Blunt. But then you are to consider that the money was his master's. Lucy. There was the difficulty of it. Had it been his own, it had been nothing. Were the world his, she might have it for a smile. But those golden days are done: he is ruined, and Millwood's hopes of farther profits there are at an end. Blunt. That is no more than we all expected. Lucy. Being calied by his master to make up his accounts, he was forced to quit his house and service, and wisely flies to Millwood for relief and entertainment. Blunt. Is it possible she could persuade him to do an act like that? He is by nature honest, grateful, compassionate, and generous; and though his love, and her artful persuasions, have wrought him to practise what he most abhors; yet we all can witness for him, with what reluc tance he has still complied: so many tears he shed over each offence, as might, if possible, sanctify theft, and make a merit of a crime. Lucy. 'Tis true, at the naming of the murder of his uncle, he started into rage; and, breaking from her arms (where she till then had held him, with well-dissembled love, and false endear Blunt. I have not heard of this before: howments), called her cruel, monster, devil, and told did she receive him? Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered what he meant, was astonished at his impudence, and, with an air of modesty peculiar to herself, swore so heartily that she never saw him before, that she put me out of countenance. Blunt. That is much indeed! But how did Barnwell behave? her she was born for his destruction. She thought it not for her purpose to meet his rage with her rage, but affected a most passionate fit of grief, railed at her fate, and cursed her wayward stars, that still her wants should force her to press him to act such deeds, as she must needs abhor as well as he. She told him necessity had no law, and love no bounds; that therefore he never truly loved, but meant, in her necessity, to forsake her. Then she kneeled, and swore, that, since by his refusal he had given her cause to doubt his love, she never would see him more, unless, to prove it true, he robbed his uncle to supply her wants, and murdered him to keep it from discovery. Blunt. I am astonished. What said he? Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, return- Lucy. Speechless he stood; but in his face you ed to her old arts of lying, swearing, and dis-might have read, that various passions tore his sembling; hung on his neck, wept, and swore it was meant in jest.-The amorous youth melted into tears, threw the money into her lap, and swore he had rather die than think her false. Lucy. He grieved; and at length, enraged at this barbarous treatment, was preparing to be gone; and making towards the door, shewed a sum of money, which he had brought from his master's, the last he is ever likely to have from thence. Blunt. But then, Millwood Blunt. Strange infatuation! Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. As doubts and fears, followed by reconcilement, ever increase love where the passion is sincere; so in him it caused so wild a transport of excessive fondness, such joy, such grief, such pleasure, and such anguish, that nature seemed sinking with the weight, and his charmed soul disposed to quit his breast for hers. Just then, when every passion with lawless anarchy prevailed, and reason was in the raging tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise- -what I tremble but to think of. Blunt. I am amazed! What can it be? Lucy. You will be more so, to hear it is to attempt the life of his nearest relation, and best benefactor. Blunt. His uncle! whom we have often heard him speak of as gentleman of a large estate, and fair character, in the country where he lives? Lucy. The same. She was no sooner possessed of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, demanded this horrid sacrifice. Barnwell's near relation, and unsuspected virtue, must give too easy means to seize this good man's treasure; whose blood must seal the dreadful secret, and prevent the terrors of her guilty fears. very soul. Oft he in anguish threw his eyes towards heaven, and then as often bent their beams on her; then wept and groaned, and beat his troubled breast: at length, with horror not to be expressed, he cried,- Thou cursed fair, have I not given dreadful proofs of love? What drew me from my youthful innocence, and stained my then unspotted soul, but love? What caused me to rob my worthy, gentle master, but cursed 'love? What makes me now a fugitive from his service, loathed by myself, and scorned by all the world, but love? What fills my eyes with tears, my soul with torture never felt on this side 'death before? Why love, love, love! And why, ' above all, do I resolve (for, tearing his hair, he cried, I do resolve) to kill my uncle? 