Chapter 19

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.