University of Virginia Library

Scene 1.

Anne's bedchamber—early morning. She is lying asleep on the bed.
ANNE.
Oh, mercy, husband, mercy! do not murder me!
Alford, help, help me—I am drowning! Oh,
Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! I am awake—alive.
My husband does not know; I am not drowning;
'Tis daylight once again, and all is well.
That's false—all is not well; I know it is not,
Yet do not recollect what is amiss.
Let's see—let's see! I dreamt my husband came,
And frowning, thrust a knife into my heart.
I felt the cold sharp point of the steel go thro' me,
And then a heap of rushing waves came over me,
And I was choking—and upon the bank
There stood a devil laughing, with the eyes
Of—of—why, what? was he not here last night?
Last night! Was that a dream? Stood I not here,
Lost in tremendous thoughts of sin and death,
And came there not that man—that devil—who bade me
Stoop to the vilest shame that ere tongue utter'd,
Or thought conceived? Why, was that true indeed!
Did I consent, is't possible I did!
Is't possible, that here—that now—e'en now—
He may be coming,—nay, he may be come!
Oh! no, no, never! no, it is not true;
It was some hideous fancy, which in the night
Took up the wretched dreamings of the day,
And wrought it into shape. O Heaven! nor night
Nor day to taste of rest! but this most certainly
Was a bad dream—no doubt, an evil dream.
Nought else—nought else.
[She goes to the window; enter Sir John Forrester.
Oh, God! no! it was true.

FORRESTER.
I come not unexpected, nor unbidden,
O fairest lady! wherefore start you, then?
See, in my hand I hold the gracious words
That gave me leave to look upon your beauty,
And make my eyes and heart its slaves for ever.

ANNE.
Where am I fallen!

FORRESTER.
Oh, turn not thus away!
In nought have I deserved such cold reproof,
Save daring to admire you; yet yourself
In gentle bidding writ that I should come,
And I have flown. Nor was your hest forgotten;
I have not raised audacious hands, to draw
The curtain you have folded round yourself;
Blindfold, e'en as you bade, I here was brought;
I do not know the happy path that leads
To where you dwell,—I do not know your name,
Nor e'en the very house that holds you;—now,
This instant, in a chamber close at hand,
Were my eyes loosed from this enforced darkness,
And I stand dazzled as before the sun.
Look on me, lovely lady, that I may
Believe the image stamp'd upon my heart,
From the cold tablet of your counterfeit

ANNE.
I cannot breathe,—I sink with shame!

FORRESTER.
'Tis strange,
So coy a bearing! Nay, I woo too coldly;
And in your heart I know you laugh at me,
That I stand tamely gazing at you thus,
Nor seek to win you to a softer mood,
With more importunate wooing. Come, be kind
As you are fair, nor with cold winter now
Freeze up the hopes yourself have made to spring;
You did not summon me to mock at me.
Sweet one! let me touch your hand—

ANNE.
O Heaven!
Stand from me! let me go!

FORRESTER.
How now, fair dame?

ANNE.
For mercy's sake, sir!

FORRESTER.
Trembling, and in tears!

ANNE.
If you have yet a mother, for her sake!
If you've a virtuous sister!

FORRESTER.
Why, what's here!
Upon your finger a ring—a wedding ring!
Your gay attire, your blooming youth, forbid
To think you are a widow;—is it possible
You are—?

ANNE.
A wife! a wicked, wicked wife!
The shame and curse of a trusting noble husband.
O sir, if ever in your heart you held
The image of a chaste and holy woman,
If yet the honour'd life or memory
Of her who bore you lives within your mind,
If ever you desire to win a wife,
Whose love shall be a sacred sanctuary,
Open to you alone;—if e'er in woman
You hope for honour or for happiness,
Now turn from this foul suit, nor seek to sink
Yet deeper in iniquity a wretch
So lost as I!—for manhood's sake forbear!
Stretch not the advantage that you have o'er me;
Have pity, sir! have pity!

FORRESTER.
How deep we go
In the first step we take in sin, we know not.
Rise, lady! nor to such humility
Stoop that fair form. What shall I say to you?
You have no need to pray me to forbear;
Were you the fairest she that ever lived,
And I more madly lost in love with you,
Than ever man with woman was before,
Here is a spell of power to exorcise
The devil of unchaste thoughts and wild desires,
And make me blush I ever had such toward you.
And did the fellow of this wedded hand
Write this?

ANNE.
Nay, I will tell you all,—yes, all,
And trust your nobleness to pity me.
The man that brought you here found in my heart
An evil spot, which he hath spread so large,
That 'tis a plague infecting my whole body.
From the chaste duties of a wife I fell,
Lured by his arts, therefore I stand before you,
Bow'd down with shame, with sorrow, and repentance.
O worthy sir, forbear to spit on me,
But leave me mercifully, and forget
That e'er you saw or spoke with such a creature.

FORRESTER.
Double-dyed villain! but that dear respect
Of you and your sad secret hold me back,
I would requite these goodly dealings presently.

ANNE.
For Heaven's sake do not so! My husband yet
Knows not my guilt; and in the world's eye still
I am honour'd; do not tear away the veil
That keeps me from one universal hiss;
Say nothing,—oh, say nothing, but begone!

FORRESTER.
I will begone: I now perceive how far
The giving way to a licentious wish
Might have betray'd me into sinning. Madam,
Your beauty, which awoke those thoughts in me,
Now teaches me to feel you have but stray'd
Into sin's confines, and will straight turn back;
For good is sure your proper element.
You were not deck'd thus rarely, to become
A snare to those who look on you, but rather,
Believe it, and return to your right office,
To make all men in love with excellence,
Made fairer by your perfect loveliness.
Pardon me, gentle lady! but these tears,
These gracious drops, now falling from your eyes,
Make bold my heart with virtuous love for you.
Oh, trust your husband! do not any more
Deceive him, but with noble courage, seek
Forgiveness first from him, and then from Heaven.
Farewell, for ever! as I came, I go:
To the detested guidance of your enemy
I must commit myself, and bear awhile
His fellowship, with what patience I best may.
Blindfold, I will retrace my steps, nor seek
To know aught more than you have deign'd to tell me.
And be you sure of this, if e'er hereafter
I should encounter you, here or elsewhere—
As such a chance, perhaps, might yet befall me—
Neither by word, or look, or slightest sign,
Shall you be made to recollect by me
That ever I beheld your face before.
And so, farewell!

ANNE.
The blessings of a soul
Turn'd back from sinning, dwell with you for ever!

[Exit Forrester. Scene changes.