6 Blunt. Was she not moved? It makes me weep to hear the sad relation. Lucy. Yes, with joy, that she had gained her point. She gave him no time to cool, but urged him to attempt it instantly. He is now gone. If he performs it, and escapes, there is more money for her; if not, he will never return, and then she is fairly rid of him. Blunt. It is time the world were rid of such a monster. Lucy. If we do not use our endeavours to prevent the murder, we are as bad as she. Blunt. I am afraid it is too late. Lucy. Perhaps not. Her barbarity to Barnwell makes me hate her. We have run too great a length with her already. 1 did not think her or myself so wicked as I find, upon reflection, we are. -This is for my disguise, [Plucks out a vizor.] his hour of private meditation. Thus daily he prepares his soul for Heaven; while I- -But what have I to do with Heaven? Ha! no strugHence, hence remorse, and every thought that's good; Blunt. It is true, we have been all too much $0. But there is something so horrid in murder, that all other crimes seem nothing when com-gles, consciencepared to that: I would not be involved in the guilt of it for all the world. Lucy. Nor I, Heaven knows. Therefore let us clear ourselves, by doing all that is in our power to prevent it. I have just thought of a way that to me seems probable. Will you join with me to detect this cursed design? Blunt. With all my heart. He, who knows of a murder intended to be committed, and does not discover it, in the eye of the law and reason, is a murderer. Lucy. Let us lose no time; I will acquaint you with the particulars as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE III-A walk at some distance from a country seat. Enter BARNWELL. Barn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of day. Either the sun has slipped behind a cloud, or journeys down the west of heaven with more than common speed, to avoid the sight of what I am doomed to act. Since I set forth on this accursed design, where'er I tread, methinks, the solid earth trembles beneath my feet. Murder my uncle!Yonder limpid stream, whose hoary fall has made a natural cascade, as I passed by, in doleful accents seemed to murmurMurder! The earth, the air, and water seemed concerned. But that is not strange: the world is punished, and nature feels a shock, when Providence permits a good man's fall. Just Heaven! then what should I feel for him that was my father's only brother, and since his death has been to me a father; that took me up an infant and an orphan, reared me with tenderest care, and still indulged me with most paternal fondness? Yet here I stand his destined murderer-❘ I stiffen with horror at my own impiety-It is yet unperformed-What if I quit my bloody purpose, and fly the place? [Going, then stops.]But whither, oh, whither shall I fly? My master's once friendly doors are ever shut against me; and without money Millwood will never see me more; and she has got such firm possession of my heart, and governs there with such despotic sway, that life is not to be endured without her. Ay, there is the cause of all my sin and sorrow! it is more than love; it is the fever of the soul, and madness of desire. In vain does nature, reason, conscience, all oppose it; the impetuous passion bears down all before it, and drives me on to lust, to theft, and murder. Oh, conscience! feeble guide to virtue, thou only shewest us when we go astray, but wantest power to stop us in our course!Ha! in yonder shady walk I see my uncle-He is alone-Now The storm, that lust began, must end in blood. [Puts on the vizor, draws a pistol, and exit. SCENE IV.-A close Walk in a Wood. Enter UNCLE. Unc. If I were superstitious, I should fear some danger lurked unseen, or death were nigh. A heavy melancholy clouds my spirits. My imagination is filled with ghastly forms of dreary graves, and bodies changed by death; when the pale lengthened visage attracts each weeping eye, and fills the musing soul at once with grief and horror, pity and aversion, I will indulge the thought. The wise man prepares himself for death, by making it familiar to his mind. When strong reflections hold the mirror near, and the living in the dead behold their future self, how does each inordinate passion and desire cease, or sicken at the view! The mind scarce moves; the blood, curdling and chilled, creeps slowly through the veins: fixed, still, and motionless, we stand, so like the solemn objects of our thoughts, we are almost at present what we must be hereafter; till curiosity awakes the soul, and sets it on enquiry. Enter BARNWELL, at a distance. Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power, seen every day, yet never understood, but by the incommunicative dead, what art thou? The extensive mind of man, that with a thought circles the earth's vast globe, sinks to the centre, or ascends above the stars; that worlds exotic finds, or thinks it finds, thy thick clouds attempts to pass in vain; lost and bewildered in the horrid gloom, defeated, she returns more doubtful than before, of nothing certain but of labour lost. [During this speech, Barnwell sometimes presents the pistol, and draws it back again. Barn. Oh! 