University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene 1.

A room in Judge Winthrop's house. Enter two Servants.
FIRST SERVANT.

Hist! hist!—for the love of life, come hither!

SECOND SERVANT.

Well, how now?

FIRST SERVANT.

What's toward in the library yonder?

SECOND SERVANT.

I know not! how dost thou mean?

FIRST SERVANT.

His worship's sitting there all dressed in black:
dost thou know, he must have had an ugly fall that
the leech bled him for! He's as pale as death, and may
I ne'er be believed but his head is white!

SECOND SERVANT.

What, white, sayst thou? It cannot be; but yesterday
'twas grey, an iron grizzled.

FIRST SERVANT.

I know it, a good manly head,—'tis now an old man's

poll; and in one night the snow has fallen thick and
covered it. His face looks lean, and withered, and
strange, and as I hurried through, he made an angry
motion with his hand, and Sir John Forrester bade me
get from thence, and that we none of us should enter
there till sent for.

SECOND SERVANT.

Where be the ladies?—my lady and Mistress Mary?

FIRST SERVANT.

There too: they stood leaning against each other, for
all the world like a pair of twin churchyard images, cut
out in stone. My lady said never a word, but Mistress
Mary wept like a fountain. What can it mean? What
can it all mean?

SECOND SERVANT.

My life to a silver penny, the parcel that thou
broughtest t'other day is at the bottom on't. Hark!
—hush!—I thought I heard his worship's voice! Let
us not be caught together here; let's get to the pantry,
and talk at ease; some one is coming,—let's not be
found, for something's sure amiss!

[Exeunt Servants.

Scene 2.

Judge Winthrop's library. He is discovered sitting, Sir John Forrester standing by him: Mary and Anne in the front of the stage.
WINTHROP.
Will you draw nearer, madam? I must speak to you,
And I am weak and cannot well speak loud.
Be pleased to listen to me. You have borne my name
Near on six years; you—you—During that time,
Honour, affection, trust, and such indulgence
As my means offer'd, I have freely given you.
Let me be brief; how you have answer'd this,
And how repaid it, you well know. 'Tis past!
Wipe it from your conscience how you will, 'tis over!
You'll tell me you were young, and I was old,
Grey-headed, careful,—yet you married me!
You did it out of thankfulness; there 'tis.
You did—and I believed 'twas love. Well—
Well—well—it is for this, that I forbear
To cast you off, and give you to the scorn
Of the world to scourge you for your sin; for I
Sinn'd deeply first in folly, and therefore,
I'll bear without complaint the stab you've given me;
But here are two who do love me indeed,
And before them I must be justified.
Had you been true, Anne—had I held your heart—
The love of the wide world might have gone begging.
But you have filch'd my treasure from me, and now
I gather up and count such poor remains
As I can call my own. Before the world
I care not how I stand; but before these
I must be clear'd. I cannot spare their love,
Nor by them be accused of cruelty.
Speak, is this just? Do I deal rightly by you?

ANNE.
Oh! oh!

WINTHROP.
Pray do not weep! pray do not!
Come, this must end. Sister and friend, this woman—

MARY.
Oh, do not utter it!—

WINTHROP.
She's false, she's false;
And I, a wretch, cover'd with shame and misery,
Must drag my rest of years out as I may,
In bitter and disgracèd loneliness.

FORRESTER.
Oh, let this quickly end, 'twill kill us all!

WINTHROP.
True, true; I have no right to make you suffer.
I will not publish you, I will not shame you;
The world shall never know the thing you are.
Live yet at home, here, in my house, and call,
As heretofore, all things in it your own.
Only, this little let me beg: this room,
My wonted dwelling room, let me reserve;
And the yew-tree walk that stretches here before it,
For my daily use and exercise I'll keep.
Take all the rest; but here, where I shall live,
I do command you never to set foot.
Let me never, never, hear your voice again,
Nor ever, while I live, behold your face!
[He rises.
O friend! sometimes i' the time when I was happy,
I mourn'd to think my life was growing short;
But now, thank God I am not young! Come, come;
Give me your arm, and lead me out i' the air.
Yet, stay a little: those intemperate words,
That wicked curse, I uttered in my agony,
I do retract it, and I pray you pardon it!
I sinn'd to think it; God forgive you, Anne!
And grant you to repent. Farewell!

