SCENE I.—Arden's House; Mrs. Arden discovered in a disconsolate posture, with Madaline hanging over her soothingly.

⁠Be not so overcome, my dear cousin; he has friends who will exert all their interest on his behalf. ⁠Ay, ay! thou talkest like a child who believes every one as sincere and affectionate as herself. Who are they who interest themselves for the unfortunate? They who have daily conversed with him, laughed with him, gamed with him? who have daily quaffed wine at his table, and repeated every pleasantry that fell from his lips? (Shaking her head with an expression of bitter contempt.) My husband had many such friends! ​ ⁠But you think too hardly of mankind: some one, even amongst them, will be found to stand up in his defence now in his hour of need. Robinair, for instance; he will bestir himself vigorously. He is in credit with people in power: he has always been warm in his expressions of friendship, I may say of admiration, for Mr. Arden. He will find means to influence them in his favour. ⁠Alas, alas! does our hope hang on this point? I fear, indeed, that he has too much committed himself to this man: he hinted to me something of the kind, which, more than any other unfavourable circumstance, makes me tremble. ⁠Why, how is this? I thought Robinair had been your friend, too. I have always understood, though I was then too young to be admitted into your confidence, that he was attached to you before you married. And has he not, ever since his return from abroad, befriended your husband in all the embarrassments into which his imprudence has thrown him? ⁠Rather say that, in the bitterness of ​disappointment, he has haunted us like a malevolent spirit, to enjoy our misfortunes and distress. ⁠Can he be so wicked? ⁠Without being able directly to accuse him of one unfriendly office, something within my breast has always whispered this to me. But Arden, my poor Arden, thought otherwise; and it was the only thing that ever caused disagreement between us. I enjoyed the confidence of my husband till he became so intimate with him, and from that time I have been kept in the dark regarding all his schemes and transactions. Judge, then, with what heart I shall put my trust in Robinair! ⁠Try him, however: put his friendship to the proof. ⁠I mean to do so, Madaline: I have already sent to him, and expect him every moment. (Listening.) Is there not somebody coming?—A heavy footstep—his step! Now must I hold down this proud heart within me, and be supplicant to him whom I despise. ​

⁠Mr. Bruton! I expected, Sir, to have seen your friend.

⁠Unavoidable business, Madam, prevents Mr. Robinair from waiting upon you: he cannot possibly come to this part of the town to-day; but he will be happy to have the honour of receiving you, at his own house, any hour in the forenoon which you may be pleased to appoint. ⁠He says so? (A pause.) I ought not to be surprised at this message.—I shall wait upon him at half-past twelve. Perhaps I shall find more generosity in his nature than this message, or the misgivings of my own heart, seem to promise. (Looking earnestly at Bruton.) You are silent, Mr. Bruton: you make no rash promises for your friend. ⁠I hope. Madam, you will not be disappointed in any good opinion you may form of him. I hope he will make every exertion in favour of Mr. Arden; but, in cases of this nature, all applications to royal benevolence, unless under very peculiar circumstances, have proved unsuccessful. ​ ⁠Alas! I know that forgery is a crime which, in a commercial country, is rigorously dealt with; and if Arden is once condemned, notwithstanding his innocence, I shall be hopeless. It is the services of a friend regarding the evidence to be produced upon his trial that I would solicit from Mr. Robinair. No one is so capable as himself of rendering them effectually. ⁠He is, indeed, active, sagacious, and acute. (Muttering words indistinctly.) ⁠Yes, he has all the qualities you have named.—Half-past twelve, then, you think he will be at leisure? ⁠Yes, Madam: good morning. (Going,) ⁠Mr. Bruton! (Calling after him.) ⁠Did you call me. Madam? ⁠I beg pardon—there is nothing: good morning. ​ ⁠Good morning, Lady. (Going as before, till almost off the Stage.) ⁠Mr. Bruton! forgive this irresolute weakness: I did call you. Oh, Sir! the wretched hope for succour where no claims exist,—even from the stranger and the unknown; and think that every look of pity comes from one who would befriend them. There was an expression on your face as you went; have I read it truly? Will you use your influence with Robinair for the unhappy? Although, I acknowledge, the sentiments I have felt and, perhaps, too strongly expressed for all those who, with Robinair, seemed engaged in drawing my husband into expensive and dangerous habits, do not entitle me to ask any favour of you. ⁠Be assured. Madam, no remembrance of such expressions shall rest upon my mind at present; and if it is possible to be of any use to you, I will. Would to God I could serve you! ⁠You can—you can! You can move him. ⁠Move him!—I will try to do it; but, if he is ​to be moved, who can do it so powerfully as yourself? My best wishes are on your side.⁠[Exit