'tis impossible. [Throwing down the pistol. [Uncle starts, and attempts to draw his sword.] Unc. A man so near me! Armed and masked Barn. Nay, then, there's no retreat. [Plucks a poignard from his bosom, and stabs him, Unc. Oh! I am slain. All gracious Heaven, regard the prayer of thy dying servant! bless, with thy choicest blessings, my dearest nephew! forgive my murderer, and take my fleeting soul to endless mercy! [Barnwell throws off his mask, runs to him, and, kneeling by him, raises and chafes him. Barn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, martyred uncle! lift up your dying eyes, and view your nephew in your murderer- -Oh, do not look so tenderly upon me!—Let indignation lighten from your eyes, and blast me ere you die. By Heaven, he weeps, in pity of my woes. -Tears, tears for blood! -The murdered, in the agonies of death, weeps for his murderer.Öh, speak your pious purpose; pronounce my pardon then, and take me with you- -He would, but cannot- -Oh, why, with such fond affection, do you press my murdering hand?—[Uncle sighs and dies.]—What, will you kiss me? -Life, that hovered on his lips but till he had sealed my pardon, in that sigh expired. He is gone for ever, and, oh! I follow- [Swoons away upon his uncle's dead body.]—Do I still breathe, and taint with my infectious breath the wholesome air?-Let Heaven, from its high throne, in justice or in mercy now look down on that dear murdered saint, and me the murderer, and if his vengeance spares, let pity strike and end my wretched being.- -Murder the worst of crimes, and parricide the worst of murders, and this the worst of parricides!- -Cain, who stands on record from the birth of time, and must to its last final period, as accursed, slew a brother favoured above him: detested Nero, by another's hand, dispatched a mother that he feared and hated: but I, with my own hand, have murdered a brother, mother, father, and a friend, most loving and beloved. This execrable act of mine is without a parallel.—Oh, may it ever stand alone, the last of murders, as it is the worst! The rich man thus, in torment and despair, [Exit. ACT IV. SCENE I.-A Room in ТHOROWGOOD's House. Mar. How falsely do they judge, who censure or applaud, as we are afflicted or rewarded here! I know I am unhappy; yet cannot charge myself with any crime, more than the common frailties of our kind, that should provoke just Heaven to mark me out for sufferings so uncommon and severe. Falsely to accuse ourselves, Heaven must abhor. Then it is just and right that innocence should suffer; for Heaven must be just in all its ways. Perhaps by that we are kept from moral evils, much worse than penal, or more improved in virtue. Or may not the lesser evils that we sustain, be made the means of greater good to others? Might all the joyless days and sleepless nights that I have passed, but purchase peace for thee! What news of Barnwell? True. None; I have sought him with the greatest diligence, but all in vain. Mar. Does my father yet suspect the cause of his absence? True. All appeared so just and fair to him, it is not possible he ever should. But his absence will no longer be concealed. Your father is wise; and though he seems to hearken to the friendly excuses I would make for Barnwell, yet I am afraid he regards them only as such, without suffering them to influence his judgment. Mar. How does the unhappy youth defeat all our designs to serve him? Yet I can never repent what we have done. Should he return, 'twill make his reconciliation with my father easier, and preserve him from the future reproach of a malicious unforgiving world. Enter THOROWGOOD and LUCY. Thor. This woman here has given me a sad, and, abating some circumstances, too probable an account of Barnwell's defection. Lucy. I am sorry, sir, that my frank confession of my former unhappy course of life should cause you to suspect my truth on this occasion. Thor. It is not that; your confession has in it all the appearance of truth. Among many other particulars, she informs me, that Barnwell has been influenced to break his trust, and wrong me, at several times,. of considerable sums of money. Now, as I know this to be false, I would fain doubt the whole of her relation, too dreadful to be willingly believed. Mar. Sir, your pardon; I find myself on a sudden so indisposed that I must retire. Providence opposes all attempts to save him. Poor ruined Barnwell! Wretched, lost Maria! [Aside. Exit. Thor. How am I distressed on every side! Pity for that unhappy youth, fear for the life of a much valued friend- -and then my child-the only joy and hope of my declining life!