[Exeunt Judge Winthrop and Forrester.
MARY.
O sister!

ANNE.
What! will you touch me? will you look upon me?
Do you not fear to catch this pestilence,
With which I am alive from head to foot?

MARY.
Oh hush! hush! hush! lie still in my arms, my tears
Shall wash you of your fault; oh, would to Heaven
Your sorrow were all mine!—poor—poor—

ANNE.
How pale—
How white he looked! Dost thou not think that God
Looks as he look'd, when He sends souls to hell?

MARY.
Oh, what wild words are these!

ANNE.
Yes; then, you know,
The blue sky rises up further and further,
And vanishes away; and one goes falling
Down, down, down, into bottomless despair.

MARY.
What dreadful thoughts!

ANNE.
Hark! now I'm call'd—all round,
Eyes, staring eyes, all round—to see my shame—
A world of them! Look there! there sits my father
Yonder, that stern old man; and now, my husband
Stands up, and points me out for sentence. No!
No! no! I will not hear it, mercy! mercy!
Hark! my hair rouses, and my heart stands still.
Did you hear that—and how the devils shouted?
Great God! let me not be deliver'd up to him,
Oh, not to him—for ever and for ever!
To every fiend in hell, but not to him!
Look down, look down, in the red fire—he's there!
He grins and beckons me! he welcomes me!
Ha! ha! ha! sweetheart! so we meet in hell;
That's merry! well met, well met, sweetheart! look,
He holds his arms out, he has clutch'd me—ha!
Help! help! the fire leaps up like serpents' tongues
In eager flames all round me—I am burning!
Undo his hands! he hauls me into them,
He pulls, he drags me—horror! save me! save me!

MARY.
Listen to me, Anne; give me your hands—'tis I—
Mary, your friend, your sister; look, dear! look!

ANNE.
Oh, bless thee! thou'rt an angel, bless thee! bless thee!
Thou'rt come to take me out of torment; take me!
Quick! quick!

MARY.
Come, come.

ANNE.
Yes, I will go with thee.
Take hold of me, take care of me, good angel;
Spread thy white wings over my burning eyes;
So—all is dark—

MARY.
She's growing wondrous heavy;
Help! help! within there! ho!
[Enter Servants.
Take up your mistress,
And carry her to her chamber; gently, gently.

[Exeunt.

Scene 3.

Room in a tavern in London; James Forrester discovered writing.
JAMES.
How bitter are the dregs! the draught was swallow'd
So greedily, I scarce know if 'twas sweet;
But the sour and biting flavour of the lees
Lies on my palate. O thou moral dunce!
Whom teaching could not make retain thy task,
But who again hast fallen on a path
Measured so often with thy stumbling footsteps.
How deep I scorn myself! from the high bar
Of mine own conscience slink I shamefully,
Judged of my thoughts. Why there is nothing, nothing
That is not worthier, steadfaster, more firm,
More true and constant to its purposes than I am.
A reed, a vane, feathers that show the wind,
All things unstable are poor types of me;
For they, obeying their great natural law,
Do but their kind in changing; while myself,
Owning one law, acknowledging one right,
Straight turn, and sin against mine own allowance,
And show myself herein most pitiful,
That not my reason or resolve can hold me
From the chance breath of every stray temptation.
Oh, I could strike my forehead on these boards!
Less dull! less senseless! less incapable!
And now to write to her:—what shall I say?
‘I love you.’ Answers she not, ‘You have proved it?’
If I do beg her pardon, like an alms,
Given to one whose evil life hath beggar'd him,
Out of her Christian pity she shall give it,
And bid God help me to a better course.
If I do crave her hand, shall she not say:
‘Yea, for the hope I have of restless days,
Nights, when you shall forsake my bed for the dice,
The sweet society of all your tavern friends,
And the fair chance of dying yet a beggar—
For all these pleasant prospects, I will marry you.’
'Sdeath! I'll not write; I've not the face! or thus,
I yet will write, and bidding her consider
How desperately unworthy I am grown
Ever to see her, or to think of her,
Beseech her to forgive me, though for ever
She banish me from her sweet heart and mind,
A rude, ungovern'd outlaw from all grace.
[Shouts of laughter without.
Now come my fellow fools! and he, the devil
That leads the dance. Time was I loved this laughing;
It sounds like howling now. Here comes the rout,
And even quiet thoughts must give them place.

