⁠And you are just come from hearing Arden's examination? How went it? ⁠It was scarcely closed when I came away,—as I thought you would be waiting for me; but I heard all the material part. ⁠And how did he behave himself? ⁠With greater caution and presence of mind than I should have supposed a character like his, depressed with a sense of disgrace, was capable of. ⁠Indeed! He kept possession of himself, then? ⁠Wonderfully: he has not betrayed himself in one of his answers, though he was questioned very shrewdly. ​ ⁠Ha! where have those brains been stored up all this while, which he now brings into use for the first time? "Call no man happy till he be dead," says the old proverb. We must now add some words to it: Call no man a fool till the same seal has been set upon him. ⁠Ay; strong necessity will make a man wise as well as bold. But your dislike to Arden made you undervalue his abilities. ⁠Devil take him and them both!—Not once off his guard? ⁠Not once, as far as I could judge of the matter. It will be proved, indeed, that, a few days previous to the date of the forgery, he purchased at the stationer's with whom old Fenshaw deals, that peculiar kind of paper upon which the old gentleman always writes his money bills,—a kind which he had never purchased before: but this circumstance is not very conclusive, since Fenshaw acknowledges giving him a bill of the same date, though for a much smaller sum. Now the old gentleman's memory is impaired, and he may easily be supposed to have set down, in mistake, one sum for another. Your having seen the real bill is the only circumstance that ​makes positively against him. His life, therefore, is in your hands. ⁠I know it is. Now is my time of revenge for all the scorn, for all the insults, I have endured from that proud woman. ⁠And is it generous to use it? ⁠Generous! and hast thou kept company with me all these years, Bruton, to talk so like a simpleton as thou dost? I have carried myself with a show of specious sentiments to the world; as every man must do who is not a fool, and intends to live with some credit in it. I have been the delicate, the liberal, the good, and, above all, the good-natured Mr. Robinair, to many; but when did I ever pretend to refinement or generosity before thee? ⁠I cannot, indeed, greatly accuse thee of it. But the present case is so very distressing. ⁠It is so; I apprehend as much, good Mr. Bruton. ⁠But you have lived upon poor Arden; you ​have encouraged him in all kinds of extravagance. ⁠Well, Sir, this has not escaped my memory. ⁠You have enticed him to the gaming table, and ruined him. ⁠Well; of this, also, I have some recollection. ⁠And your lax doctrines respecting money transactions have, I doubt not, suggested to him, that robbing an old relation of what he could easily spare, and of what, in the course of a few years, would probably be his own by right, could scarcely be considered as a crime. ⁠Thou sayest truth: I have done all this. And wherefore have I done it, thinkest thou? For the paltry gains to be made from the ruin of a man of moderate fortune?—I, who had talents to have speculated on a much grander scale? Out upon thy little narrow conceptions! ⁠Nay, I knew that revenge for disappointed passion had a good share in all your manoeuvres. ​ ⁠Sharp-witted fellow! thou knowest that I loved his wife, and was rejected by her, who preferred this fool to me; that I went abroad in disgust, and, upon my return, insinuated myself into his confidence, with the hope of sowing discord between them, and, if possible, of undermining her fidelity. Thou knowest she has still treated me with disdain, so that nothing but his complete ruin can possibly detach her from him;—thou knowest all this, yet hast the folly to stand before me, with that piteous countenance of thine, desiring me seriously to undo all I have been labouring for so long. Will the wolf, with the prey in his fangs, forbear to devour it, because, forsooth, he will be called an unamiable wolf? ⁠I would have you at least to consider—— ⁠No! good, compassionate Mr. Bruton: I have considered, and I will not save him. On the scaffold let him die! and let those who have suffered within them the torments that I have endured condemn me, if they can. It is not by calm, even-tempered dozers through life, such as thou art, that I will submit to be judged. ⁠Then, by my faith, Robinair, thou art a fiend! ​ ⁠Better be a fiend only, than fiend and fool both. I am a man of more simplicity than thou art; I do not try to have so many contrary qualities at once. Sound no more of that piteous nonsense in my ears! ⁠Pity, indeed, seems out of use at present. Who could have thought that old man would have prosecuted the life of one who, though distantly related to him, is still his nearest of kin! Some secret enemy has goaded him to it. ⁠And thou art at a loss, I doubt not, to guess who this wicked enemy may be; judging, as thou dost, in all the imbecility of innocence. (Smiling on him with malignant contempt.) ⁠I understand that smile. ⁠Thou hast understanding enough for that, hast thou?—But do not imagine, however, that I am entirely destitute of every good disposition. I intend, when I am in possession of old Fenshaw's fortune, which he has promised to bequeath to me, to be liberal, and even generous, both to Mrs. Arden and her son. When she is ​in my power I will treat her nobly; but she must be in my power. ⁠I have no more to say to you; my pleading is at an end. ⁠I am glad to hear it. And now, dropping this subject, which must never again be resumed, let me remind you of the business you are to transact for me at the other end of the town. I have ordered my carriage to meet me here, and it is just drawing up at the door. (Hasting away, and returning.) Half-past twelve, I think, is the time Mrs. Arden has appointed? ⁠Yes, it is the time she fixed. ⁠I must hurry home, then.⁠ [Exit. ⁠And this is the man to whom my cursed extravagance has subjected me, while, having me in his power, he treats me like a menial—like a slave! Oh, thou vice of gaming! thou hast overthrown thy thousands and tens of thousands, never to rise again—never again to bear themselves with the erect dignity of an honest man!