—Her melancholy increases hourly, and gives me painful apprehensions of her loss- -Oh, Trueman, this person informs me that your friend, at the instigation of an impious woman, is gone to rob and murder his venerable uncle. True. Oh, execrable deed! I am blasted with horror at the thought. Lucy. This delay may ruin all. Thor. What to do or think I know not. That he ever wronged me, I know, is false; the rest may be so too; there is all my hope. True. Trust not to that; rather suppose all true, than lose a moment's time. Even now the | fraid of your own shadow, or, what is less than a horrid deed may be doing-dreadful imagina- shadow, your conscience! tion!or it may be done, and we be vainly debating on the means to prevent what is already past. Thor. This earnestness convinces me, that he knows more than he has yet discovered. What, ho! without there! who waits? Enter a Servant. Order the groom to saddle the swiftest horse, and prepare to set out with speed; an affair of life and death demands his diligence. [Exit Servant.] For you, whose behaviour on this occasion I have no time to commend as it deserves, I must engage your further assistance. Return, and observe this Millwood till I come. I have your directions, and will follow you as soon as possible. [Exit Lucy.] Trueman, you, I am sure, will not be idle on this occasion. [Exit Thorogood. True. He only, who is a friend, can judge of my distress. [Exit. SCENE II.-Millwood's house. Enter MILLWOOD. Mill. I wish I knew the event of his design. The attempt without success would ruin him. Well; what have I to apprehend from that? I fear too much. The mischief being only intended, his friends, through pity of his youth, turn all their rage on me. I should have thought of that before. Suppose the deed done; then, and then only, I shall be secure.-Or what if he returns without attempting it at all! Enter BARNWELL bloody. But he is here, and I have done him wrong. His bloody hands shew he has done the deed, but shew he wants the prudence to conceal it. Barn. Where shall I hide me? Whither shall I fly, to avoid the swift unerring hand of justice? Mill. Dismiss your fears: though thousands had pursued you to the door, yet, being entered here, you are as safe as innocence. I have a cavern, by art so cunningly contrived, that the piercing eyes of jealousy and revenge may search in vain, nor find the entrance to the safe retreat. There will I hide you, if any danger's near. Barn. Oh, hide me -from myself, if it be possible; for, while I bear my conscience in my bosom, though I were hid where man's eye never saw me, nor light ever dawned, it were all in vain. For, oh! that inmate, that impartial judge, will try, convict, and sentence me for murder, and execute me with never-ending torments. Behold these hands, all crimsoned over with my dear uncle's blood! Here is a sight to make a statue start with horror, or turn a living man into a statue ! Mill. Ridiculous! Then it seems you are a Barn. Though to man unknown I did the accursed act, what can we hide from Heaven's allseeing eye? Mill. No more of this stuff. What advantage have you made of his death; or what advantage may yet be made of it? Did you secure the keys of his treasure, which, no doubt, were about him? What gold, what jewels, or what else of value have you brought me? Barn. Think you I added sacrilege to murder? Oh! had you seen him, as his life flowed from him in a crimson flood, and heard him praying for me by the double name of nephew and of murderer (alas, alas! he knew not then, that his nephew was his murderer!)-how would you have wished, as I did, though you had a thousand years of life to come, to have given them all to have lengthened his one hour! But, being dead, I fled the sight of what my hands had done; nor could I, to have gained the empire of the world, have violated, by theft, his sacred corpse. Mill. Whining, preposterous, canting villain! to murder your uncle, rob him of life, nature's first, last, dear prerogative, after which there is no injury-then fear to take what he no longer wanted, and bring to me your penury and guilt! Do you think I will hazard my reputation, nay, life, to entertain you? Barn. Oh, Millwood!--this from thee!— But I have done. If you hate me, if you wish me dead, then are you happy; for, oh! it is sure my grief will quickly end me. Mill. In his madness he will discover all, and involve me in his ruin. We are on a precipice, from whence there is no retreat for both-Then to preserve myself [Pauses.There is no other way.It is dreadful, but reflection comes too late when danger is pressing, and there is no room for choice.It must be done-[Aside. Rings a bell, enter a Servant.]-Fetch me an officer, and seize this villain. He has confessed himself a murderer. Should I let him escape, I might justly be thought as bad as he. [Exit Servant, Barn. Oh, Millwood! sure you do not, you cannot mean it. Stop the messenger; upon my knees, I beg you would call him back. It is fit I die indeed, but not by you. I will this instant deliver myself into the hands of justice, indeed I will; for death is all I wish. But thy ingratitude so tears my wounded soul, it is worse ten thousand times than death with torture. Mill. Call it what you will; I am willing to live, and live secure, which nothing but your death can warrant. Barn. If there be a pitch of wickedness that sets the author beyond the reach of vengeance, you must be secure. But what remains for