A green Lawn, with Borders of Flowers, in front of Robinair's House, near Chelsea. Moonlight.

⁠The night air is cool and refreshing here: it is stifling to sit in that close library, which you are so fond of. (Walking quickly up and down, and sometimes stopping to listen.) ⁠Yet you give yourself no time to enjoy it. Is that hurried pace the motions of one who comes forth to breathe the still air of evening? There is a sky, too, over your head, with that peaceful, brilliant moon shining from it, to which the dullest eye might be turned with a species of devotion, yet you look not up once to behold it. ⁠This vile state of suspense! Who thinks of moon, clouds, or sky, when enduring it? (Listening.) I hear a footstep coming up the lane. ​ ⁠My ears are less quick; I hear nothing; and if you are come out to listen for the arrival of her whom you expect, you will have the cool air about you long enough, I believe. ⁠What! think you she will not come? ⁠I am almost certain she will not. ⁠Thou little knowest how the proud may be subdued by distress. ⁠If I have any true knowledge of Arden, with all his weakness and folly, he will not submit to be saved by such base means as you propose. ⁠Pshaw, pshaw! thou art too simple; contemptibly simple. The love of life works powerfully in stronger minds than his. Besides, the lady may be willing to save him without his consent. She, depend upon it, will be here by and by. ⁠You are very sanguine. ⁠Not unreasonably so: she will be here ere ​long. And then that eye of pride, those lips of scorn, that step of haughty defiance—ay, then shall I see them changed—changed into humble,

abashed, submissive gentleness. This will be triumph! this will be happiness! yea, that very thing, happiness, which I have been pursuing all my life, and have never yet overtaken.

⁠And so you confess, after all your successes in life, the fools you have cajoled, the dangers you have escaped, the sums you have amassed, the passions you have gratified, that happiness is a thing which has still escaped you? ⁠Yes, Bruton, in some cursed way or other it still has escaped me. ⁠But you are resolved to make sure of it now, by becoming the object of concealed detestation to one whose open disdain has so long and so sorely galled you? ⁠Well, be it so! be it so! let her detest me as she will; but she shall, nevertheless, be the humbled mistress, and I the condescending protector. ​ ⁠An enviable state, truly, you project for yourself! ⁠And Arden, too; he must in his turn give place, and bend his blushing brow to mortification and contempt. ⁠A blessed sight to behold! ⁠Ay, and that proud boy of his, who begins already, like his lofty mother, to bear himself with a spirit above his years, even he must crouch and hold his tongue in humbling consciousness. ⁠And thus circumstanced, you propose to be happy. Why, the fiends themselves enjoy as good happiness as this; and if such be your notion of enjoyment, Robinair, you need not be afraid of joining company with them hereafter, for you will certainly have served your time here as a noviciate of their order. ⁠Well, if I do take that road to preferment, I sha'n't have the regret of breaking up my intimacy with thee. ​ ⁠Nay, I know not that. I am disgusted with this way of life, I assure you, and have very serious thoughts of reforming my bad habits. ⁠Reforming, ha! ha! ha! Why, what's the matter with thee? Hast thou got gout in thy head, or water in thy chest; or has thy good-natured physician threatened thee with apoplexy? Ha! ha! I am concerned to enquire into this matter, thou knowest, as thou intendest most certainly to make me thine executor. ⁠No, Robinair, I have none of the diseases you mention, nor any other, that I know of; but no one knows how long he may enjoy either health or life. ⁠To be sure, nobody knows how soon his glass may be run. Nobody knows when death may knock at his own door—we are all here to-day, but know not where we may be to-morrow. I have heard all this twenty years ago, from a much better preacher than thou art.—Come, come, let us go into the house again: our cool tankard is waiting for us. ⁠As you please; but here comes your man from town. ​ Returned from thy watching post, Morgan? ⁠Yes, Sir. ⁠And with any intelligence? ⁠I have kept my station there all the evening, on pretence of condoling with old Humphry, who is in grievous distress for his master; but I know not that I have picked up any thing particular. ⁠What has the lady been doing, Morgan? ⁠Yes, what of her? Was she at home, or at the prison? ⁠She returned from the prison for an hour or two in the evening, and, after writing some letters, as they told me, or such-like business as that, returned to the prison again, where, she said to Humphry, she should stay till a late hour, desiring Robert to come with a chair for her. ⁠Not the chariot?—This really looks——but ​But art thou sure the chariot is not ordered afterwards? ⁠You would fain have the poor fellow to assist you in deceiving yourself.—Or did you not hear, Morgan, that it is suspected she will come round in her chair by Chelsea, on her way from the prison? ⁠No, Sir; I heard little of her intentions, they were all so taken up, before I came away, about young master. ⁠And what of him? What has he been doing? ⁠After spending a long time in the closet where Mr. Arden keeps his arms, he has left the house without speaking to any one, and unseen by any body; and all the servants, particularly Humphry, are in a terrible quandary about him; for he had not returned when I came away, and they fear some mischief has befallen him. ⁠Much disturbance about nothing, talking fools! They like to be frightened about something: it is an occupation for them, and does not hinder them from eating their supper. ​ ⁠Nay, Sir; not a morsel has been eaten by them: for they all love the poor youth as if he were kith and kin to every one of them. ⁠He is, indeed, a fine-spirited creature. In his father's closet, said you? ⁠And are any of the arms missing? ⁠Humphry says a light fowling-piece is gone; but he is not sure that Mr. Arden himself did not take it some time ago to be cleaned.

