University of Virginia Library

Scene 2.

Garden of Judge Winthrop's house. Mary discovered.
MARY.
The blossoms are all gone,—how soon they pass'd!
And now already can I spy the round
And downy shape of the half-formed fruit.
It looks no more so fair, nor smells so sweet,
Yet it has grown more worth; and the husbandman,
Tells how the promise of the flowers was true.
Methinks this tree speaks as a living voice,
And such a lesson as a maid may hearken to,
Who loves and dreams of marriage. It is now
With us, in our sweet hopes, and happy dreams,
The very hour of pleasant blossoming.
Love, joy, and youth, within our bosoms make
A sunny May-day; but the tree is full,
Full flush'd with flowers, all open, all wide blown.
Then what comes next? that they must fall,—'tis pity!
So turn we to the graver days of life,
Full of the sober happiness of duty;
And in the ripening sun of time, we grow
To a goodly prosperous autumn,—and what then?
Shall it be winter ever in our hearts?
O tree! how soon thou hast shed thy pleasant crown,
Which, ere thou wear again, thy fruit must drop,
Thy leaves grow withered, and thy sap run cold,
And thou be pinch'd in a stern and barren winter.
But not to such conclusion need we come,
While Love's sweet flower yet lives within our hearts,
And all our mellow golden autumn fruits
Are stored for the empty days which we will fill
With happy memories and blessed hopes.

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Madam, from the fern knoll I can see Eustace
Hard riding to the house; the post is in.
[Exit Servant.

MARY.
Oh, he brings letters! Oh, he is too happy,
To hold in his hands the precious words of love
That make my heart dance!

[Enter Anne.
ANNE.
Here's your letter, Mary.
Oh, how your blood reads from your cheek this writing!
Will you not look inside?

MARY.
I am afraid;
The sight of the mere paper is a blessing,
But what's within I know not.

ANNE.
Shall I read it
For you?

MARY.
No, you shall not,—I thank you.

ANNE.
Here's one for my husband, in a character
I do not know,—and here is one from him.

MARY
(reading her letter).
O Heavens!

ANNE
(reading her letter).
What's the matter? Why, my husband
Must be e'en now at the gates; for this was writ
Yesterday, saying that he comes to-morrow,
By early morning;—what's the matter, Mary?
Ill news? say, dear,—is Master Forrester sick?
Hath aught befallen him?

MARY.
Oh, me! that ever
We should let steal our hearts out of our breasts,
And trust them in such cruel, careless keeping!
Thoughtless and thriftless!

ANNE.
What?

MARY.
He writes me here,
That dicing two nights back with the Lord Alford—
I hate that man! I always hated him!
From the first I thought he looked a very villain,
And now he's proved so!

ANNE.
What of him? go on.

MARY.
James Forrester has lost so deeply to him,
That he says he knows not how he e'er shall answer it,
Or when in this, his fortune's shatter'd plight,
He can fulfil his word, and marry me.
Oh! I was happy, happy, and contented
Before I knew him; but my peace is gone,
Gone, and for ever. This it is to love!

ANNE.
Oh, cheer thee, wench! the mischief may not be
So great; his brother's wealthy—

MARY.
What of that?
Shall his honourable brother bear the charge
Of his dishonest ventures?—'tis dishonest
To venture what one cannot want.

ANNE.
Lord Alford
Is his friend, and peradventure—

MARY.
More's the pity
That he's his friend! and is it a friend's office
To let him play himself beyond his depth,
And turn from friend to creditor? Out on it!
Is this the dealing of a friend or gentleman!

ANNE.
He will remit the debt, no doubt of it.

MARY.
But I do doubt it; and what if he did?
That's looking at the end, and not the action.
If he forgave him fifty fold his debt,
Does that undo his having risk'd so much?
Besides, I'm sure he will do no such thing.

ANNE.
Why are you sure?

MARY.
Because, from every word
I ever heard him speak, I judge him false.
I never could abide the look of his eyes;
But you, now I bethink me, seem'd to like him.