⁠"Move him!"—"if he is to be moved!" Didst thou mark with what a voice he uttered those words? ⁠Nay, do not despair. ⁠He knows the man. Oh, my unfortunate husband! And my son—my boy, my pride—must thou be the son of a condemned——(Bursting into tears.) ⁠Do not bewail yourself thus, as if the worst had already befallen you. The storm will pass: the innocent will never be condemned, how strong soever the circumstances may be which make him at present suspected. And for your son, so far distant at school, he will know nothing of this terrible distress. How fortunate it is, poor boy, that he is absent! His affectionate and sensible heart would ill support itself against the dreadful shock. ⁠Alas, poor fellow! he is conning over his daily tasks, and sporting with his careless ​playmates, and little dreams of the misery at home. O that he may never know it! Thank Heaven, however, that he is at present removed from it. ⁠It is one fortunate circumstance amidst your many distresses. Do not suffer yourself to be so depressed; wrestle more bravely with your misfortunes, and Heaven will support and protect you. ⁠I will try to do so. ⁠This is well said: and, if I might advise you, retire for an hour to your chamber, and, if possible, take a little rest. You have been up the whole night, and it is still early in the morning. You will not else have strength to comfort him who so much wants your comfort. ⁠I thank you, my kind Madaline; I will do as you desire me, though nowhere is there any rest for me.

⁠[Exeunt. ​

⁠Art thou from the prison, Humphry? ⁠Yes. ⁠Hast thou seen our Master? ⁠Yes. ⁠Is he on the felon's side? ⁠Yes. ⁠Be there irons upon his legs? ⁠No, beast; but I wish there were upon thy tongue. ​ ⁠What makes you growl so at a body? Is there any harm in axing a question or two? for I wants hugely to know how he looks, and how he demeans himself upon it. ⁠He demeans himself like a man; and how he looks, those may say who have courage enough to look at him. I saw no part of him higher than his waist. ⁠Ah, poor gentleman! he was a good master to us, I must say that for him; and had it not been for those sharking fellows hanging about him so, eating up his substance through the day, and leading him to the gaming-house at night, he would have remained so, living in credit and honesty. His lady, poor woman! my heart grieves for her; and that fine lad, our young master, what will become of him? ⁠Ay, generous boy! kindly boy! noble boy! it will pull hard at his high spirit, I warrant ye. He will be fifteen next Monday; and what a joyless birthday it will be! ⁠Yes, man: he is so courteous and so gentle with us here; and yet they say at school, amongst ​his playfellows, he is the master boy of them all, and reigns over them as bravely as any prince. ⁠Ay; woe is me for him! ⁠It is well, howsomever, that he knows nothing of it at present. Evil comes soon enough, God wot. ⁠Is my lady in her chamber? ⁠I thought I heard a noise as if she were. (Both draw close to the side scene to listen.) They told me she was gone to lay down; but she may be stirring now. ⁠Ha! there's old Humphry and Robert confabbing together. I am taller since I left home, and they have never seen me in a coat of this fashion: I think I may play them a trick. (Pulling his hat over his eyes, and speaking in a feigned voice.) Pray, ye good Sirs, is young Mr. Arden at home? ⁠No, Sir; have you any business with him? He's at school. ​ ⁠And he had better stay there, I trow, if he has not a mind for as sound a beating as ever fell to the share of a sorry jackanapes. ⁠Sorry jackanapes, Sir! There is not a braver boy in the kingdom. He would think no more of chucking such a sneaking fellow as you into the kennel than I should of twisting round this junk of tobacco. ⁠Yes, to be sure, it becomes you to speak well of him, for the honour of the house you are in; but you know well enough that he is but a paltry fellow, who runs about the house and calls out "O dear!" if his finger be but scratched, that every body may pity him. ⁠He is ready enough to pity any body; but scratch his own finger to the bone, ay, cut off his leg, an you please, and the devil himself will not make him call out "O dear!" ⁠My dear Humphry! my kind old Humphry! thou lovest me as much as ever, I see; and I ​might ride on thy shoulders still, were I not somewhat heavier now, and thou scarcely so strong. We have had happy days together, Humphry! and we'll have them again, though after a different fashion. ⁠Ah, my dear child! what has brought you here? ⁠Our school has broke up suddenly, on account of a fever that has got into it. I thought I should come upon you by surprise. But how is this? You look strangely upon me.—And you too, Robert: are you not glad to see me? (A pause.) What is the matter? Is my father within? ⁠No, he is not within—or, rather, he is not at home—or, that is to say, he has left his own house for a little time. ⁠And my mother, is she well? ⁠Pretty well—so so. ⁠So so! Where is she? ⁠Taking a short rest, I believe, in her own ​room. (Preventing Young Arden, who is hastening towards the door.) Nay! let her rest a little while before you go to her; and wait meantime in the library, where you will have books to amuse you. ⁠Be it so, then; but I cannot wait long. I want only to look upon her, but not to wake or disturb her.

