 | An English Tragedy |  |
34
ACT II.
Scene 1.
The garden of Winthrop's house.Enter Mary and James Forrester.
MARY.
And so you never heard of the flower-angels?
JAMES.
Never! Are you one of them?
MARY.
Oh! you are mocking me.
JAMES.
Believe me, no; but, for whene'er I see you,
Be 't morn or eve, mid noon or starry night,
A flower still hangs on your breast or in your hand:
I thought perhaps you were a flower-angel.
MARY.
No, truly; but they're always near about me.
JAMES.
What are they?
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Happy sprites, whose charge it is
To walk unseen about all garden paths,
And live in the fragrant neighbourhood of flowers.
No bud or blossom but hath such a keeper;
In dim, damp wood, or on wide windy common,
By loneliest marsh, where'er a flower may blow,
Nursed in close gardens of man's fashioning,
Or sown by that wandering seedsman, the free air,
These angels haunt: the maid that on her casement
Sets a flower-pot, hath one still watching there,
And she that wears a blossom in her vest
Keeps a good spirit hovering o'er her breast.
I make you smile: this is not city talk.
JAMES.
Give me that rose you wear—for I believe
Partly in what you say—so give it me,
That I may have an angel near to me.
MARY.
So you take mine from me—well, 'tis no matter.
JAMES.
Alas! you do not need such guardianship.
But when this fades, then whither goes the sprite?
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I do not know; I ne'er did think of that—
Perchance to some new-blown bud of the same kind.
JAMES.
My angel then will leave me. I could wish
To have some flower growing ever near me,
That should live as long as I did—some sweet flower
Whose loveliness and bloom should last my days,
And whose good angel should be mine till death.
Know you of any such?
MARY.
No, sir, of none.
The dews begin to fall,—'tis growing evening.
Shall we go in?
JAMES.
Oh! 'tis not evening yet:
The air is warm and balmy, and the light
Is bright on all the tree stems yet, dear Mary.
MARY.
Nay, but look yonder, how the sober sky
Hath suited all itself in modest grey;
And see, where the moon uplifts her pearly brow
Over that soft brown cloud.
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Ay, but look yonder,
On my side of the garden, gentle mistress;
The western heaven is full of rosy light,
And on yon slope where the fallow deer stand grazing,
How red the sunset falls!
MARY.
Look at the shadows:
They are very long.
JAMES.
They will grow longer, Mary,
And night will come, and after it to-morrow,
When I must go from hence.
MARY.
Shall we go in?
JAMES.
One moment stand beneath this blossoming tree,
That drops its snowy stars upon thy head,
And let me, while I yet am at thy side,
Gaze on this happy place that I must leave.
MARY.
Nay, speak not thus: these melancholy words,
And the stealing twilight, fill my heart with sadness.
Must you indeed begone?
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I must indeed.
The business I came hither to despatch
Is all accomplished, all things quite cleared up:
One blessed week has passed like one short day,
And all is over.
MARY.
I am sorry.
JAMES.
What?
What are you sorry for?
MARY.
That you must go.
Shall you never come again?
JAMES.
Will you give me leave
To come again?
MARY.
Oh yes, most gladly!
JAMES.
Mary,
We are not speaking to each other truly.
The words that from thy innocent lips I draw
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Which yet I have not; for I know thy thought
Touches not mine.
MARY.
I do not understand you.
I'm very sorry you must go—I would
Your cause had been much harder to unravel.
Then you had stayed here longer; I'd have shown you,
Then, other walks and favourite paths of mine,
And we should have seen the roses bloom together.
What is the matter that you cover your eyes
And sigh so?—have I vexed you, Master Forrester?
JAMES.
Hush, hush, thou fairy! this is all too much!
Oh, lay this little hand upon my breast,
And feel the tempest thou hast wrought in me.
MARY.
You frighten me! Oh, pray let go my hand!
'Tis evening now, quite evening—let's go in.
JAMES.
Mary, my heart's bursting, I must speak it all.
Mary, I love you—O maiden, words can't utter
How much I love you! Oh no, do not leave me!
Don't tremble: dost thou fear me, I who'd give
My soul to save thee from the smallest harm?
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Let me go to my brother! Sir, this is not well;
You—you—you should not have said this to me.
I can scarce breathe or stand.
JAMES.
Oh, sit down here!
I will not breathe another word of love;
Forgive me, but for pity's sake stay here.
