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 waitOn 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 keyWas 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 discoveriesHad lower'd your spirits so, you had resolv'dTo 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 henceforthHis visits here be countenanced no more;Vowing most solemnly, that shou'd we wed,He'd disinherit him. Besides in speechHe hath much flighted us.LUCIA. Most distressful!CONSTANTIA. From such examples, Lucia, we may learnTo 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 shelterThe 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 tieOf 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 conceiveWhat 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 aboveAll others of thy sex I yet have seen,Far as thy beauteous form excels them all.Do but pronounce a peril, or a sufferingTo 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 aloneI 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 complianceHeav'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'stabove 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 fearOf 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'rNeeds 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 bearThe 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'dHis 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 condescendTo such connexions, they most justly meritThe 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 moreThan 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 visitsCan 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 houseMARIA 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 flyOn 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 treatThe 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 theseContains 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 oneof 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—[Sheputs 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 husbandBe to a trial brought—So chance direct! [She goes off.]
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'dMany and various rumours of your fortune;Wherefore, permit me to rejoice to see youBut whence this sudden ghastliness of visageThe 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 concernWhich 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 concernAs 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 nearlyhad 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 heartHer 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 certainHe 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 froin 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'dThe most indulgent master, best of friends!But you will shortly have sufficient vengeance.A dose I this night drank will rid me speedilyOf 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 interestIn those blest dwellings, whence my foul offencesMay have excluded me, alas, for ever!Nor dare I lift or eye or hand for mercy.ANDREWS. Sad-fated youth! my own distracted stateIs 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 recompensefor the many wrongs I have done you, I have bequeathed youall 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 certaintyWere 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 womanClose standing at the wicket of the gate,That leads into the lane. I stood conceal'd,Until lord Belmour and Maria pass'd meTowards 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 armsHe 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 requireMy 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 youthat 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, andthen another]They're from the room where Mrs. Andrews sleeps. [CONSTANTIAswoons, 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'dposture, 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 rungWith violence unusual from the chamberIn which my mistress lay, I thither flew;Where entering, with amazement I beheldLord Belmour there, and her upon her knees:Sudden, my master, with an unsheath'd swordIn 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 furyAt 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 wretchThat 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 hopesEither 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 stewardAccus'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 somethingI 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'dFrom 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 sparkOf 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 aidSome 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 henceto 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. [Pointingto 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'dOf 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 isfalling, 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. [CONSTANTIAattends 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.