⁠[Exit.

⁠How tall he has grown! he has the size of a man, and I'm sure he had always the spirit of one. Oh, how it will be put to the proof! ⁠It makes a body quake to think of it. His own father to die the death of a—— ⁠I'll throttle thee if thou say another word about that! ⁠Lord 'a mercy! one may not speak to you now about any thing that one cares most to speak about.

⁠[Exeunt severally. ​

Mrs. Arden's Bed-chamher. She is discovered lying on a couch, as if asleep, with a shawl thrown over her face.

⁠Is she asleep? Her breast heaves under that covering, as if she slept soundly. (Going up to her.) All covered up so closely! Ha! here is a hand peeping out which I will press by and by right dearly. (Kneels, and bends over her hand, mimicking the action of kissing, but without touching it.) I can see her features, too, through these folds. (Putting his face close to hers, affectionately.) How surprised she will be when she wakes, and sees me by her! Does she not move? She is awake. (Lifting the shawl gently from her face.) Mother! my little dormouse mother! ⁠Good God! art thou here, Edmond? Why art thou come? What brings thee? Hast thou heard any thing? ⁠Heard anything? What should I hear? Has ​any thing happened? Where is my father? They tell me he has gone from home for a short time: where is he gone? ⁠Yes, yes; he is gone from home. This house is not his home at present. (Bursting into tears and falling on his neck). ⁠My dearest mother! why this excess of grief? Where is he gone to? For God's sake! where is he gone to? ⁠He is gone—they have put him—he is gone—— ⁠To prison? ⁠Even so, boy! thou hast guessed it. But, oh, think not hardly of him! He has been misled; he has been imprudent. ⁠Think hardly of him, mother! I would not think hardly of him, though I were turned to the streets for his sake, and left to beg my bread from door to door. ⁠Oh, my child! what hast thou to go through! ​ ⁠Think not of me, dear mother; I can go through it all with a good heart.—But what will become of you till I am old enough to work for you?—Fie on't! I am old enough now: I am sound of life and limb, and I have spirit enough to face anything. ⁠Alas, alas for thee! ⁠Fear not, fear not. I am a proud boy, it is true; but I will not be ashamed before any one when I am working for my mother. ⁠My blessed child! and must this be thy portion? ⁠Yes, Madam, and an honourable one too. Cheer up, cheer up, my dear mother. I shall go to my father presently, and meet him with such a cheerful countenance, that he shall only wait for a discharge from his creditors, which they cannot refuse when he has given up all that he has,—to be a far happier man than he was before. ⁠Oh! oh! thou little thinkest what thou hast before thee! ​ ⁠Nay, say not "Oh! oh!" I have looked forward to this for some time, and have hardened myself to meet it. I saw well enough, school-boy as I was, what the gaming-table and his numberless expenses would lead him to. ⁠And didst thou think of him thus? ⁠Yes, I did, mother; but I loved him, nevertheless, and will love him still.—Be composed, then, I beseech you, and let me run to him immediately. ⁠Not now, not now! Stay with me, and tell me why thou hast come to us so unexpectedly. ⁠That can soon be told.—But here is Madaline. Well, cousin; you are come to welcome me? (Holding out his hand.) ⁠I was told you were here. ⁠And this is the rueful face you put on for my ​welcome. Fie, Madaline! you should cheer my mother, and look pleasantly before her. ⁠Don't reproach her: she is very kind and very considerate. Without her, I should sink altogether. ⁠Then, she is a good girl, and shall be chidden no more. ⁠We shall make up this difference in the next room, where I have ordered some refreshment for you; and you must eat something after your journey, and persuade my aunt to do so, too. You must both eat, if you would not sink under entirely. ⁠I thank you, kind cousin, and so we will. Sink under, sayest thou? No, no! we shan't do that, God willing. There is more spirit in us than that comes to;—is there not, mother? (Taking her arm under his as they go off.)

⁠[Exeunt.