Don't fear; I will not touch thy hand, I will not
E'en sit beside thee. May I stand here, Mary?
MARY.
Yes, sir.
JAMES.
The moonlight shines into your eyes,
And makes them look like two soft streams of light.
Listen! far down in the dusk, from yonder thickets,
What sound is that?
MARY.
It is the nightingale:
Is it not sweet?
JAMES.
Most melancholy sweet!
Yet oh! not half so sweet as thy sweet voice.
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I'm better now, so pray let us go in.
JAMES.
Shall your brother know of all this secret talk?
Shall I tell it him, and ask him if he'll give you
To me to be my wife? Speak Mary, shall I?
MARY.
Ask what thou wilt; I will stay here no longer.
[Exit.
JAMES.
For mercy's sake don't leave me! She is gone;
Like some light vision of unearthly beauty,
She's vanished! but the charm she shed around
Remains. O blessed sward her feet have pressed,
Be ever green! Thou happy, happy mound
That didst receive her beauteous form, may flowers
Cover thee sweetly all the live-long summer!
And thou, delicious curtain of fresh blossoms,
May the autumn crown thee with a glorious bearing!
Ye lovely ministrants to man's delight,
That seem so full of kindly sympathy
With human joy, a lover's blessing on ye!
And be this place for ever hallowed ground,
First left by winter, by the summer's sun first found!
[Exit.
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Scene 2.
A room in Winthrop's house. Anne and Alford playing at chess; Winthrop reading.ALFORD.
Fair Mistress Winthrop, you're too hard for me.
WINTHROP
(aside).
I'm glad of it.
ANNE.
Your lordship is not playing
As though you meant to win: I fear you spare me.
Pray play in earnest, sir!
ALFORD.
Shall I do so,
And win of you?
ANNE.
But that I did not fear
The chance of losing, sir, I had not played.
Pray show your strength; I'm bent to conquer you.
ALFORD.
That were an easier matter than you think,
Perhaps, fair mistress.
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I crave your lordship's pardon,
I did not hear you.
ALFORD.
'Tis no matter, madam;
You had not heeded had you heard, perchance,
And that had been worse—your moves are very cautious.
WINTHROP.
Your lordship's not a foe to trifle with;
She's right.
ANNE.
This game is mine, for a crown.
ALFORD.
Indeed!
(Aside)
—The other game is mine, I think, though.
[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Mistress,
Here is a dame come up from the village, craves
To speak a word with you.
ANNE.
Oh, 'tis Dame Ingle, husband;
I bade her come, and promised her, moreover,
Her husband's pardon.
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(to the Servant).
You may go away.
[Exit Servant.
I'm sorry for it, wife.
ANNE.
Sorry for what?
Why, 'tis but closing of your book a minute,
And writing out the man's dismissal.
WINTHROP.
Nay,
You promised him his pardon, and you must give it.
ANNE.
Why, sir, you jest; I promised it, indeed,
Because I knew that you would give it.
WINTHROP.
You should not
Have promised for another, Anne.
ANNE.
Pshaw! nonsense!
'Tis hard indeed if my credit may not reach
To such a point as this!
WINTHROP.
Perhaps it is;
But it may not.
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What do you mean, Judge Winthrop?
WINTHROP.
That you have promised what you cannot do.
ANNE.
No; but you can.
WINTHROP.
Indeed, I cannot.
ANNE.
How!
Cannot!—cannot set a man free from gaol,
Who's there by your own warrant! You will not,
You should have said.
WINTHROP.
I'll say it, then—I will not
Nay, Anne, ne'er frown, nor look so scornfully:
I will not, and I cannot break the laws,
By whose just doom this man is cast in prison.
D'ye think I make the statutes I enforce?
Nay, I am but their voice—the parchment sheet
In which they are set down, that shows them forth.
ANNE.
Ne'er tell me, sir, but you have power enough
To do this thing, if you were minded to it.
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Not able to let a man go free from gaol?
WINTHROP.
Neither to send him thither nor take him thence
Have I the power—were I the king of England,
I could not do it. Thank Heaven! 'tis no man's will
Can touch the free life of an Englishman,—
Nought but the sovereign laws—nor take from any,
The meanest soul alive in all this land,
One tittle of his precious liberty.
You have mistook the matter.
ANNE.
What shall be done?
I told the woman I would get him free.
