University of Virginia Library

Scene 3.

Anne's bedroom: she is discovered at the window.
ANNE.
The day goes down, and darkness comes apace,
To muffle up the wickedness and woe
That the light looks on. O that never more
Morning might rise upon the earth! that this
Fast gathering gloom might henceforth shroud the world,
And wrap my shame and sorrow up for ever!
But the hours will go upon their ceaseless errand;
The night will fold her wings, and rising up
Leave on the earth a new-hatch'd day of misery.
And I must wake from sleep, and feel my heart
Clutch'd by remorse and fear ere well I wake;
My dismal and inseparable fellows,
That still lie down, and still rise up with me.
And I am strong and young—great God!—and I
Must live through many, many, many days,
Before I die! Far down through the darkening fields
The river runs; deep, deep, and fast it runs,
And underneath each wave of it there lies
A bed for death. A moaning voice comes to me,
Calling me to lie down and sleep beneath
That glassy coverlid—it were soon done.
No more to fear; no more to think and suffer;
No more to know; no more to recollect.
O blessed fate! no more to recollect!
I'll do it: it grows night—no one will see me;
And far, far, when the cruel morning breaks,
My body will go tumbling on the waters
To the great sea—and where shall be my soul?
O terrible thought! I shall not die in drowning.
'Tis not my body suffers and remembers;
It is my soul, and that shall live for ever!
Perchance, too, as I leapt into the waters
The love of life might rush into my heart;
And while the choking waves were smothering me,
The sun, the light, might rise before my eyes,
And I might long to live; and if I call'd,
'Tis night, and none would hear: my husband's far,
And he is far. Oh, my heart dies away,
To think of him whom I did love so madly,
Whom now I fear and loathe so utterly!—
There was a sound without! Sure I heard footsteps,
And a rustling motion near,—O Heaven! 'tis he.
Oh, I am sick with horror!

[Enter at the window Alford.
ALFORD.
Ha, fair mistress!
You look'd like a star in the grey evening light;
You tremble, lady.

ANNE.
You—you make me shudder.

ALFORD.
Shudder—that's cold! trembling is not so cold:
You used to tremble when I met you first,
When first we spake, when first our fingers clasp'd;
But that was trembling full of blushes,—warm,
And not like this cold loathing death shiver.
What, you're not merry! What's the matter, sweetheart?

ANNE.
I am not merry! faith, 'tis strange I am not,
Having such cause! here do I stand beside
My husband's bed; here, in this sacred chamber,
To marriage vows holy and dedicate;
I, the most foul and falsest wife alive,
And you, whose arts have made me what I am,
The wretch, the creeping, starting, guilty wretch—
In faith, 'tis strange I am not merrier!

ALFORD.
Why come, you please me better now,— that's right!
I love to hear you talk, 'twill ease your heart too;
And for my part, I am willing to be rail'd at.
Luckily, ladies' scolding breaks no bones,
I should have scarcely had a whole one else
Anon you'll fall to weeping and be well:
Come, is it over?

ANNE.
Give me patience, Heaven!
To think is madness!—I, that was once so happy,
So good, so fair, so innocent,—and now!
And dost thou never think? hast thou no moment,
Not given up to wickedness, when thought
Lays hold of thee? Dost thou sometimes remember,
In the night, when sleep neglects to visit thee,
Or in some sudden pauses of thy passions,
Dost thou sometimes remember what I was,
And what thou'st made me?

ALFORD.
We've been often happy
Together, I remember that.

ANNE.
Oh, never!
Never, so hear me God! have I been happy,
While sinning with thee. One distracted dream
Of passion, and of guilt, of wild delusion
And horrible remorse, and clinging dread,
Of shame, that eats into my very soul,
This has been all my happiness with thee;
The damned need not have envied it!

ALFORD.
Come, come;
You have left out some pleasant hours we've had.
I thought them pleasant, so did you too once.

ANNE.
Utter them not! Yet are they register'd
Eternally in the great doomsday book;
Thence can no tears or prayers wipe them away;
They're there,—and thou and I shall read them there,
Before the whole assembled universe,
Upon the judgment day.

ALFORD.
Why, so we shall then:
In the meantime, since neither tears nor prayers
Can wipe them out, think thou no more of them,
But rather let us study to make sweet
This pleasant present life, nor heed the next.
Leave walking up and down so hurriedly.

ANNE.
Alas! 'tis thus with me for ever! rest
I know not, save in constant restlessness,
Nor joy save in my tears, nor hope, save in
My deep despair.

ALFORD.
Come sit ye down by me.

ANNE.
Oh, leave me! do not touch me, Alford! I know
Your little hour of love for me is past:
You have possess'd me, you have conquer'd me;
Such beauty as I had has been your prize;
My virtue and my peace are all your booty;
Your triumph's full,—you've done with me; for mercy
Have done with me indeed! and never more
Come hither where there's nothing left to tempt you;
Oh, let me go!

ALFORD.
Come, come, I say you shall;
What, coy with me? oh, pshaw! 'tis past the time.
Sit down: I've something I would say to you.