⁠[Exit. ​

An open Hall or Lobby in a Prison, from which a wide arched passage branches off. Over the arch is written, "The Felons' Side."

⁠Did you look for any one, young gentleman? ⁠I am wrong, I see. Can you show me the way to the debtors' side? There is a prisoner I would inquire after. ⁠That, Sir, will lead you to it: but you had better stop here a few minutes; for yonder are persons coming this way, conducting a prisoner from examination,—a poor unfortunate gentleman. ⁠A gentleman! what is his name? ⁠His name is Arden. ⁠Examination! is it a meeting with creditors he means? ​ ⁠Yonder he comes, poor man! ⁠You seem to pity him very much. ⁠It always grieves me to see a gentleman in his situation. ⁠You have a kind heart, Sir; but misfortunes will happen to persons in every rank of life? ⁠Here he is, and his friends and counsel with him. ⁠I'll stand behind; I cannot go up to him before those people.

Enter Arden, with his Counsel, &c., and walks slowly across the Stage, passing close by his Son, who keeps behind the Gaoler, casting a furtive look at his Father's face as he passes; then, seeing him about to enter the Felons' Passage, springs forward eagerly, as if to prevent him.

⁠What would you? ⁠He is going the wrong way! ​ ⁠He is right enough. ⁠That is the felons' side! ⁠And therefore it is his. ⁠Thou liest! ⁠What say you? ⁠He is no felon! ⁠That will be known when his trial is ended. ⁠What trial?

⁠His trial, that comes on to-morrow, for a forgery. (Young Arden sinks to the ground; Gaoler, beckoning to the Under-Gaoler to assist him.) Poor lad! this has struck through his heart like an arrow. He must be some near relation to the prisoner.

⁠His son; I'll pawn my life on 't! ​

⁠Ah, poor boy! (Chafes his hands and temples, and Young Arden recovers.) My good young Sir, go into my house for a while and recover yourself.

⁠There was a wonderful buzzing of voices round me. ⁠There was nobody spoke to you but myself; and I spoke softly, too. ⁠I must go to my father. ⁠Yes, presently; but not till you are better recovered. Beside, he is engaged at present with gentlemen, who are assisting him to prepare for his trial. ⁠His trial! Oh, oh!—But he is innocent! ⁠Yes, my good boy; we hope so: and then there is no fear of him. ⁠The innocent are never condemned in this country. ​ ⁠Ah! were that but certain, he would be safe. ⁠Then he is safe: so, cheer up, my sweet young Sir; and come with me to my house, hard by, till his counsel have left him.—How came you here without a conductor? ⁠My mother desired me not to go till she could be with me; but I was impatient, and stole out of the house as soon as she left it to execute some business elsewhere. Alas! I see now why she forbade me to go.⁠[Exeunt.

