mrs. ANDREWS. How happy am I in this honour'd favour!You know my loss at play for some time pastHath been prodigious; it hath reach'd my husband.Lady BELMOUR. Were I in your case, that should not disturb me.Is not the jealous dotard twice your age?Such incidents shou'd more confirm my empire.Nay, my offence shou'd be his accusation,Nor wou'd I rest until he shou'd acknowledgeThe fault was his, not mine; so, rouse your spirits.Mrs. ANDREWS. Impossible, I've injur'd him too deeply;Have lost with his esteem, his love for ever.Lady BELMOUR. Then farewel further intercourse between us. [Aside]Despond not thus, all will be well again.I think you owe me just five hundred pieces?Yet let not that disturb you in the least:It may be in your power to pay me soon.Mrs. ANDREWS. I would not forfeit your regard and friendship,For fifty times the sum.Lady BELMOUR. Imagine not,That I cou'd doubt your honour, were it thousands.Your strict and constant perseverance in it,Has won you the esteem and love of all;And to convince you of my high opinion,I'll hazard this five hundred with you now.The day is early yet.Mrs. ANDREWS. O press me not;My mind's too-much distress'd with what has happen'd;But I have brought the honourable debt. [She takes outseveral notes from a pocket-book.]These make the whole, I think.Lady BELMOUR. Most honour'd friend!But may I trespass on your gen'rous spirit?Your stock I see, is not a little weighty.Cou'd you supply me with five hundred moreFor a few hours? I have no doubt to treble them,At a small party, I expect this instant:And I'll repay them gratefully this eveningAt lady Meldmay's, where we are to meet.I, and three more this morning hold a bank;In which, if you wou'd choose to share a chance,Fortune perhaps might favour you this way.Mrs. ANDREWS. Not now; but here's the further sum you wish for;And fail not to repay it as you promise.'Tis but a part of what I owe to others.Lady BELMOUR. I wou'd not disappoint you for the world.My obligations are beyond expression.Grant heav'n, your present troubles quickly vanish.Mrs. ANDREWS. And may you meet the fortune which you hope for![She goes off.]Lady BELMOUR. 'Tis wonderful, how she acquires all this.Her husband's ruin'd, my dissipated lord,Most lavishly, I hear, supplies her wants;Whilst even for domestic calls his purseIs niggardly unclos'd; and what he spares,Must be in strictest mode accounted for:Nor does he know a pleasure, absent from her.To keep this sum then, were but fair reprisals. [Exit.]
SCENE III.Mr. ANDREWS's house.Mr. ANDREWS and THOMAS.ANDREWS. What monsters trust will make us when we yieldOur reason to its rage, and let it rule!My neighbour! my companion! Oh! the man,Whom I to serve, would have risk'd every blessingTo seek to wound me in the tenderest point!Then, under friendship's show masking his treachery,Endeavour falsely to accuse another—Most infernal villain!THOMAS. 'Tis impossible.Say, is there one of more exalted virtues?Or one who so esteems and honours you?ANDREWS. Oh! my wife's letter proves beyond all question,This breach of friendship, gratitude and honour.THOMAS. All forgery.ANDREWS. She did not deny it.THOMAS. Where is it?ANDREWS. I have it not, she tore it.THOMAS. Tore it! how got she it?ANDREWS. It matters not.THOMAS. There's something more in this, than yet you know of.ANDREWS. If any thing by chance hath reach'd your ear,Against the safety ev'n of an enemy,Stain not your fair repute with the foul secret.The faithful tongue will utter what the heartIn justice prompts, though death were the event.THOMAS. Then, sir, the letter is a black contrivance.And would you now forgive this tell-tale honesty,I shou'd not hesitate to name the forger.ANDREWS. These intermissions aggravate the misery.THOMAS. Prepare then for the shock. It was your wife.Boldly I speak the truth; for much she's wrong'd,If since she has been link'd with those high miscreants,Who, whilst they plunder, hold her in derision,Her foul's not ripe for ev'ry desp'rate project. [ANDREWS walksabout much disturb'd.]Patience, good sir! I rest not on suspicion.ANDREWS. Audacious wretch, away!—quick, shun my rage!THOMAS. I meant you well. [Aside as he goes off.] How piteousis his case! [Exit.]ANDREWS. How can I meet him, and we both survive it!Dread interval! would I had ne'er been born. [Goes off.]