WINTHROP.
You must tell her now you cannot. Be content, wife;
The man's not worth your care, and where he is,
There he is best.
ANNE.
Nay, but I pledged my word.
WINTHROP.
You were to blame: I cannot help it, Anne.
You need not vex yourself about the woman;
I'll have her looked to well.
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No doubt you will;
But, sir, that's not the point. Must I go tell her,
Judge Winthrop will not make my promise good,
He has refused me?—shall I have no more
Account made of my prayer than the next dame,
Who comes from quarrelling on market-day
To have her matters righted by his worship?
WINTHROP.
Your prayer is of no more account than hers,
But of the same, Anne, and shall meet from me
With the self-same justice. Unto her and you,
And every one, I would deal righteously.
ANNE.
Have I, your wife, no other privileges?
WINTHROP.
Yes, many—folded in the private chamber
Of my heart and home; none on the judgment-bench,
Or in the court, wife.
ANNE.
Shall this be believed?
WINTHROP.
Come, you have left his lordship long enough,
Pondering his next move;—get you to your game.
I will go speak to the woman; where is she?
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In the oak parlour, sir, I bade them put her.
WINTHROP.
Very well! Go to your game; and, Anne, remember,
Be charier henceforth of your promises.
[Exit Winthrop.
ANNE.
I cry you mercy, sir! Shall we go on?
ALFORD.
Your leisure is my master, gentle madam.
I'm sorry for the failure of your suit.
ANNE.
O sir, I heed it not.
ALFORD.
A cause so pleaded,
By such an one too, might have won itself.
ANNE.
It matters not at all.
ALFORD.
How many men
Would have died gladly but for half those words!
Madam, I think you are not in your game—
That's a strange move: will you recall it?
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No, sir;
I don't recall what I once do.
ALFORD.
Take heed, then,
And play more carefully, or I shall beat you;
Your king's in check.
ANNE.
Pshaw! I am blind, I think.
That's better.
ALFORD.
Hardly; there, you're caught again;
Check to your king!
ANNE
(rising).
I cannot play! I know not
What I am doing! to be thus refused;
Before a stranger, too, to have my promise,
Like a child's brag, turned down my throat.
ALFORD.
'Tis pity indeed! Perhaps, however, madam,
You have already used Judge Winthrop's interest
In these kind of matters. I have known some wives
Who scattered their husband's influence so fast
That they were left adry; their courtesies
Were spent by their ladies with so free a hand.
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'Tis the first favour, sir, I ever asked him,
And thus he answers me.
ALFORD.
The first! O Heaven!
To be thus sued to, and to answer thus!
Your husband, Mistress Winthrop, is a man
Like none that ever lived in the world before.
There be—ay, hundreds—who but for one word
Of lightest bidding, uttered by such lips,
Would leap into the fire.
ANNE.
O sir; but then
One's husband never would be one of these.
ALFORD.
Fatal decree! that still possession dulls
The sense to the owning the most precious treasure;
Yet I had not believed this, but for seeing it.
ANNE.
'Tis hard indeed!
ALFORD.
You, you whom I remember
Absolute queen over so many hearts!
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The lordliest of our court fall down before you
In happy worship of your slightest wish;
You to be thus refused!—I crave your pardon—
ANNE.
O sir, go on! You saw it, and you may,
And doubtless will, speak what you saw. You'll say
You saw me, like an humbled school-girl, stand
To be tutored about this and t'other word
That I had spoke too much; to be denied
The suit I asked, and bade take care henceforth
What things I asked for;—and indeed I will!
ALFORD.
Have patience, madam!—it is true, your husband
Might have more gently put you from your suit,
Answered with something more of courtesy.
Alas! I can imagine no such grief
As having to deny a prayer of yours.
ANNE.
He does not think so.
ALFORD.
Pardon me, fair mistress—
You must make some allowances for age.
The tender heart, that in that gentle breast
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Is young enough to have been Judge Winthrop's daughter's.
Had you but mated your sweet prime of life
With one akin to you in years, you had found
Perchance a happier lot: but you forget,
Time, as it goes, lays ice within our veins,
Which coldly curdles round an old man's heart:
'Tis not your husband's fault, but your ill fortune,
That he no more is young.
ANNE.
'Tis very true:
'Tis an ill thing when opposite seasons meet.
ALFORD.