[Enter Lord Alford, Wilton, Mowbray, Illworth, and others.
ALFORD.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! and so they were too hard for thee
In Florence, Illworth?

ILLWORTH.
Curse their Italian craft!
Their dice be devils.

ALFORD.
So are ours sometimes.
Ha, James! what sayst thou? are they not, good James?

JAMES.
In your lordship's hands they are familiar devils,
That spoil men at your will; but have a care!
They will be paid at last their fees by you.

ALFORD.
How now! how now! homilies at the hazard table?
Gramercy, holy preacher! is your text
From theory, or experience?

JAMES.
From experience;
As your lordship's purse might let you know.

WILTON.
That's well!
If I were James, I'd flay him!

MOWBRAY.
Why don't you?
He owes you just as much; peace now, be still;
Here'll be a quarrel.

ALFORD.
Ha! ha! ha! poor Forrester!
He's stripp'd to the quick; you'd think he'd pledged his skin,
And lost it.

JAMES
(aside).
Shall I take him by the throat?
(Aloud).
Very well, sir,—'tis the winner's part to laugh.

ALFORD.
'Tis very clear you're not the winner, James;
You look about to cry.

JAMES
(aside).
'Sdeath! I will write to her,
And then end all at once.

ALFORD.
Come, Illworth, show us
The craft you spoke of:—how is it they play?

ILLWORTH.
Why, they stand round the table, as it were—
Here, spread the table—now, where be the dice?

MOWBRAY.
How many play at it?

ILLWORTH.
Why, all who will.

WILTON.
Forrester, come and see this foreign trickery.

JAMES.
Thanks! I have seen our English, which is good.

ALFORD.
Oh, let him be! he's like a hen i' the pip,
Best in the corner where he's thrust himself:
Go on. Well then, they all stand round the table,
And here we are.

ILLWORTH.
Now each in turn shall say
What the cast shall be, and put the stake down on it.

WILTON.
Well, here's my stake—mark though, for thy example
Only.

OMNES.
Ha! ha! here, here's for thy example.

MOWBRAY.
Forrester, come and wager for example.

JAMES.
I have done so already, for your example;
Let my loss be your gain.

ILLWORTH.
'Tis a curious game, sir,
Well worth your eye.

FORRESTER.
'Tis very likely, sir,
Yet pray excuse me.

ILLWORTH.
Even as you will.

ALFORD.
Come, James, ne'er mope; what though Sir John be come,
Hasn't he slack'd the leading-strings yet?

JAMES.
Sir!

ALFORD.
Why God a mercy, friend! don't eat me!

JAMES.
My lord,
Let me but put two words more to this paper,
And I will speak with you; by your good leave,
Let me be private for a moment.

ALFORD.
Certainly:
He's writing to his mistress; she's forbid him
To touch the dice—he's play'd, the naughty boy,
And now is begging to be spared his whipping.

JAMES
(aside).
Very well, I hear you,—very well; within there.

MOWBRAY.
Come, Illworth, here—here lie our stakes all round.

[Enter a Servant.
JAMES.
Send hither my man.

[Exit Servant.
ILLWORTH.
Now, I will hold the dice,
And as you each call out the cast, that one,
Who names the number even as it falls,
Sweeps all away.

WILTON.
How if none hit the right?

ILLWORTH.
The stake is his that throws.

MOWBRAY.
But how, if two,
Or more, should say alike?

ILLWORTH.
If they hit right,
The profit lies between them.

ALFORD.
A pretty game!
Come now, begin.

[Enter a Servant.
JAMES.
Eustace, if presently,
My brother should come here, and I be—gone—
Or else—no matter, if I am not here,
Here is a letter for him, and hark in thine ear.

[Whispers to him.
EUSTACE.
I shall, sir.

JAMES.
Bring them now at once.

[Exit Eustace.
MOWBRAY.
Hallo!
I said 'twas quatre ace, and so it is.
Fair play! fair play! good foreign conjuror!

ILLWORTH.
You did not say so—or I heard you not.

WILTON.
He did, he did, I heard him; you, my Lord,
Did you not hear?