SCENE IV.Mr. ANDREWS's house.Mrs. ANDREWS and MARIA.Mrs. ANDREWS. Well, I believe if all my debts were paid,I ne'er should hazard more.MARIA. And so returnTo the dull, lonely life you once pursued?Forbid it your good angel! 'twould destroy you.Mrs. ANDREWS. O! but that life, Maria, was estrang'dTo those anxieties which haunt me now.I cannot bear to be alone a moment.MARIA. For that good reason, act like lady Belmour;Like her be resolute, and scorn despair.Enter a SERVANT.SERVANT. Lord Belmour, madam, tenders his respects.Mrs. ANDREWS. [Aside.] How I dread these visits! Besides, of late,He hath been more particular than usual;So that it hath become the general notice.[To the Servant.] Withdraw awhile. [To MARIA.] I will not beat home.MARIA. What, not to him?That gallant, gen'rous nobleman! your friend!Mrs. ANDREWS. A creditor for more than I can pay.MARIA. Bless us! where are your boasted gains of late,And where the sum you just receiv'd from Jefferson?Mrs. ANDREWS. Of late, I have miss'd notes for several sums.Mar. I doubt she suspects me. [Aside.] Madam, 'tis like,You've lent them to some friends?Mrs. ANDREWS. Of this again.Have you yet rais'd the money on my jewels?MARIA. The broker thinks the pledge is not sufficient.Mrs. ANDREWS. For three thousand! they cost that sum twice told.MARIA. He'll not lend more than two.Mrs. ANDREWS. I must submit.[Aside.] Shameful return this to the gen'rous donor!Part was his present on our bridal day,And part the day, he bore the city's honours.He thought he never could enough adorn me.MARIA. But we forget—his lordship waits admission.Mrs. ANDREWS. I cannot see him,—yet, shou'd I refuse it,As my curs'd stars have destin'd me his debtor,He may, perhaps, conceive, it want of honour.MARIA. He scorns such thoughts; ev'n in his younger days,as in his mien, so in all noble deeds,Fair rumour tells, he was surpass'd by none.Mrs. ANDREWS. Say, is your master in the house?MARIA. No, madam.Mrs. ANDREWS. Well then, this once.—How I abhor myself![MARIA goes off.]Enter Lord BELMOUR.Lord BELMOUR. How does my charming creditor this morning?Mrs. ANDREWS. Your debtor, I suppose you mean, my lord?Lord BELMOUR. Thou never was't my debtor. I'm thy slave;And in the pleasing chains would live for ever.To view that lovely form! those radiant eyes,And listen to the language of those lips!What sum can be a recompense for theseO! that such matchless, such resistless beauty,Shou'd be condemn'd to the cold arms of ageOr one of vulgar breed!—'tis—Oh! it is—Mrs. ANDREWS. I know not what you mean. You talk in mystery.[He attempts to take her hand, at which she seemsvery uneasy, withdrawing it.]My lord, I must beseech you to desist,Or I must hence retire.Lord BELMOUR. But hear me first.This is a free discharge of all demands. [Produces a paper]This other writing binds me, as your debtor,In two thousand. [Produces another paper]Mrs. ANDREWS. I see his base designs.He seeks to take advantage of my wants. [Aside]I need no further proofs of your intentions.I have already heard too much. [She walks to and fromuch disorder'd.]Lord BELMOUR. Too much!'Tis strange! what have you heard? that I do love,Admire, adore you, O! beyond all utterance;But why conceive, that I intend you injury?Were my possessions as the globe extensive,You might command the whole, as you may him,Who lives, or dies, as you shall smile, or frown.Mrs. ANDREWS. Into what mischiefs do you mean to plunge me?Or wherefore do you dare insult me thus?Is it because I'm wedded to a citizen,(Forgetting that I am of your own kindred)That you these liberties presume? Know, sir,That through the world, an honest British traderEsteem and honour meets. But, were I lowerThan vanity directs you to conceive me,And you of the first rank; where freedom reigns,You have no right to offer me such insult.Lord BELMOUR. Talk not of rank to one who loves as I do;The pride of kings beneath those eyes might languish,And prostrate thus, and trembling wait their sentence. [He fallson his knees, seizes her hand, which she forces from him.]Mrs. ANDREWS. What have you seen in my deportment, sir,To warrant this intrusion? 'tis unworthy.Lord BELMOUR. Will you not then vouchsafe one glance of pity?Is there no ray of hope; no room for pardon?O, inexorable!Mrs. ANDREWS. Protect me, heav'n! [Aside]Sir, at your peril, speak to me again.Lord BELMOUR. Teach, teach me first, how this devoted heart,Shall gain its freedom, or forget its fondness.That voice conveys such rapture to my soul,That I would hear it, though 'twere sure perdition.Mrs. ANDREWS. These hackney'd phrases, use to those they suitTo me, they are accumulated insults. [He rises.]Lord BELMOUR. Forego such thoughts; I, nothing meant but honour.My wife and I, having resolv'd to sunder,(For without love we met, and so have liv'd,)Hope ev'ry moment our divorce for ever;When both may wed again, as each best likes;A practice now full easily accomplish'd.Then, that your husband's fate is near its period,'Tis said, some recent symptoms have pronounc'dWherefore, it soon may be my happy lot,To make thee partner of my rank and fortune,As thou'rt already empress of my heart.—Accept then, I beseech thee, these small tokens.[He gives herthe papers, which she, in great confusion, insensibly takes.]And now with that sweet breath, surpassing farThe spicy perfume of the budding rose,Pronounce the sentence of my life, or death.Mrs. ANDREWS. To what an abject state am I reduc'd!The time has been, I'd not have heard a kingDiscourse me thus. [Aside.]—I charge you, sir, desist.Lord BELMOUR. I find 'tis vain to press my suit at present,An humour this, to which 'twere better yield.Best flatter it. [Aside.]—O! I am quite abash'd.Your merited rebukes so awe my soul,That I shall live from this day forth in penitence,And adoration of your heav'nly virtues:Let me then read in thy relenting eyeMy peace restor'd, or seal my final doom!Mrs. ANDREWS. Your future conduct must determine it.Lord BELMOUR. Permit me then, I pray— [He seizes her hand,and kisses it.]We are to meetAt lady Meldmay's drawing-room to-night;Till then—[Aside as he goes off.]—The prize is mine.She now must yield.Mrs. ANDREWS. Are these his papers? heav'n what have I done?I'll instantly dispatch them after himYet that were dang'rous too; they might miscarry;And then in person to return them to him,May cause another interview between us.—What mischiefs have I heap'd upon myself! [Goes off.]
