ACT V.

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 a.s.sur'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 pa.s.sion, 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 a.s.sisting 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.