⁠And the old fool is afraid the child will blow out his brains with it.—Well, since thou hast no other intelligence than this, Morgan, go thy ways to thy supper. [Exit Morgan.] And let us move into the house also. See, the candles are lighted now in the parlour, and our cool tankard waits for us.

⁠With all my heart: we have been in this chill air long enough.

⁠[Exeunt into the house.

​ Enter Young Arden, with a fowling-piece in his hand, stepping cautiously, and then looking round, as if disappointed.

⁠He has got into the house already. After watching here since twilight, I have suffered him to escape. Wretched timidity! though his friend stood so near him, I am marksman enough to have been in no danger of killing the wrong person. Foolish, cruel caution! must I return to my father again, and no deliverance gained? I will not return! Here will I watch till the morning, and shoot him in the light of day.—I will not return again to shame, and disgrace, and misery, and despair. (Observing light from the window, and Robinair and Bruton, who make their appearance within, and sit down at a table, on which are some refreshments.) Ha! yonder he is again! Now is my time. (Raising his arm.) Hand, hand, be thou strong and steady! heart, be thou firm! The life of my father is in the exertion of a moment. And Thou, great father of all! wilt thou pardon this act? Wilt Thou pity me? Wilt Thou have mercy on me? O, have mercy! have mercy! though I dare not pray to thee! (Goes nearer to the window, and points his gun, when Bruton within changes his position, and comes upon a line with Robinair.) ​Nay, this must not be: I must not take two lives at once,—the innocent with the guilty. (After a pause.) There is a window at the end of the room, looking to the beech walk; I'll fire in at that. ⁠Holla! holla! you who pass there! Murder! murder! There is murder committed here; and we demand of every body in the king's name to give us assistance. ⁠Murder! where? who? ⁠In the house yonder! my master! ⁠We heard the report of fire-arms. Was it then? ​ ⁠Yes, and the murderer can be but a little way off. Assist us in securing him. ⁠There is a breach in the hedge at the end of that walk: he will escape that way if we are not quick. Let somebody come with me, for I cannot grapple with a ruffian single-handed. ⁠Ay, there lies the body within, as stark as any corse, upon a board.

⁠For God's sake, don't think of satisfying curiosity now! Try to secure the villain first, or he will escape. Come with me in this direction; and (to Second Man) do you follow the footman yonder, since nobody will go alone.

⁠Here is a hat on the grass. ⁠A hat? ⁠Poh! it is but a boy's hat. Some varlet has come over the hedge to gather gooseberries. ⁠Is there a name in it? ​ ⁠No, there is no name; so what does it signify? I'll e'en take it home with me. It will fit my Neddy to a marvel. ⁠Do what you will with it: but let us run. We lose time here.

⁠[Exeunt different ways.

⁠It grows very late; did not the clock strike now? ⁠Yes, Madam; twelve and the quarter after. ⁠I know not what to do, Robert: your poor mistress is in a terrible state of anxiety. ⁠Yes. poor lady! I have listened for this half hour to her steps pacing backwards and forwards ​in her own room, and it has gone to my heart to hear it. I'd give the best suit I ever had to my back, that my young master were returned. ⁠Humphry is a long time gone. ⁠An hour and twenty minutes. ⁠Only an hour and twenty minutes! But you have reckoned the time with a more composed mind than we have done: perhaps you may be right. ⁠My watch has reckoned it, Madam, which is more composed than any of us. ⁠Would he were returned! ⁠Shall I go after him?

⁠That would do no good. Open the street door, and listen if there be any footsteps coming. (Robert opens the door and listens.) Do you hear any thing?

⁠Yes, I do hear footsteps. ​ ⁠Light steps like those of a boy? ⁠No, Ma'am; mighty heavy steps: but they are Humphry's, I believe. ⁠Ah! then he brings no good tidings. Do you hear no one coming after him? Is he alone? ⁠No one, Ma'am; he is alone. ⁠Then he has not found him; where can he possibly have gone to?—Humphry, I hope, has not told his mistress of his having been in his father's closet before he went out, and his suspicions about the fowling-piece. ⁠He has not; and, indeed, he thinks now that the fowling-piece was carried to the gunsmith's some little time ago. ⁠Humphry must be at hand now. Call to him. ⁠