ANNE.
Who, I!—

MARY.
I thought you did, and marvell'd at it.
For you had heard, as well as I, the tales
Of wickedness, that ever, like foul shadows,
Follow'd his name; you knew his bad renown;
I wonder that my brother ever suffer'd him,
Or Master Forrester could call him friend.

ANNE.
You judge him hardly—

MARY.
Can he be so judged?
What, a heartless thief, who to the honest man
That opes his door to him holds out his hand,
And with the other stabs him in the back.
The cowardly tempter of frail women, one
Whose noblest trophies are a foul disgrace
To a true-born gentleman;—I would have such
Whipp'd through the land, as they do by common felons,
For daring so to smirch the name he bears,
The honour'd name of an English lord.

ANNE.
Good Heaven!
How like you look to your brother!

MARY.
Oh!
I am wrought beyond myself. Alas! and 'tis
Another who hath raised this tempest in me.
I am no more mine own! another's fate
Moves me to weep or smile; another's deeds
Make me rejoice or mourn,—this 'tis to love!
Two months agone what matter'd, what cared I
Who play'd, or who forbore, who lost, or won?
My thoughts ne'er wander'd from this pleasant home
Of cheerful, sweet monotony; but now—
A man has carried hence my heart with him;
I am in London, I am no more here,
And all save him is nothing; this it is
To love!

ANNE.
Poor child! she weeps! her tears
Are like clear drops from an overbrimming fountain,
Freshening whereon they fall; she does not know,
The tears that from the black well of remorse
Distil their bitter poison down one's cheeks,
Blistering and scorching furrows in one's soul.
Weep not, dear Mary.

MARY.
No,—'tis of no avail.
I will not weep; I will have patience, sister.
Sweet patience will come comfort me. My flowers
Look sick and silly, and I care for them no more;
But I'll go walk among them, and take counsel
Of their meek bowing when the hail-storms beat them.
Upon the road I hear the grating wheels;
'Tis my brother; I shall go, for if he sees
My eyes so red, he will be wroth, I know,
And speak hard words of Master Forrester,
And that would be the worst to bear of all.
[Exit Mary.

ANNE.
Oh, pure in spirit! as she passes by me
My heart shrinks back, instinct with its own foulness,
From her clear presence. Now my husband comes,
And I must utter all. Good Heaven, support me!

WINTHROP
(without).
What, wife! ho, wife!

ANNE.
I cannot; I shall die!
I cannot now; some other time I will.

[Enter Winthrop.
WINTHROP.
Dear wife! dear Anne! oh, I grow young again,
Whene'er from absence I return to thee!
Sweet is the air around one's home, and sweet
The light that shines upon it, and more sweet
The faithful love that, like a holy lamp,
Burns night and day within its sanctuary!

ANNE.
Good husband, welcome back!

WINTHROP.
As I rode up
The park, and o'er the lawny slopes, and through
The spreading chestnuts saw our pleasant house,
And thought within myself how you and Mary
Were waiting my return with loving eyes,
Oft looking toward my coming, beck'ning me
With your fond wishes—oh! I bless'd my God
Who made me capable of love, and gave me
Such precious things to spend that love upon.
Draw not away thine hands, nor drop thy lids;
But fix those eyes, clear windows of thy soul,
And my most comfortable stars, upon me.
O Anne!

ANNE.
What are you thinking of?

WINTHROP.
O wife!
How savage and how wild a deed is hers,
That woman's, who, with cursed and cruel hands,
Shatters the crystal vial of her faith,
And on the stony paths of life throws forth
Her husband's honour, peace, and happiness,
To bleed to death; oh! 'tis a sin unransom'd!

ANNE.
O Heavens! what put that thought into your head?