⁠My master will attend you immediately, Madam.⁠ [Exit. ⁠And here I am in the house of this man, a humble supplicant for his pity! Righteous ​Heaven! sunk thus low in misery, give me strength to support it! If I have been haughty or elated in prosperity, teach me now resignation in adversity!—I hear him coming.—Ah! do I feel pride still? No, no, no! what have I to do with feelings like these, when I am pleading for the life of my husband? ⁠Madam, I have kept myself at home in obedience to your appointment. ⁠I thank you, Sir, for paying so much regard to one so very miserable. I come to you, Mr. Robinair, a depressed and wretched suitor. ⁠Is there any thing, in any situation, that Mrs. Arden will deign to desire of me? ⁠There is, there is! there is something I must desire—I must beg—I must beseech of you; and I will not do your friendship for Arden the injury to suppose it possible that you should refuse me. ⁠I am infinitely honoured by your good opinion, Madam. In what can I possibly serve you? ​ ⁠O tell me first—tell me faithfully and truly, what is your opinion of my husband's situation. He has been very imprudent, but it cannot be that he is guilty. ⁠Imprudence leads men into great temptation. You know whether or not the character of your husband made him more likely than other men to resist it. ⁠Alas! I know well the weakness of his mind, and I know his necessities were great: but great as they might be, they could never move him to commit such a crime. ⁠So do all good wives conceive of their husbands' integrity; particularly those who have enjoyed the felicity of a romantic attachment. How happy should I be to feel equally confident on this point. ⁠Then you are not? O, no, no! you cannot believe him guilty, how strongly soever appearances may be against him. ⁠I wish it were possible for me to hold your faith upon this subject. Madam, or even to avoid ​the necessity I may be under of appearing on his trials as the principal witness against him. ⁠Merciful Heaven! and do you walk about at liberty, waiting here to give the death-blow to him whom you have called your friend? Fly, fly, I beseech you ! On my knees I beseech you to have pity on us. Fly this country for a season, and conceal the place of your retreat. ⁠Pray, Madam, do not give me the pain of seeing you in that posture. ⁠No posture but this till you have granted my request! Have pity on us! Fly the country, or conceal yourself immediately, and we will bless you. (Still kneeling, and catching hold of the skirts of his coat, as he retreats from her.) ⁠I will not listen to another word while you remain thus. (Placing a chair for her; they both sit down.) ⁠Then you will listen to me now: you will consent to fly, or conceal yourself, till the trial is over. ⁠Are you aware, Madam, that you are desiring ​me to become an exile, an outlaw? to destroy my own character and credit in the world? Your many kind instances of regard for my happiness may indeed merit a grateful return, but something short of this (ironically). Command my services in any other way. My fortune is at your disposal. I will be the protector of yourself and of your son. ⁠Heaven forbid! thy protection were the venomous coilings——(checking herself, and covering her face with her hands). ⁠Of a serpent, you would have said. But, pray, speak without reserve, that we may understand one another completely. My protection is not, perhaps, what you would voluntarily have chosen; but, when no better expedient presents itself, it may possibly be endured. Ay, Madam, and shall be endured, if you hope for any favour for your husband, whom it is in my power to save, without flying the country. Must I commit perjury to please you, whilst your marriage vow, the bane of all my happiness, remains unbroken? Must I be the sinner, and you still continue immaculate? (After a pause, in which she seems strongly agitated.) Take this into your consideration. Lady. I shall sleep to-night in ​my house near Chelsea, where, if you will have the condescension to come yourself, and acquaint me with your determination, I shall think myself

honoured.—Excuse me now; I am exceedingly hurried with business. Let me have the pleasure of attending you to your chair, Letitia; I once called you by that dear name (taking her hand familiarly).

⁠Insulting, detestable villain! let one general ruin overwhelm us all, before I owe any thing to thee. (Hurrying from him.)⁠[Exit. ⁠Yes; pride must make some blustering, before he be entirely turned out of doors: this is but reasonable, and according to the working of nature. Yes, yes, yes! there will be time enough between this and midnight to smooth the haughty brow into submission. (Walking hastily up and down, and stopping now and then as he speaks.) Now will the days of thy scorn be remembered with bitterness, when, wife to a degraded husband, thou lookest timidly up to the eyes of a protector—even him whom thou hast rejected with disdain.—Let this once be, and I shall feel it worth all the——No; I will not call it ​villany—my provocations would justify any thing—all the artful management it has cost me. ⁠You will be at Chelsea to-night?

⁠Yes, Lady, where I shall be delighted to see you, and to obey your commands.
⁠[Exit Mrs. Arden.
(Holding up his hands exultingly.) I knew it would be so! There was a rude burst of anger, to be sure; but the vision of a man's bare throat, with a noose about it, has crossed her in the hall, and checked her wayward steps.—Ho, there!