Holla! holla, there!—It is him, Madam; he answers me. ​

⁠What voices are those at the door? Is he returned? ⁠Humphry is returned. ⁠And alone?—O God! some mischief has befallen him. He would not have staid so late, to make me miserable. He never before,—even in his play, he was always considerate for me; and would he now, when all this misery is upon me——O, no! some mischief has befallen him. ⁠Be more calm, my dear aunt, and hear what Humphry has to tell us. He is just at the door. ⁠Have you seen him? ⁠No, Madam. ⁠Have you heard of him? ⁠No, Madam. ​ ⁠Nor seen any one who has seen him or heard of him? ⁠No, Madam. I have been everywhere in search of him, and have enquired of everybody I have met, but can learn nothing of him. There is scarcely a creature now upon the streets but the watchman, and you can hear his heavy steps dumping upon the pavement a quarter of a mile off. ⁠I'll go myself. ⁠Alas! what can you do by going out? The night is dark, and you will meet with nothing but disappointment, perhaps insult. ⁠Let me meet with what I may, I will go; I will not be withheld. No night is dark to a mother who is in search of her son. What is insult to me? I shall be strong; I shall fear nothing. ⁠Indeed, indeed, my dear Madam, you will wander about to no purpose: and if my young master should return while you are gone, we shall have him running out again after you, like ​a mad creature. Be persuaded to stay here: he will break his heart when he misses you, and finds only us to receive him. ⁠Yes, Humphry says right. Do return to your chamber. (Leading her gently away.) Humphry will be upon the watch, and give you notice when he comes. ⁠I cannot, I cannot! I'll walk up and down here. I shall go mad if I return to my chamber. (Walks rapidly backwards and forwards; at last a knock is heard at the door, and she runs to it.) It is he! it is he!

My son! my son! thank God I have thee again! Long, long have I watched for thee: I have been distracted with fear. Has accident,—has illness detained thee?

⁠No, mother; I am here now. ⁠Yes, thou art here now; and I would not have thee from me again for a world's wealth told ten times over. (Looking earnestly at him.) But where hast thou been? Thou art ​wonderfully pale and spent. Hast thou come along thus through the night? Where is thy hat? ⁠Upon my head, is it not? ⁠No, my love: hast thou been wandering bare-headed in the night air? ⁠I knew not that I was so. ⁠My dear young Sir, what way came you? I have been in search of you everywhere. ⁠I can't tell. I ran straight forward from it, through every open lane and passage that I saw; and here I am at last. ⁠Straight forward from what? Did any thing pursue thee? ⁠Yes, something did.—Have you any wine at hand, good Humphry? I am almost wild with faintness. ⁠Alas! I think thou art. ​ ⁠Did you say wine, Sir, which you dislike so much ? ⁠Never mind, never mind; give me a good draught, though there were arsenic in it.

⁠Oh! thou art not well. Run, Madaline, and fetch him some cordial. [Exeunt Madaline and Humphry different ways.] O what is the matter with thee? Where hast thou been? Thou wentest out to seek deliverance for us, and the rebuff of some cruel-hearted man sends thee back broken-hearted and hopeless to me and to thy miserable father.

⁠No, mother; I do not so return. I have kept my word with you; my father's deliverance is earned. ⁠And dost thou tell me so with a joy so wild and so terrible? ⁠Hush, hush, hush! Speak not to me; look not at me; tell it to no one; be as if you knew it not. Say in your own heart, "He shall live" but lock it up there unuttered. ​ ⁠Dear child! thy words strangely perplex me. But here is the wine.

Take a good draught of it, and then go to rest.—But will you not eat something? (He shakes his head.) Well, then, I will not urge thee.

⁠Here, my young Sir, and may it do you good; but I fear it will fly to your head, as you are not used to it. ⁠No, it will not: I may take any thing now. ⁠We had better not give him too many things at once. Go to your chamber, Edmond, and sleep will restore you. ⁠Sleep! Ay, if I could sleep.—Will you remove the light? ⁠Not if you desire to have it left. ⁠My dear boy! something has scared you. ​I'll leave the light in your room; and shall I sit by you? ⁠Do so, good Humphry! that is very kind in thee.—And so, dearest mother, don't come with me, but let me pass to my chamber and lie down. (Hurrying away.) ⁠And wilt thou not let me bless thee ere thou goest? ⁠Thy blessing, my mother! (After receiving her embrace, he kisses her hand fervently.) If Heaven bless what thou blessest, I shall have nothing to fear. ⁠And dost thou fear any thing? ⁠No; nothing, when I look upon you. Good night! good night! ⁠My dear Mrs. Arden! what is your mind fixed upon so intently? Now that he is safely returned and gone to bed, take some care of yourself. ​Let me entreat you to take some nourishment, and lie down for a few hours. Remember you must go in the morning to Mr. Arden, that you may see him before he goes to court; and the trial begins early. ⁠True; it is still night: it is not the hour yet. ⁠It is still night. I am begging of you to take some refreshment and go to bed, as you must be up early in the morning; and what you have to go through to-morrow, requires more strength than, I fear, you possess. Do you hear me? ⁠Yes, Madaline. I heard you speak; I knew you spoke kindly to me, but I knew not what you said. ⁠Let me go with you then to your room; and cheer up a little. All may yet go well. ⁠O, if that be! if all indeed go well, I shall soon cheer up.