University of Virginia Library

Scene—An inner Apartment.

John is discovered kneeling.—Margaret standing over him.
JOHN
(rises).
I cannot bear
To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

MARGARET.
John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

JOHN.
They are gone.—
Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
I can smile too, and I almost begin
To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

MARGARET.
Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

JOHN.
Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth.
(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,)
That were a sad indecency, you know.

MARGARET.
Nay, never fear.
I will be mistress of your humours,
And you shall frown or smile by the book.
And herein I shall be most peremptory,
Cry, “this shews well, but that inclines to levity,”
“This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,”
“But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite.”

JOHN.
How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

MARGARET.
To give you in your stead a better self!
Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
Sir Rowland my father's gift,
And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
I was a young thing then, being newly come
Home from my convent education, where
Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
Did John salute his love, being newly seen.
Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
And prais'd it in a youth.

JOHN.
Now Margaret weeps herself.

(A noise of bells heard.)
MARGARET.
Hark the bells, John.

JOHN.
Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET.
I know it.

JOHN.
Saint Mary Ottery, my native village
In the sweet shire of Devon.
Those are the bells.

MARGARET.
Wilt go to church, John?

JOHN.
I have been there already.

MARGARET.

How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

JOHN.
I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,
And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)
From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
And the first object I discern'd
Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET.
Well, John.

JOHN.
Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day.
Immediately a wish arose in my mind,
To go to church and pray with Christian people.
And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,
“Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
“(Not having been at church in all that time,)
“And is it fit, that now for the first time
“Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people
“With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
“Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts,
“And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray,
“With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the offices?”
And then I at my own presumption smiled;
And then I wept that I should smile at all,
Having such cause of grief! I wept outright;
Tears like a river flooded all my face,
And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.
“Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it.”
So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,
Or was about to act unlawful business
At that dead time of dawn,
I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open,
(Whether by negligence I knew not,
Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf'd,
For all things felt like mystery).

MARGARET.
Yes.

JOHN.
So entering in, not without fear,
I past into the family pew,
And covering up my eyes for shame,
And deep perception of unworthiness,
Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
Where I so oft had kneel'd,
A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
More poignant than the first;
But afterwards was greatly comforted.
It seem'd, the guilt of blood was passing from me
Even in the act and agony of tears,
And all my sins forgiven.