⁠Send notice to the housekeeper at Chelsea that——No, I must write down her directions, else there will be some cursed mistake or other. (Goes to a table, and sits down to write, while the Servant waits.)

⁠You are engaged I see. ⁠No, no! I'll speak to you immediately. ​ ⁠What is he about now? No good, I'm sure, from the eagerness of his eye, and that ironical twisting of his mouth. ⁠Bid Charles carry that to Mrs. Cookum without delay. ⁠You are not surely going to Chelsea to-night. ⁠But I am; and I tell thee besides, as surely, that thou art going with me. ⁠Indeed! I am engaged elsewhere. ⁠Let the elsewhere forego thy gracious presence for this bout. Thou art engaged to me. ⁠Something too arbitrary, methinks. ⁠O! displeased, I see! Come, come; do not be a restive fool upon my hands, when I want thee confoundedly. For I must be in waiting there before the hour; and I hate to wait alone. ​ ⁠For whom. ⁠She who has the prettiest hand and foot of any woman in England; she who has haunted, and scorned, and tormented me for almost the half of my life; for Arden's wife. I have an appointment with her at midnight, ⁠You do not say so,—you cannot say so. Has misery driven her to this? ⁠We shall see—you shall see. ⁠I cannot believe it. ⁠Be as sceptical and as cautious as you please; but go with me to Chelsea in the evening, and let seeing and believing be yoke-follows. ⁠I will not go.—Nay, I will go to see you disappointed. You deceive yourself: she cannot have fallen so low. ⁠Ay, she was lofty enough once. But the lark cannot be always in the clouds; the heavy rain beats upon her wings, and down she drops upon ​the wet sod, where earth-grubs and snails are her neighbours.—Disappointed, ha! ha! ha!—But I have other things which thou must do for me in the mean time—nay, don't scowl so—things that must be done.—Ha! here comes Beacham's man with the money. ⁠Domineering insolence! it is insufferable. ⁠Good morning, Mr. Martin; how is your master? You have brought, I see, the little sum that was left unsettled between us. He is an honourable fellow. But thou shakest thy head, man; thou lookest ruefully. ⁠Come honesty first, and honour will follow. ⁠Fogh! some old saw of your grandmother's; quite out of date now, my good friend. Look not so grum at me; there is something to make thee more cheerful. (Offering him money with one hand, while he receives the bag with the other.) ⁠I'll have nothing of yours. Sir. ​ ⁠No! good gold pieces are not to be despised. ⁠Be they gold or copper it is the same to me. ⁠What think you of this angry fool, Bruton? ⁠He has cause to be angry. You have stripped the coat from the back of his poor silly master. ⁠Well; he will go to Paris in his waistcoat. He may find it the fashion there, perhaps, to go so clothed. ⁠And how long will he keep his waistcoat when he gets amongst the worthies of the Palais Royal? ⁠What does that signify? The thick waters of the Seine will make him coat, vest, and winding-sheet, all in one, with no more to do about the matter.

⁠Oh, ho! Mr. Skriever; you are come at last with the deeds. ​

⁠Yes, Sir, and you will find the security good, and the interest of your money regularly paid. ⁠I trust so; for otherwise I shall foreclose upon you without hesitation. Go into my library, and I'll sign it there.

⁠[Exit Skriever by a side door.
(To Bruton, after going about the room fantastically, with a gay, skipping step.) The breezes of fortune, you see, are in my sails.

⁠But you may be wrecked full soon, notwithstanding. ⁠Never fear: I am a skilful pilot as well as a bold sailor, and when I am——O what may I not be!—I will make a man of thee, Bruton. ⁠Could you restore me to the man I was, when you first took me up, I should ask no better fortune, and take my leave of you for ever. ⁠What! leave me? No, no! I must not part with that sober face, and seeming sanctity of thine: they will be necessary to keep me in credit with the world. "Hold your tongue," will the faded maids and dowagers exclaim, as ​they arrange their cards, "I will not hear one word against Sir John Robinair, as long as he is so intimate with good Mr. Bruton." ⁠Sir John Robinair! ⁠Yes; I shall be a baronet by and by, you know. There will be nothing very wonderful in that, surely. But I waste time here; I must go and sign those deeds.

⁠[Exit into the side door.

⁠He is mad with prosperity. But pride comes before a fall; and may the proverb be verified here!⁠[Exit.