me, but a dismal dungeon, hard galling fetters, an awful trial, and an ignominious death, justly to fall unpitied and abhorred: After death to be suspended between heaven and earth, a dreadful spectacle, the warning and horror of a gaping crowd! This I could bear, nay, wish not to avoid, had it but come from any hand but thine. my credit is superior to thy malice, I need not have blushed to own him. Mill. My arts! I do not understand you, sir: if he has done amiss, what is that to me? Was he my servant, or yours? you should have taught him better. Enter BLUNT, Officer, and Attendants, Thor. Why should I wonder to find such un Mill. Heaven defend me! Conceal a mur- common impudence in one arrived to such a derer! Here, sir, take this youth into your cus- height of wickedness? When innocence is batody. I accuse him of murder, and will appear nished, modesty soon follows. Know, sorceress, to make good my charge. [They seize him. I am not ignorant of any of the arts by which Barn. To whom, of what, or how shall I com- you first deceived the unwary youth. I know plain? I will not accuse her. The hand of Hea-how, step by step, you have led him on, reluctant ven is in it, and this the punishment of lust and parricide. Yet Heaven, that justly cuts me off, still suffers her to live; perhaps to punish others. Tremendous mercy! So fiends are cursed with immortality, to be the executioners of Heaven! Be warned, ye youths, who see my sad despair: Avoid lewd women, false as they are fair. By reason guided, honest joys pursue : The fair, to honour and to virtue true, Just to herself, will ne'er be false to you. By my example learn to shun my fate: (How wretched is the man who's wise too late!) Ere innocence, and fame, and life, be lost, Here purchase wisdom cheaply, at my cost. [Exeunt Barnwell, Officer, and Attendants. Mill. Where is Lucy? Why is she absent at such a time? and unwilling, from'crime to crime, to this last horrid act, which you contrived, and, by your cursed wiles, even forced him to commit. Mill. Ha! Lucy has got the advantage, and accused me first. Unless I can turn the accusa|tion, and fix it upon her and Blunt, I am lost. Blunt. Would I had been so too! Lucy will soon be here; aud I hope to thy confusion, thou devil! Mill. Insolent!This to me? Blunt. The worst that we know of the devil is, that he first seduces to sin, and then betrays to punishment. [Exit. Mill. They disapprove of my conduct then, and mean to set up for themselves.My ruin is resolved.- -I see my danger, but scorn both it and them. I was not born to fall by such weak instruments. [Going. Enter THOROWGOOD. Thor. Where is the scandal of her own sex, and curse of ours? Mill. What means this insolence! Whom do you seek? Thor. Millwood. Mill. Well, you have found her then. I am Millwood. Thor. Then you are the most impious wretch that ever the sun beheld. Mill. From your appearance I should have expected wisdom and moderation; but your manners belie your aspect. What is your business here? I know you not. Thor. Hereafter you may know me better; I am Barnwell's master. Mill. Then you are master to a villain, which, Thor. Had he been as much above thy arts, as [Aside. Thor. Had I known your cruel design sooner, it had been prevented. To see you punished, as the law directs, is all that now remains. Poor satisfaction! for he, innocent as he is, compared to you, must suffer too. But Heaven, who knows our frame, and graciously distinguishes between frailty and presumption, will make a difference, though man cannot, who sees not the heart, but only judges by the outward action. Mill. I find, sir, we are both unhappy in our servants. I was surprised at such ill treatment; without cause, from a gentleman of your appearance, and therefore too hastily returned it; for which I ask your pardon. I now perceive you have been so far imposed on, as to think me engaged in a former correspondence with your servant, and, some way or other, accessary to his undoing. Thor. I charge you as the cause, the sole cause, of all his guilt, and all his suffering; of all he now endures, and must endure, till a violent and shameful death shall put a dreadful period to his life and miseries together. Mill. It is very strange. But who is secure from scandal and detraction? So far from contributing to his ruin, I never spoke to him till since this fatal accident, which I lament as much as you. It is true I have a servant, on whose account he hath of late frequented my house. If she has abused my good opinion of her, am I to blame? Has not Barnwell done the same by you? Thor. I hear you; pray go on. Mill. I have been informed he had a violent passion for her, and she for him: but till now I always thought it innocent. I know her poor, and given to expensive pleasures. Now, who can tell but she may have influenced the amorous youth to commit this murder to supply her extravagancies?—It must be so. I now recollect a thousand circumstances that confirm it. I will have her, and a man servant, whom I suspect as an 3 I |