ANNE.
Be brief, or I shall grow to stone.

ALFORD.
'Tis pity now
That you should weep so much; your eyes were bright
When first I saw them—they were like the stars.

ANNE.
Have pity on me, Alford!

ALFORD.
Then your hair—
It was not wont to hang dishevell'd thus:
Fie! it looks slovenly; where are the braids,
The golden links, the shining glossy curls,
The billowy, glorious waves of floating hair,
That caught my fancy?

ANNE.
You are mocking me—
I am so miserable—I know you are;
And yet, I cannot think why you should torture me
So cruelly.

ALFORD.
Why, you were wont to be so brave,
That none came near you in your costliness;
I'd have you be the woman that you were.

ANNE.
Make me that woman, thou who hast unmade me;
Do it, oh, do it, if thou canst!

ALFORD.
Nay, hear me.
I'd have you look the laughing, lovely dame,
That once you look'd.

ANNE.
Wherefore?

ALFORD.
You're fair enough
Yet to catch hearts.

ANNE.
What mean you?

ALFORD.
And although
We two be no more lovers, there be some
Who would give much to win your favour, lady.

ANNE.
If thou wouldst have me not go mad at once,
Look not, and speak not thus, but let me go!

ALFORD.
No, no, you shall not go. I am a suitor to you;
Not for myself indeed, yet I have hope
That as I once prevail'd, another may
Prevail, for my sake, with you.

ANNE.
What?

ALFORD.
Have patience!

ANNE.
I will not hear!

ALFORD.
Oh yes, you will, and do it:
So hearken now, and leave this fooling, mistress!
I have a friend, a man whom I know well,
Who's a large fortune,—do you hear me?

ANNE.
Yes.

ALFORD.
Well, then, you know that I have no estate,
Nothing wherewith t'uphold the goodly show
I make, save debts that have been made by it.
You know this.

ANNE.
Yes.

ALFORD.
Good now, here's this to do:
Receive this man, this fool, this friend of mine.
Start not! but hear me: he is mad for thee!
A goodly fellow too, handsome, and tall;
This shall advantage thee, and from his wealth
We will together draw advantages;
For the which thou'lt pay him in the easy coin
Of kisses, and sweet looks. What, hast thou heard me?—
Art deaf? art dumb? art stone? art dead?

ANNE.
O God!
I'm choking! Can I not get from hence! O Alford!
Upon my knees, I beg, I do implore thee,
Make me not do this horrible wickedness!
By all that I have sacrificed to thee,
By any hope of good, or fear of evil,
Thou mayst acknowledge, make me not do this.
I, whom thou once didst feign to love and worship;
I kiss thy feet, trample upon me, kill me,
Spit on me, spurn me, only spare me this!

ALFORD.
Go to! you're mad! Get up and listen to me!
What more in loving him than loving me?

ANNE.
But him I do not know.

ALFORD.
Pshaw! never mind;
You'll make acquaintance with him presently.

ANNE.
Hear me, you man! I'm an adulteress,
A branded thing, for honest men to scorn,
And true wives to cry out on. This I know;
I do not wink at mine iniquity,
It glares upon me full, and it is monstrous!
But, if thou deem'st I am that shameless creature,
To turn from man to man, and sell my body
For price of money, 'tis not so I tell thee!
I loved thee, idiot! idiot that I was!
But I am not a common harlot yet!

ALFORD.
Another storm, and then another shower,
And then a little while of sunny weather.
What dost thou think that I intend to do,
If thou deniest me?

ANNE.
Do thy worst, and spare not
Thou'lt tell my husband—nay, I'll be before thee.
Let him but once return, and I lay down
The heavy load of all my sins before him;
If he do strike me dead, I'll bless him for't.

ALFORD.
And leave him, too, a fair inheritance,
A goodly name thro' all the country side,
A precious title added to his Judgeship.
Now, I am not so high heroical
To wish your husband's fair fame branded thus;
Methinks 'twere pity that the good Judge Winthrop
Should be a scoffing mark in the public streets.
And tho' if you were dead, you might not hear it;
You leave your husband but an ugly name.

ANNE.
O God, preserve me! I shall sure run mad.
What will become of me?

ALFORD.
Oh, why you'll be
The whole world's wonder for your truth-telling.

ANNE.
Devil! be quick and say what I must do?

ALFORD.
Write straight, and hither bid this gentleman.

ANNE.
When must I bid him?

ALFORD.
Bid him come to-morrow.

ANNE.
How must he come?

ALFORD.
Oh, by our own old way—
The yew-tree path, by the mossy orchard wall.

ANNE.
Shall he come that way? and will you show it him?

ALFORD.
I will; and now that you're so reasonable,
I will do more. He does not know your name,
Nor who you are, nor aught concerning you;
I'll bring him blindfold hither, and if you
Keep your own counsel, your good name may stand
As fair as ever. So farewell!

ANNE.
I thank you.

[She faints on the ground: he goes out.