 | An English Tragedy |  |
Scene 1.
The park of Judge Winthrop, early morning. Enter Anne and Alford.ANNE.
All's still as night; come—you may come—come quickly;
I have spied carefully, there's no one near.
ALFORD.
Thanks, gentle guide! what, art thou turning back?
Wilt thou not walk with me to the orchard wall?
ANNE.
I'm sick with fear! O Alford, get thee gone!
Hark! what was that?
ALFORD.
Nothing; why how you tremble!
A bird stirred in its sleep among the boughs.
Why, how your heart is beating, and the blood
All ebbing from your cheeks!
ANNE.
This is the joy of guilt!
For mercy's sake, begone!—the light is breaking
In the east. See, there's a shadow moving yonder.
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Oh, you see shadows where there's nothing, love.
ANNE.
'Tis very like; my eyes are full of fear.
ALFORD.
What should'st thou fear when I am near thee, sweet?
ANNE.
Everything—you—myself—my husband—God.
You laugh because I said that I feared God;
Yet oh, 'tis true! I fear His dreadful justice;
It will o'ertake us yet—be sure it will!
ALFORD.
Why, thou'rt some pretty puritan, and not
The gallant lady that Lord Alford loves.
ANNE.
Do you love me yet? is't possible you do?
You will not love me long—you will forsake me;
What will become of me when you are weary of me!
ALFORD.
Fie! speak not thus! whene'er I love thee not,
I live not either. Come, cheer up, my love,
And look upon me brightly ere I go.
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I know you do not love me as you used.
You come less often, and you stay less long;
You jest now when I weep, and you grow angry
When I sigh, as I must do whene'er I think:
Oh no, no, no: you will not love me long,
And then what shall I do?—then I must die!
ALFORD.
Pshaw! if I come less oft, or stay less long,
'Tis that you now for ever wear a face
Of discontent and mortified repentance;
As if the loving me were such a baseness
As would degrade you.
ANNE.
Oh, my heart is breaking!
You cannot, and you will not understand me.
ALFORD.
I do not understand these wintry looks,
And these eternal self-upbraidings, madam.
[Going.
ANNE.
O heav'ns! you're angry! Do not leave me thus.
ALFORD.
Nay, but I thought my presence might disturb you.
I know not how thou art when I am hence,
But when I'm here, you've nought but lamentations.
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I'll tell thee how I am when thou art hence.
The very moment that mine eyes lose sight of thee,
Horrible darkness falls upon my life.
One dismal, dreary winter spell comes o'er me,
And save for a dim and dreamy sense of shame
And terror that for ever dogs my steps,
I seem no more alive;—each word, each look
Makes the guilty red roll hotly to my brows;
I wake all night, weeping, till I grow sick;
And if my heavy eyelids drop, I rise,
And like a wicked spirit walk about,
For fear lest I should sleep, and dream, and speak.
Look at me, Alford! Do you see my eyes,
How dim they look, and how my cheeks are fading?
You cannot love the thing I am becoming.
ALFORD.
(Aside)
—There's truth in that. (Aloud)
—Oh, is it not yourself
That have grown weary of our sweet communion?
You do but jest to say that I am changed.
You do not love me any more.
ANNE.
O Heaven!
What shall I do? Alas! what's left to do,
To prove my mad love for thee? Nothing—nothing
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Yes, there is something yet, sweet Anne, to do.
ANNE.
Say what. I'll buy thy gratitude at least;
That may outlive thy waning fancy. What?
ALFORD.
I have been playing deep, and am a loser
Of heavy ventures. I am sore beset.
ANNE.
I have no money.
ALFORD.
But your husband—
ANNE.
What?
Shall my husband's purse as well as—oh, no, no!
You do not mean—you're not in earnest—you—
You do but jest—it is impossible!
ALFORD.
Unless I have to-night seven hundred pounds,
To-morrow I shall bid adieu to England.
I will not live to be lackeyed at the heels
By ragged rascals, clamouring for their dues;
I will begone—
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Whither?
ALFORD.
In Italy
Life's pleasant, or in France, and I will thither.
ANNE.
And what shall I do?
ALFORD.
Oh, make friends with your husband.
ANNE.
I was proud once!
ALFORD.
Hark! I hear footsteps coming.
If I should never see you more—
ANNE.
O God!
ALFORD.
Farewell—
[Going.
ANNE.
What! Are you going thus! For ever!
I will ask for the money, Alford,—yes, I will!
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I know for certain, that Judge Winthrop means
To go from home for some few days, to-night.
In a few hours hence I will again be with you,
Thanks, gentle friend! farewell! but not for ever.
[Exit.
ANNE.
My body's honour, and my soul's salvation,
My peace of mind here, and heaven's joys hereafter,
All, all are gone! for what? Why, he despises me.
He's used me for his pleasure, and he now
Will use me for his profit, for his purse.
He loves me not!—he soon will grow to loathe me;
For where we wrong, there do we oftenest hate,
And presently he'll leave me, throw me by;
He'll never come again, nor ever think of me,
But with an inward sneer; perhaps, he'll brag
Of how he found Judge Winthrop's lady easy,
And make a ribald table tale of me!
I shall go mad!
[Enter Mary.
What, Mary, are you there?