ALFORD.
I never hear.

MOWBRAY.
No matter;
Hear or not hear who will, I swear I said it;
I said it, and, by Jove! I'll stand to it.

WILTON.
I heard you say it—

SEVERAL.
So did I, and I.

ILLWORTH.
Hoite toite! cats in a high wind!

[Re-enter Eustace, bringing a case of pistols.
EUSTACE.
Here, sir.

JAMES.
Are they loaded, primed, and ready? Very good.
You've got that letter for my brother? Here
Is one for Mistress Mary Winthrop. You
Will ride at break of day to the Judge's house,
And give it her—yourself; be sure, yourself.

EUSTACE.
Is your honour going on a journey?

JAMES.
Yes—
On a long journey, Eustace.

EUSTACE.
Please you, sir,
Nothing's prepared, or in fit order yet.

JAMES.
That's true, indeed! I know it very well!
Good Eustace, get thee gone; think of my letters.
What a hell's turmoil! get thee gone.

[Exit Eustace.
ILLWORTH.
Let be,
Let him swear out his gizzard; what is't to me!

JAMES
(rising).
Now, I am for you.

OMNES.
Forrester! Forrester!
Judge thou this matter!

JAMES.
No; pray pardon me;
I have a game to play on mine own account.
When that is over, I will hear this question.

ALFORD.
Why, well said! Now, my melancholy man!
Hang it; although thy good St. John of a brother—

JAMES.
Let be my brother, if you please, my lord.
Your lordship challenged me to throw the dice
Just now; and so I would, but that indeed
You have fish'd clean to the bottom of my pouch,
And I have nothing left for you to sport with.

WILTON.
What ails that man? D'ye mark how pale he looks?

MOWBRAY.
That's what you call white heat—hotter than red.

ALFORD.
What, nothing?

JAMES.
Nothing; not the wherewithal,
Unless I sit at my brother's board, to get
My supper for to-night or morrow's dinner.
'Tis a plain case; nothing is right soon counted.
Now, having nothing for a mess of broth
To stay my stomach on when next I hunger,
What shall I venture against you, my good lord?

ALFORD.
Will not thy credit serve thee with the Jews?

JAMES.
That's bye and bye; I would be playing now.

ALFORD.
What! nor thy generous brother lend thee a stiver!

JAMES.
Perhaps he might; but he is not at hand,
Although I look for him from hour to hour.
I would be playing now.

ALFORD.
I'll tell thee, James;
Thy manory of Wentworth—'tis a thought,
An excellent thought!—ha! ha! an excellent thought.

JAMES.
No doubt: what is't?

ALFORD.
Thou hast it yet?—that farm?
With all its goodly meadow land, and timber,
The lusty growth that hath been rising there,
For thy necessity, these hundred years?

JAMES.
Yes, sir,
I have it yet; (aside)
—it should have been my home
When I was married, that old farm: (aloud)
—well, sir?

ALFORD.
Is't mortgaged?

JAMES.
No.

ALFORD.
What, sound? no corner touched?

JAMES.
That's wonderful, my lord—is't not to you?

ALFORD.
Why, thou canst raise a fortune on it, man.

JAMES.
Hereafter; but I would be playing now.

OMNES.
I'll lend thee, Forrester!—or I!—or I!

JAMES.
Oh, thank ye! thank ye! honest gentlemen!
(Aside).
Good fellow gulls, have ye so much left to lend?

ALFORD.
Hark, James, I'm bent to have that farm of thine.

JAMES.
Damn him! my blood boils o'er in spite of myself!
With all my heart; shall I make a deed of gift,
Or play for it with your lordship?

ALFORD.
Deed of gift!
No, no; thou'rt jesting. Come, we'll throw for it.

JAMES.
With all my heart; how shall the venture stand?

ALFORD.
Thus: he that throws the two best casts of three,
Shall call it his, and if thou winn'st, it quits thee
Of all thou owest me. Is it agreed?

JAMES.
Agreed;
Upon a bargain, worthiest sir, that when
That game is o'er, you play another one
On my conditions.

ALFORD.
I will wager thee,
When thou hast lost thy farm, thou hast not left
The heart, to throw another die.