And opposite ages are like spring and winter;
'Tis the spring suffers always in the encounter,
And the gentler bows to the sterner influence.
ANNE.
My father made this match; he was his friend.
Oh! let me think how much he was his friend
Who married me, portionless, friendless!
ALFORD.
Madam!
What is't you say? portionless! Where's the dower
Might with your wealth of beauty hold compare?
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Decked as you are with charms not of this earth—
Turn not away, I speak the common words
Of all men, where your name is only uttered—
Was the bestowing of so great a gift,
That, tho' he should make up Methusaleh's years,
He ne'er could pay you for't. O Heaven! portionless!
The peerless Greek that set the world in arms
Ne'er fired the nations with such matchless beauty.
To look on you alone is happiness,
And he has called you his—his own!
ANNE.
My lord!
ALFORD.
Oh! pardon me, you do not know—you cannot
Ev'n guess—what chords are thrilling in my breast,
That have perforce been silent many a year.
You never knew, and now 'tis useless all
That you should know, the hopes, the dreams, the worship
That once did shrine your image in my heart—
Hopes that had sickened till I thought them dead,
And worship that should now be dumb for ever;—
Yet 'tis impossible to hold one's peace
And hear you thus decry your precious self.
Portionless! friendless! If you were thus friendless,
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From him to others who no others have,
To hold his place if he should fail to you.
You have no brother, madam, nor no sister?
ANNE.
Not one of kin to me in the wide world.
ALFORD.
Yet 'tis not so, fair creature! say thou not
That thou art friendless; every eye that sees thee,
Each heart that feels thy sovereignty of beauty,
Is friend and servant to thine excellence.
Oh! honour me with such a blessed title,
And call my life your own.
ANNE.
I thank you, sir:
To-morrow you go hence, never again
To hear my name, or look upon my face.
Your proffers were most kind, could they stead me aught.
ALFORD.
Yet, oh! remember them!
ANNE.
Be sure I will;
And let me pray one thing of you—your silence
On what this evening you have witnessed.
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Madam,
Your will locks that within my lips.
ANNE.
Good night, sir!
Ere you depart to-morrow I shall see you.
ALFORD.
Once more I shall be happy then. Good night,
Sweet lady! and may pleasant dreams wait on you!
[Exit Anne.
I would I might but order those same dreams:
'Tis wonderful how much is worked by them.
The unconscious reason thrust aside the while,
Feelings and passions oft lay hold of us,
Which, i' the waking hours of soberer judgment,
Were hard withstood: not so in kindly sleep—
The spell lies soft upon the dreaming spirit,
And the foe creeps into the slumbering stronghold,
Whence daylight and its sterner thoughts can't drive it.
Fair Mistress Anne, would I were Morpheus
To-night for your sweet sake! How proud she is!
The tow'r's so high, 'twill topple of itself;
For wisdom says pride goes before a fall,
And if decreed so, why, I cannot help it.
Bless Mother Ingle! I will pension her,
Though 'twere my last groat, for this good night's work.
[Exit.
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Scene 3.
A terrace before Winthrop's house. Night. Enter Anne.ANNE.
Into the cool night air; my blood is thick
With a strange melancholy; and in my heart
A fluttering fear beats quick, then dies away
In faint dim longings. What should all this mean?
I'll walk i' the moonlight—it may be the chaste
And solemn light of the starry heavens, together
With the night's cool breathings, shall refresh my spirit.
How bright thou art, ineffable lonely queen,
That rul'st these silent hours! O me! my soul
Melts in thy radiance! All things are at rest.
From the still boughs that sleep beneath thine eye
Faint odours breathe of the green and budding spring;
No smallest sound is heard, but a low rustling
Like the unfolding of the new made leaves.
My husband sleeps; I watched him ere I left him;
A dreamless quiet slumber it did seem,
Like that of a good man.
[Enter at the back Lord Alford.
I'm glad I woke.
My sleep was much disturbed, and in my dreams
A voice and form arose for evermore,
That seemed to draw my heart away from me;
I'm glad I woke! How sad and fair is night!
How fair were such a night to two who loved,
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That mine had been so sweet a lot! Who's there?
O Heaven! Who's there?
ALFORD
(coming forward).
Start not, fair dame, nor fear.
What, wandering thus a lonely votary
Of the cold queen! Where is your happy husband,
That he thus suffers you to steal away,
To walk through the night a fairer earthly Dian?