Have you been walking? I've been up, and stirring,
With the early bees; you see I mend apace:
The morning was so fair, and—and—my spirits
So light and joyful, that I thought I'd try
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I came to walk—
[Enter Winthrop.
MARY.
Why, here's a miracle!
Why, brother, here's our Lady Runaway
Turned handmaid to the early morning star,—
First gentlewoman of Aurora's bed-chamber,
And blushing as her mistress.
WINTHROP.
How now, wife!
What, truant, what! steal from me as I slept?
What shall I think hath lured thee from my bed?
Why, were I jealous, such unwonted wakefulness
Might make me doubt—
ANNE.
Doubt, sir! you—you—you could not.
WINTHROP.
What, will you answer me in earnest now?
Yea then, I swear, I saw you meet the man,
And—
ANNE.
Sir!
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And part from him—
ANNE.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
How merry is my husband this fair morning,
To jest so much ere breaking of his fast!
MARY.
Nay, but I find you merrier than your wont;
Do you not notice, brother, in her eyes
An unaccustomed brightness, and a colour
More red than usual in her cheeks?
ANNE.
Why sure,
You would not have me rise at such an hour
For nothing? Why, the profit's to our beauty,
If, ere the sun gets up, we cheerly leave
Our dreaming beds, and to the early light,
And the fresh air, and sparkling dews of morning,
Commend our faces; what—you see your homilies
Are not lost on me; I can chatter, too,
On wholesome exercises and good hours;
Perhaps you thought that, being city-bred,
I was incapable of all this wisdom?
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I scarcely thought thee apt at so much mirth;
I do not know thee.
ANNE.
'Tis the morning sun,
Hath touched my forehead, and upon my spirits
Worked a brisk spell.
WINTHROP.
Why, be it what it will,
That to thy heart brings but one pleasant fancy,
It has my thanks; for still thy mirth is mine,
Thy pleasure and thy joy my best content,
And what does thee a good does me a thousand.
ANNE.
(Aside)
—O Heaven! (Aloud)
—Come, I must test your love a little;
I—no—I will not.
WINTHROP.
What's the matter, wench?
ANNE.
I thought to have asked you, since your love's so great.
A proof of it.
MARY.
Now shall I learn to wheedle
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Learn! oh you're perfect all of ye in that;
Dame Nature, in your very swaddling clothes,
Teaches ye that. Come, now, what is it, wife?
ANNE.
I fear you will deny me.
WINTHROP.
Nothing, sweet,
That lies within my compass. What?
ANNE
(aside).
My eyes
Are filling fast with tears; I shall betray myself.
WINTHROP.
Come, Anne, take heart,—do I deserve this pause?
MARY.
I would not bargain so to tax thy love.
ANNE.
No, you've no need. I—I would have some money,—
Sir—husband—I have need of such a sum
As I most fear to name—seven hundred pounds!
MARY.
Wilt thou build churches? This is wonderful!
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Pray do not question me for what I want this;
Pray do not say one word but yea or nay;
Say no, I cannot have it,—say so quickly!
WINTHROP.
Wife, you can have it; I have more than that
Now in my hands, and it is freely yours.
I do not ask you anything, but when
You please to tell me how you need this money,
I shall be glad to know it. Hitherto
I have not known you wasteful or unthrifty;
I'll think you have good cause for what you ask,
And mean to put it to some worthy use.
ANNE.
This is too much! I will not take it, no.
WINTHROP.
Peace, peace, 'tis yours. Here is the key of my chest,
Take that thou find'st therein, it will not reach
To full seven hundred pounds, but go to my steward,
And bid him pay the rest to thee. I know
It is to do some holy act of charity,
Which shall buy blessings out of heaven for us,
That thou desirest this; it could not be
Else that thou wert so close;—give me a kiss!
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And shall not see thee for a day and night,
So bid me speed.
MARY.
Why, Anne, what is the matter?
You're growing deadly pale.
ANNE.
Oh, stay at home!
Good husband, stay at home, to-day, at least!
Oh, I beseech thee do not go away!
No, do not go from home by any means!
WINTHROP.
Why, this is stranger than all things beside!
Not go from home! not do my duty, Anne!
'Tis not the first time that I have been called
Unwillingly enough, for a space to leave thee,
But never yet have I been stayed with tears,
And wringing hands.
ANNE.
Pray, do not go! pray, do not!
MARY.
Why say, what is it? Hast thou dreamt of him?
Ill chances on the road? Did the death-watch tick?
Or did your woman break a glass last night?
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Well, I am mad! yet, husband, do not go!
WINTHROP.
Pray, Anne, don't try my virtue in this fashion.
'Tis hard enough still to be called away
From you and home, by matters that in nothing
Touch my own heart; but thus to have thee sue,
And hang about me, and weep over me,
Why, 'tis enough to melt a man's soul out of him.
ANNE.
I cannot help it. What, can you not stay?
WINTHROP.
So little, that the hour is even now
When I must mount my horse; come, walk with me
To the gate.
ANNE.
Will you not stay?
WINTHROP.
I cannot, Anne.
ANNE
(aside).
'Twas the last hope, and I had clutched at it
In vain!
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Oh, come! I see 'tis I must play the hero,
And swear to guard you well till he comes home.
There shall no thief come in at our door, nor lover
At our windows, brother, and so go in peace;
I will look to your loving wife the while.
[Exeunt.
| An English Tragedy | |