JAMES.
Then, sir,
I'll borrow yours. Your lordship's heart, d'ye hear
Which seems to be of the hardest that are made,
Your upright, noble, generous, kind heart.
Look, worthy Sir, who plays with desperate men
Must play a desperate game; do you see these?
These playthings here? here lie they at my hand.
Now, win or lose this manor, an ye list;
He that shall throw the two best casts of three,
When that is done, shall have first aim and fire.
An excellent thought, my lord! ha! ha! an excellent thought.
Is it agreed?

ALFORD.
Agreed.

MOWBRAY.
What is't you do?

WILTON.
James! for the love of heaven, play not this stake!

ILLWORTH.
Be counsell'd yet, sir—

WILTON.
James! James Forrester!

MOWBRAY.
He ne'er was known to lose.

ALFORD.
Nor will not now;
Come, James, you're angry; give this mad game o'er,
I do not care to throw with thee—

JAMES.
My lord,
I'm ready.

MOWBRAY.
Some one run to his brother's lodging.

JAMES.
No one that loves me stir. Good gentlemen,
If any here are friends to an unthrift,
That never yet was friend unto himself,
Stand by, and see fair play; 'tis all I ask.
Now then, sir, throw; trois, quatre!

ALFORD.
And trois, ace!
You've the better, sir.

JAMES.
Again, doubletts!

ALFORD.
Trois, six!
Now for the third; trois, quatre!

JAMES.
Quatre, ace!
The manor's yours! now, Sir, we'll try how long
You shall enjoy it.

WILTON.
This is murder!
[Enter Sir John Forrester.
Oh!
Thank God you've come! here is your brother James
Playing with that thief of a lord for his life.

FORRESTER.
Stand by;
Hush! stand awhile, and speak not!

WILTON.
Sir, the stake
Is who shall have first aim, and fire at the other!

FORRESTER.
Peace, for awhile! let's see.

ALFORD.
Give up the rest.

JAMES.
Play my lord, play! deux, ace!

ALFORD.
Why, take it then,
Fool, an thou wilt! trois, deux!

MOWBRAY.
This is most horrible!

JAMES.
Our merry game will presently be over,
You've the best of me; trois, quatre!

ALFORD.
Trois, deux! so,
Thou'st yet one chance of living to grow wiser,
Improve it, James, if thou should'st win the match.

JAMES.
Trois, quatre!

ALFORD.
Quatre, cinq!

FORRESTER
(striking him).
Villain and thief!
That die is loaded!

OMNES.
Loaded! a loaded die!
Seize on it!—prove it!

ALFORD.
Your greeting's short, and short
Is my reply—take that!

[Fires a pistol at him.
FORRESTER.
Oh! I am dead!

OMNES.
Secure him!
Call the watch!

JAMES
(seizing the other pistol).
Devil!

FORRESTER
(wrests it from him).
No! you shall do no murder,
To wound me worse than this leaden death within me.
What! shall he die by the hand of a gentleman
Who hath lived like a felon?

ALFORD.
How shalt thou prevent it?

FORRESTER.
James! I do charge thee with this latest breath,
Whose ebbing checks my speech, pursue that man
To the very utmost limit of the law,
And spare him not; but let his noble name
Receive at the high tribunal of his peers
The dignities himself hath graced it with,
Of dicer—murderer—and thief!

WILTON.
The watch!
The city watch!

MOWBRAY.
Call them!

ALFORD.
Ha! let me pass!

MOWBRAY.
They are knocking now.

ALFORD.
Let me pass, I say!

[Enter the Watch.
WILTON.
They're here!
Take your precedence, noble sir, to the gallows!

MOWBRAY.
Good master officer! here's been a murder
Done in broad day, before us all, ev'n now;
Here lies a gentleman, wounded to death
By this lord; we all can witness to the deed.

WILTON.
Further, here lie the dice his lordship uses—
Curious ones.

OFFICER.
Will you follow?

ALFORD.
Fellow, keep off!

WILTON.
To be sure; don't touch him, he's a lord! I hope
They'll hang his lordship with a silken rope.

ALFORD.
Cowardly cur! that durst not show thy teeth
Till the bear was noosed!

OFFICER.
Come, sir, will you walk?

ALFORD.
Go on.
Farewell, sweet sirs! I've lived upon ye all
For some time past; 'tis fit I thank you for't:
So, thank ye, excellent fools, that I have fed on.
God send ye wits, to cram your bellies with,
And mend the holes I've made in your estates.