ANNE.
How comes your lordship waking at this hour?
I thought the house abed.
ALFORD.
Nay, how come you
At such an hour awake? Alas! my eyes
Refuse to close: my blood within my veins,
Stirred by some unknown passion to and fro,
Gushes and ebbs from my o'erladen heart,
That heaves with smothered sighs. But what make you
With restless wakefulness? You, in whose breast
The sunshine of a calm content doth dwell,
Whose wishes crowned with perfect happiness
Rest in the joy of full accomplishment?
ANNE.
O Heaven! I!—
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Why, you are weeping, sure!
Whence are these crystal tokens?
ANNE.
Sir—my lord—
It is not fit, nor seemly—'tis not well,
That thus in the night we should converse together.
ALFORD.
Why? was it sin when here you stood alone,
Gazing into the heavens, like one dropt from them?
And is it sin that, led by the beauteous night,
And a secret spirit of most blessed chance,
I here have met you? Nay, but if you were one
Not bound in wedlock chain, but gently bent
To hear me plead—if I were one who loved you—
If kneeling thus, thus pressing this white hand,
I prayed your mercy—
ANNE.
Rise this instant, sir!
You have forgot to whom you speak—forgot
Yourself and me—in this audacious language.
ALFORD.
Pardon, oh, pardon!—on the earth I lie
Prostrate before you. Call your husband hither,
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But pierce it not with thy more terrible anger.
ANNE.
Hence, ere the night shall waste another second
I may not look upon you once again,
Nor hear you speak another syllable,
Without a deadly sin.
ALFORD.
Forgive—forgive me
[Anne re-enters the chamber and closes the window; he remains kneeling as the scene closes.
Scene 4.
Enter Servants, crossing the stage with trunks.FIRST SERVANT.
Are they up yet?
SECOND SERVANT.
They should be, for the cock
Crew half an hour ago, and the dawn whitens.
My lord said last night he would be in London
To dinner.
FIRST SERVANT.
He must have good horses then.
Be they saddled all?
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They are e'en at it now.
The house is only now beginning to stir.
Come, let's go get our breakfast, thou and I,
Ere riding into town. Yonder's the Judge
And Master Forrester; they'll start anon,
And 'tis ill riding on an empty stomach.
[Exeunt.
[Enter James Forrester and Judge Winthrop.
WINTHROP.
All is concluded, Master Forrester,
And I hope well righted to your brother's wish.
Hereafter, should any troubles visit you,
I shall be glad to straighten matters for you;
Here are the parchments.
JAMES.
Thanks, most worthy sir!
Yet I have still another cause on hand,
Which, more than all, needs your indulgent help.
WINTHROP.
Speak and command me.
JAMES.
I have heard my brother
Speak of you ever as the man in the world
He loved the best, me only set aside.
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Young sir, your brother is my worthy friend;
I love him as a brother—I might say
A son, he is most excellent.
JAMES.
Then, sir,
May I think you will not hold me over daring,
If to fulfil a darling wish of his,
And a hope on which my more than life depends,
I ask if you will give to your friend's brother
Your gentle sister?—Good sir! do but hear me!
That I love her most dearly, oh, believe it!
That she towards me inclines with kindly favour
I dare to think—
WINTHROP.
Why, surely—surely, sir,
You would not have the heart to marry her?
JAMES.
Sir!
WINTHROP.
Sir, I cannot give that child away!
You might as well ask me for half my heart!
I cannot want her—I can't live without her!
JAMES.
Judge Winthrop, you amaze me! what, the good,
And self-denying man, who still to all
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Of a mere fancied loss, denies his sister
The happiness of a prosperous wedlock, and
Condemns the man who loves her to a life
Of bitterest disappointment; O sir, hear me!
If, as I hope, your gentle sister loves me—
WINTHROP.
Sir, 'tis impossible! I'm sure she cannot
Love you! she oft has sworn to me, she never
Should love a man, to have him for her husband.
JAMES.
Are you married, sir, and do not you yet know
The cunning cloaks a maiden's humour wears
Ere yet her fancy's touched? Nay, but believe me,
I think I am not over bold, nor vain,
To dream that Mistress Mary heeds my suit.
Send for her, I beseech you, sir, and question her.
WINTHROP.
O Heaven! this is the way! a whole dear life
They live upon our knees, and in our arms,
The darlings of our very souls—and lo!
