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

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