WINTHROP.
The sense of mine own wealth; the sight of thee,
My treasure! and the dismal fate of one,
A man I've seen of late, who hath been thus spoil'd
By the familiar devil that lay in his breast,
His wife—nay, but this story moves thee more
Than I could wish—what, pale, and trembling, love!
Come cheer, come cheer, let's speak of something else.
Where is the child? where is my darling Mary?

ANNE.
She has gone heavily into the house
With a letter from James Forrester.

WINTHROP.
Ha! poor wench!
She's yet to prove the wise man's saying true—
Who loves and longs in a single day grows old.
But what's the news? ill news?

ANNE.
I scarcely know,
She'll tell you all anon; here's a letter come for you,
I have something crush'd it—

WINTHROP.
Let us see, my dame.
Ho, wife, here is brave news! Hark thee, good Anne,
Hie thee, and presently deck up the best guest chamber,
Let the damask hangings be spread all around it,
And stick fair branches of the early flowers
About—and strew the ground with lavender,
And lay the fine holland woof upon the bed.
My dearest friend, a man you've heard me speak of
For ever with good words, comes here to-day;
He writes me thus:—‘Strange chances, to be told
Hereafter, when we meet, have brought me now,
Within six miles of you; and so I purpose,
As soon as that six miles may be gone o'er,
To lodge beneath your roof a night.’ Dear Anne,
This is John Forrester, whose name you know,
The one true friend good Heaven has blest me with.
Go in, dear, and make ready with best speed,
And with our primest cheer and warmest welcome
Prepare all things. Oh, I'm merry, dear;
He hath yet to know thee, yet to see thee, Anne.
I have commended thee full oft to him,
And wish'd he could but know how happily
I was wived; make thyself brave, and show
I was no braggart.

ANNE.
I shall do my best, sir.
[Exit Anne.

WINTHROP.
Let's see, six years, come Martinmas six years,
Since last we met; and he hath grown a baronet,
And I have married, and a thousand things
To gossip on have pass'd since then. I marvel
What chance he hints at brings him hitherwards;
The late Sir John's estates lie not this way;
He says no word of James, nor of the news
Mary has gotten from him; well, well, well,
'Twill all be told 'twixt this and eventide.
Ho! Walter!
[Enter Servant.
Get thee to the cellarage,
And draw from the best butt of Burgundy,
And let me have sack of the eldest Sherris,
And bid them lay before the fire the haunch
Of the lusty buck, brought in o'Tuesday last.
We will have cheer, and rouse.
[Exit Servant.
And if he's got
A title and estates, I have a wife,
A fair young wife!

[Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
One Sir John Forrester would see your worship.

WINTHROP.
Where is he?

SERVANT.
Here at hand, sir, but new lighted;
He follows on my heels.

WINTHROP.
Oh, bring him straight!

[Exit Servant. Re-enter with Sir John Forrester.
WINTHROP.
Welcome, thrice welcome, and again most welcome,
Good John! Sir John, for new-made honour
Loves its own name.

FORRESTER.
The man who once
Hath call'd you friend can find no better title,
My worthy friend and master.

WINTHROP.
Heart of gold!
Give me your hand; it warms my blood to see you
Once more at home, in this my home.

FORRESTER.
It looks
Most pleasantly, and lovingly, dear Winthrop!
In its new green; the old trees, with their limbs
Not hidden yet by their tender veil of leaves.
How happy I have been here!

WINTHROP.
And you shall
Be just as happy.

FORRESTER.
You are married now.

WINTHROP.
What then! you are no raking, mad companion,
Such as good housewives hate, who waste the night
Draining of wine-pledges; and my good wife
Loves me enough to love my friends right heartily.

FORRESTER.
'Tis strange you should be married!

WINTHROP.
Why, I've writ
Often enough to thee about the matter
To make it no more strange. Why, you look gravely.
Are you weary with your riding?

FORRESTER.
Not a whit.

WINTHROP.
Yet you look gravely. Adso! tell me now
What chance 'twas brought you near me, that you writ of.

FORRESTER.
If I look gravely, 'tis that very chance.
'Tis a close secret, not mine own to tell,
But a lady's.