A stranger, passing by, but beckons them,
And straight they turn their back upon their homes,
And make their lodging in a new-found heart.
Oh! I had dreamt of this—but it is bitter,
Now that 'tis come to pass!
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Good sir, take comfort!
You shall not lose your sister, but instead,
Gain a true loving brother, and we will live
As near to you—
WINTHROP.
Oh, sir! for eighteen years,
We've lived together and asked no man's leave,
And only thanked God for the blessing, sir!
But you are right, for if she marries you,
Henceforth you shall lend me her society,
And I shall thank you for't; live near to me!
My heart has been her house for eighteen years,
And every thought a chamber that she dwelt in
Perpetually! but now, if she lived 'neath my roof,
Sat at my board, slept in the very bed
That held her in her sleep last night, and walked
Each day in her accustomed walks, I tell you,
She would be gone from me—gone from me, sir;
A husband is a wall that builds itself
Between a woman and all other things.
Like the young bird, in our hedge elm trees here,
Warmed in the nest, he presently drives thence
The ancient brood, who made their proper home there.
If she is married, she is no more mine,
No sister, nor no daughter, but a wife;
All other names are clean forgot in that
New name—all other loves in that new love.
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Well, sir, if she loves me, how shall it stead you
That she still wish she were not where she is,
Nor what she is, but married, and my wife?
WINTHROP.
That's true! poor wench! Pray, sir, have patience with me!
'Tis something sudden, and you seemed to me
Little more welcome than a thief to a miser.
True—as you say—if she indeed doth love you,
She's gone already beyond all redemption.
Have you spoke of this matter to her yet?
JAMES.
Walking by twilight in the orchard, sir,
Last evening, when I took my leave of her,
My heart unsealed itself.
WINTHROP.
And what said she?
JAMES.
She bade me speak to you.
WINTHROP.
She did?
JAMES.
She did.
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Within there!
[Enter a Servant.
Send my sister Mary hither.
[Exit Servant.
James Forrester, if this be as you think,
If my dear sister loves you, you shall never
Hear another word from me upon this matter.
'Tis woman's nature, Sir, and there's an end on't.
You wrenched my heart something too suddenly,
And I with little wisdom answered you.
You are my dear friend's brother, if you make
My sister happy, I will bless you and love you
Above all men.—Oh! if she love thee, youth,
Treasure thou well the gift she gives to thee:
A gentle, modest, virtuous, loving woman,
Will make thy life on earth a paradise,
And help thee far upon thy way to heaven.
God help me! an it were her burial
I scarce could feel more sadly.
[Enter Mary.
My sweet Mary!
Give me thy hand, thus do I lay it fast
In his, who asks thee of me for his wife.
Start not, nor blush, nor tremble, nor deny,
But simply, if thou art content to wed him,
Take not thy hand away:—it is enough.
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Brother!
WINTHROP.
Why what's the matter? did he hold you
So tight, you could not get your hand away?
MARY.
No, brother, but—
WINTHROP.
Go—go—go. Hold thy peace!
[Mary and James converse apart.
[Enter at different doors Anne and Lord Alford.
Good-morrow, wife. Good-morrow to your lordship!
How did you rest last night?
ALFORD.
Indifferently, sir:
A night so troubled I shall scarce forget it.
(Aside.)
She has not told her husband yet; good lady!
WINTHROP.
Indeed, I'm sorry for't. Was your lordship sick?
ALFORD.
Sick to the heart, sir. Gentle Mistress Winthrop,
How fare you in this early hour o' the day?
67
We draw you from it sooner than your wont.
(Apart to her.)
Have you forgotten and forgiven too?
ANNE.
My lord—I—I—
[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Your Lordship's horses wait.
ANNE.
Thank Heaven, at last!
WINTHROP.
Before you take your leave,
Here is a piece of business toward, to which
I wish your presence, as true witnesses.
Here be two friends of ours, who have found out
That marrying is a wise and pleasant thing.
Heaven grant they prove it so! to their betrothment
Testify with your best good wishes:—wife,
Go, give my sister joy; and you, my lord,
Pray greet your friend, who is to be my brother.
ALFORD.
Your hand, good James; may marriage be to you,—
What yet I never heard it was to any man.
68
That's a court jest, sir: 'tis above our wits.
In the country, we yet hold the grandam's saw,
That marriage is a state both blest and honourable.