SCENE V.Mr. ANDREWS's house.ANDREWS and JEFFERSON.ANDREWS. What,—my old faithful steward!—O! impossible.And yet, this finding of the secret keyOf the cash-chest, (with which he charg'd my wife)And medals in his trunk—but then the letter,Giving me information of this matterHas not the writer's name—that causes doubt—Then, his surprize, which seem'd so unaffected,With his most firm behaviour, so unlikeThe consciousness of guilt, when in his presenceThey were discover'd there, favour him much.Wherefore, till this affair be further canvass'dI wou'd not fend him to a public prison. [He walks to and fro.]JEFFERSON. I shall obey.—He never judg'd more justly. [Aside,as he goes off.]Enter a Servant, with a letter to Mr. ANDREWS, which he reads.ANDREWS. The Speedwell cast away! a heavy loss!Ills upon Ills in train pursue each other.Heard you of this before?JEFFERSON. Such rumour wasOn the Exchange to-day, but not with certainty.ANDREWS. However she's insur'd, and highly too.Go fetch the policy, I wish to see it.Or rather wait me in the compting-house.JEFFERSON. [As he goes off] O heav'n! I gave the money to hiswife. [Exit.]ANDREWS. He seem'd confus'd, and mutter'd to himself;My fears anticipate some dread event.But what of this? shou'd it be heav'n's high will,That the remorseless billows should ingulfThe remnant of my wealth; yet this—all this,I cou'd with patient resignation bear,And toil with pleasure for an honest pittance.But oh! to lose that precious, treasur'd gem,Which my whole soul engross'd—to see another,In my disgrace exult—yet more—yet more—My children—oh my children—must ye suffer!Away all thoughts of peace henceforth for ever. [Goes off.]
Scene VI.Lord WESTON's apartments.Lord BELMOUR and Lord WESTON.Lord BELMOUR. Well, nephew, have you yet consider'd betterOf your love-frolick for the merchant's daughter?You may meet numbers through this spacious cityWith wealth superior far to her possessions;Nor need you languish for their hearts a moment.Lord WESTON. The common light shines not more unreserv'd;Their very charms fatigue the public eye.But, sir, my spirit scorns an easy conquest.Lord BELMOUR. Fine founding words, yet answer not my question.You too much from the world seclude yourself;Which serves to add fresh fuel to the flame.Long have I been, as I may say, your parent,And have at present in my thoughts for you,A wife well suited to your rank and fortune.Lord WESTON. Thanks, my good lord! I doubt not your kind wishes;But here, where all life's happiness depends,Permit me to determine for myself.True joys dwell only with united hearts,And solitude is far the wiser choiceThan wedlock where domestic bliss is absent.How vain is then the hope of such delightsWith those of Fashion's stamp, whose only merit,Is, that they are of this all-conqu'ring sex,Of ev'ry other excellence regardless?Lord BELMOUR. Again, young lord, I tell you, shou'd you wedWith the first merchant's daughter of the world,'Twould to your lineage be disgrace for ever.Lord WESTON. Disgrace lies only in the want of virtue,That excellence, in which she most abounds.Lord BELMOUR. How long have you surrender'd to this dotage?Lord WESTON. Almost from infancy; for even then,A mutual sympathy inspir'd our souls;Which first commenc'd in her good father's house,(Whom I then serv'd,) when all I knew of love,Was that her presence ever gave me pleasure,As did her absence pain—I even thought,The air blew sweeter from the place she breath'd.But when her heav'nly mind disclos'd its beauties,My heart then fix'd beyond the power of change.Lord BELMOUR. All, all romance, with which your head seems fill'd.But briefly to decide this matter, know,'Tis now full thirty summers since I wedded,Yet have not had one offspring to inheritMy large possessions, which I can bestow,As best my pleasure suits: and you're the one,Who in my mind stands fairest for adoption;My heir apparent, as my next a-kin.Reflect too, that your income is unequalTo that high rank in life, it shou'd support.Lord WESTON. The more I lose, the more I prize myself,In persevering thus—-but, my lov'd uncle!What can impede the progress of my bliss,When your consent hath sanctified my choice?Lord BELMOUR. What though I yielded once to your fond suit,It is now rumour'd, and by all believ'd,Not only that her father is reduc'dTo bankruptcy and want, but that the wholeOf the large fortune which an uncle left herIs wasted with the rest.Lord WESTON. Is this her fault?Is she to suffer for another's act?Constantia hath that ever-during worth,Which wealth or grandeur's glitter far outweighs:That heav'nly mind, which will, when time hath cool'dThe fever of the heart, and reason rules,Cause mutual