WINTHROP.
Ha, lad! sits the wind that way?
Art thou for wiving too?

FORRESTER.
I never
Was further from it yet. No, I do think,
If a wedlock prosperous beyond my hope,
In the virtue, beauty, nobleness, and wealth
Of a bride were offer'd me, I should turn loathing from it
As though in my wine-cup I should spy a toad.

WINTHROP.
Why, what's the matter?

FORRESTER.
Oh! I have seen the inside
Of such a thing! the seamy, foul inside
Of what was held, is held, a prosperous wedlock.
I have seen that which, while I live, I think,
Will make my heart heave at the thought of marrying.

WINTHROP.
Why this is strange! You make me muse: e'en now
I have returned home from a sad errand,
Between a noble pair about to part,
The lady having past all mercy sinn'd,
And wreck'd by her ill-government the vessel
Of their whole lives' peace. Can it be possible
This plague is growing with us?

FORRESTER.
God forbid!
And once again I say it, God forbid!
Not in her stormy girdle of proud waves,
Not in the rugged ramparts of her rocks,
Not in the winged fleets that fly around her,
Guarding her watery gates, lies the defence
Of our dear country; but within her homes,
The virtue and the truth upgarner'd there,
Lives the right strength of England. Let but once
Rottenness creep to this, the inward core
Of all true bravery, and we are nothing.
O my dear country! dearer now that I
Return from foreign lands, to breathe again
Thy purer air—far be the day from thee,
When the vile pest of strange licentiousness,
Shall, like a poison, course within thy veins,
Tainting thy wholesome body, and taking from thee
The crown that thou hast worn since the first day
The sea did homage to thy milky cliffs,
Emblems of power and purity within!

WINTHROP.
Well pray'd, good Englishman; amen! and now
Let's brush away these ill thoughts from our minds:
Let's not, for one deceitful marriage, think
All marriages accurst,—I cannot think so;
And hope again to make revive in thee
The honourable esteem thou once hadst for it.
That I am married moves your marvel, Forrester;
You will be wider yet amazed, to hear
My wife is little more than half my years;
She might have been my daughter. Shall I tell you
Of her beauty? No, you will see her presently.
Of her virtuous excellence, and modest worth,
Her noble gentleness, her temperate pride,
Her loftiness of spirit, that gives her the mien
And gait of a sovereign queen? My good young friend,
Think not I dote—my life has found its crown
In a fair woman—oh! such a woman, John!
By heaven! I am ashamed to speak my mind of her,
Or tell another man, how high I rate
My wife—

FORRESTER.
I am impatient to behold her.
[Enter Mary.
Is this your lady? No, this is your sister,
For softened in each feature, I behold
The image of your face. Your sister, Winthrop,
Is a fair glass, reflecting back yourself.
Lady, by your leave!

WINTHROP.
She has clean forgotten thee.
Will you not ask Sir John after his brother?
But you care nothing for him; I remember,
You heed not how he fares, you will not ask;
So tell me, when comes Master James among us?

FORRESTER.
I hope in two days hence. Sweet Mistress Mary,
I was your playfellow once on a while;
My brother holds a happier fellowship with you.

WINTHROP.
But come, come, come, 'tis dinner-time, ha, wife!
[Enter Anne.
Are you come at last! Now, sir, here is the lady.
Anne, this is Sir John Forrester, my friend;
So bid him welcome to my house, sweet Anne.

ANNE.
You are very welcome!—

WINTHROP.
What's the matter?

ANNE.
Nothing:
You are very welcome to my husband's house.

FORRESTER.
As your husband's friend, fair madam, let me thank you,
And call myself yours as well as his.

WINTHROP.
Come in;
I have ridden hard, and have a stomach brooks not
Too much nice ceremony. Forrester, come,
Take in my lady, and do thou, sweet Mary,
Give me thy hand—ha, fie! 'tis given already;
But let's go in to dinner for all that.

[Exeunt omnes.