ALFORD.
(Aside)
—That's as may happen. (Aloud)
—Good sir, pardon me!
ANNE
(to MARY).
May'st thou be happy, dearest child!
MARY.
As happy
As you are, Anne, and I shall be content.
ALFORD.
Umph!
ANNE
(aside).
Will this end!
WINTHROP.
As for the wedding day,
For that we wait your brother John's return.
I'm sure you would not think yourself well married
Unless he gave you joy. Clear up your brows,
He must be back ere the next month goes by,
And though you must remain in London now,
69
As much good paper, pen and ink, and horse-shoes
As you shall deem discreet.
JAMES.
A mortal month!
We shall be sundered!
WINTHROP.
Pshaw! come, come, this parting
Grows sad,—some wine!
[Enter a Servant.
Your stirrup cup, my lord,
Before you mount,—a bowl of Burgundy,
Well spiced, and warmed, to keep the chill air out;
And I myself will ride as far with you
As the clump of oaks, where you strike the high road.
ALFORD.
Fair Mistress Winthrop, you're but ill at ease,
I fear we have disturbed you all too early:
You are pale, I think.
WINTHROP.
That fault is mended now,
Your lordship sees. James Forrester, a word with you.
70
(aside to ANNE).
Do not forget me quite!—I go—no more
To look upon you; this is Paradise,
And I, a wretch driv'n from its gates for ever!
[Enter a Servant with a bowl of wine.
WINTHROP.
Now, wife, give you the morning draught to his lordship.
What's the matter?
ANNE.
Nothing, sir, a careless stumble.
WINTHROP.
That wine's too good for earth libations, sweet;
Walk heedfully!
[Anne takes the cup to Lord Alford; he salutes her but does not drink.
ALFORD.
No wine after that kiss,
I'm drunk already.
ANNE.
I shall sink with horror!
[Alford giving the cup back to her gives her a small parcel.
71
(Aside)
—Hush! do not let them see this; but sometimes,
Look on it for my sake with pity. (Aloud)
—Madam,
We cannot speed but well, by you sent forth,
And by your worthy husband guided hence.
[Winthrop takes the cup from Anne and gives it to Mary.
WINTHROP.
Now, Mary, bid James Forrester good speed
Toward London; when he comes this way there'll be
No need to bid thee speed him with thy wishes.
[Mary takes the cup and gives it to James.
MARY.
Farewell! may you speed quickly back—I mean—
To London!
JAMES
(kisses her cheek).
Heaven bless and keep you, Mary!
WINTHROP
(after drinking).
To horse! to horse! to brush the morning dew,
And sniff the freshest air o' the day. Come, gentlemen.
[Exeunt Winthrop, Forrester, and Alford.
MARY.
From the terrace we can see them as they ride
Down to the linden trees; come Anne and watch them.
[She opens the window and goes out.
72
They're gone at last, and I can breathe!—what's this?
What's this? ah, traitor! dost thou doubt thy art?
Think'st thou the image is not deep enough?
Oh, eyes that have looked through me, do I yet
Behold ye, fatal eyes, that have undone me!
Lips! that the sweetest poison in the world
Have poured into my heart, are ye yet here?
What is't I do?—O Heaven! what is't I do?
Am I a wife, and thus stand gazing on
The picture of a man that's not my husband?
Why, I am lost! he must have seen it too;
Seen that I was not true, nor chaste, nor honest.
How did he dare to leave his picture with me!
How did he dare to think I thought of him!
How did he dare!—oh, wherefore, should he not?
What though I bury this down i' the earth,
Smother it up fathoms deep i' the sea,
Oh, what will that avail? he's here, he's here,
Here in the hurried throbbing of my heart,
Here, here within my bosom; God in Heaven!
What will become of me? what shall I do,
When back my husband comes? How shall I look
When he looks on me? How answer him
When he speaks to me? all the live-long day,
How shall I hide my thoughts from him? at night
If I should dream, or utter words in my sleep,
What will become of me?
73
(from the terrace).
What, are you coming, Anne?
I see my brother turning home again.
ANNE.
Oh, horrible!
Hide, hide thee close; O Heaven! it burns my heart.
MARY
(from the terrace).
I shall run meet him,—will you come along?
ANNE.
Would I might never see his face again!
What did I say?—oh, I am lost for ever!
[She runs out.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
| An English Tragedy | |