friendship and domestic blessing.But shou'd ev'n this misfortune be as rumour'd,I have this one occasion more of provingMy constancy, and how I prize her virtues;Then, to secure for ever that esteemBy me preferr'd to all terrestrial blessings.Lord BELMOUR. Infatuated boy! you form perfectionsWhich only have existence in your fancy.But pray, consider, what the world will say.Lord WESTON. The world! base world! to censure gen'rous deeds;You mean, perhaps, my lord, those slaves of fashion,Who barter real for fictitious happiness;Alas! Their judgment is not worth a thought:If I'm approv'd of by the wife and honest,I shall be happy, and despise that world,Where virtue is discourag'd,—vice exalted,—Corruption an adopted cherish'd system,And ev'ry manly sentiment extinguish'd.Lord BELMOUR. For shame, young lord, call reason to your aid!Lord WESTON. From beauty only, it might have preserv'd me;But reason is Constantia's ceaseless advocate.Lord BELMOUR. Once more forsake her, if you prize my favour,The world's esteem, or your own future welfare.Away to distant regions; seek improvement;There is no love that absence cannot cure.Lord WESTON. Absence!—No death transcends that thought.—O sir!My fondness is to such excess, so true,That were heav'n's bliss assur'd me to forsake her,My soul might tremble for its own resolve.But what would worlds be worth with loss of honour!With loss of peace, its constant sure attendant!Lord BELMOUR. Since then all soothing arguments are fruitless;'Tis fit t' apprize you that you yet remainUnder my wardship by your father's will;And now to wed would be by law a nullity.Lord WESTON. Unrighteous, partial law! whose keen restraint'Gainst female innocence alone is pointed,Whilst villains riot in its spoils unpunish'd;So that love's chaste, connubial joys no more,On its fleet wings, but in the tardy paceOf sordid interest move. But, thank kind heaven!My will is free to choose; else, my good lord,The parish proofs deceive.Lord BELMOUR. Perish all love!That one of the first families in Britain,Shou'd by such whims of folly be dishonour'd!A moment more, and I shall lose all patience! [He goes off hastily.]Lord WESTON. It grieves my soul that we should differ thus:He still has acted as a tender parentTo me an orphan to his care intrusted.But pride and pageantry engross him wholly;With these, an avaricious selfish passion,For some years past hath quite possess'd his heart,And stagnated the streams of its benevolence,Save where by humour, or by pleasure prompted.But no mean views shall ever make me fightThe sacred vows of love I once did plight.The heart that's true, will still remain the sameThough crosses press, they but refine the flameAnd more sure joys the virtuous passion waitWith calm content, than with the pomp of state. [Exit.]
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 feelingsOf 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 youhear it read. [Reads out.]"That you are the blackest of all villains you mustyourself admit. What, induce me to suspect my wifewith another (as you did this morning) in order tocarry on your own adulterous schemes? such an attemptagainst my honour, peace of mind, and all that is mostdear to me! If you regard your safety you will becautious 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 requireYour 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 womanHath 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 dreadthe 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 supposeBy 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'dmy 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'dEv'n half of this unmerited ill-treatment.Again, I tell you, I'm an utter strangerTo 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 otherAs firmly is denied: wherefore, it liesOn 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 takingOf 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 himOf 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 chargeAn old and faithful friend with such a breachOf virtue, honour, and of all that's worthy?O most abandon'd woman! weak as wicked.ANDREWS. Recal your words, base slanderer, else this handShall 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'na 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 endureTo 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 soulI 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 acquiresA 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'dAbove the threaten'd ruin!ANDREWS. [After some pause.] Oh! tell me then, what saysreport 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 preventThe purposes you covet to accomplish. [They go off.]