JAMES.
Hence! take him hence!
[Exeunt Alford and Watch.
Wilt thou be carried home?
Canst thou move?

FORRESTER.
No!—I fear time scarce will serve.
James, do not mourn, nor let thy spirit grieve
That I am dead. I often, in my life,
Did marvel to what use or end I lived;
I know it now, and die rejoiced to think of it.
Henceforth my blood, and not these painted spots,
Will speck the dice that thou shalt look upon;
And thou shalt fear to rattle them again,
As if they were my bones. The blood has soaked
All through my doublet: raise me up—O God!
Farewell, poor brother! Weep not! weep not! weep not!

[He dies.
JAMES.
Oh, sirs, he's dead!

MOWBRAY.
James, we will carry him
Home in our arms: have comfort, sir!—so—so—
Flesh never wrapp'd a nobler soul than his.
Bear we his body honourably hence,
Whose memory shall live in our hearts for ever.

[Exeunt, bearing the body.

Scene 4.

A room in Winthrop's house. Anne sitting by the window, Mary watching her.
ANNE.
The shadow has crept on.

MARY.
Why do you watch it so?
You have scarcely turn'd your eyes for the last half-hour;
What do you see?

ANNE.
Oh, is it half-an-hour?
The light is almost swallow'd up by the shade.

MARY.
What light? what shade? Say, love, what are you watching?

ANNE.
The evening sun upon the gravel walk,
And the shadow of that yew tree.

MARY.
What do you start at?

ANNE.
Come here and look.

MARY.
What is't? ah! now I see.

ANNE.
Did you see that shadow?

MARY.
Yes, my brother's shadow.
Is this why every day, as the sun goes down,
You sit at this window, straining your poor eyes;
Is it to see his shadow as he walks?

ANNE.
Methinks, each evening, it stoops more and more,
Inclining to the grave I have dug for him.
Oh! if the light could only shine there still,
And he still walk, and I still see his shadow!
But the sun is almost set. Mary, does he walk
After sunset ever?

MARY.
Oh, yes, till after midnight
He oft continues pacing up and down.

ANNE.
Oh! if I could but hear his feet on the ground
After the darkness takes away his shadow!
I am too bold to dare to wish so much;
Do you not think so?

MARY.
No, dear; let me smooth
This pillow underneath your cheek; how fares it?

ANNE.
Dying—dying; thou shalt soon, O thou sweet saint!
Minister to my misery no more.
For thy compassion and humility
In tending one so vile, God will requite thee.
My lips have lost the power to speak blessings.
The shadow eats the light up, inch by inch;
Ah, cruel, cruel!

MARY.
Lay your head down,—so;
You can still watch the sunset. You grow paler;
Art worse?

ANNE.
No, but the warmth about my heart
Seems dying out with that departing light.
'Tis gone; never again! never again!

MARY.
This is the time when you are wont to sleep:
Come, shut those eyes up, that they drop no tears.
Come, I will sing to you.

ANNE.
Thy song shall be
My dirge: let it be solemn, slow, and sad;
On earth I shall never hear sweet music more.

MARY.
Do you lie easily?

ANNE.
Yes: I shall slide
Even from this very chair into my grave.
Is it dug deep? will it hide my sin and shame?
Sing, seraph, sing, while I sink down into it.
Sleep holds me; I do think I shall not wake.

MARY
(sings).
Sleep, do not dream—dream not, but only rest,
Poor weary heart! forget thou art alive.
God's mercy holds thee as a mother's breast.
Cease, thou sad soul, to suffer and to strive.
Dream not, but sleep—sleep through the dismal night:
Beloved, when thou wak'st it shall be light.

[MARY.]
Fast! fast! how pale! how thin! oh, misery!
How changed! she surely is about to die.
And shall my brother look on her no more?
That sweet young wife that he did dote on so!
Shall he see her body carried out from the door,
But never her? Oh, I will fetch him hither!
He'll surely, surely come to see her once—
But once before she dies. Oh, what a life
Has mine become! who thus, from day to day,
Stand here between them both, watching them waste
And waste with sorrow; all mine own poor hopes
Wreck'd on the treacherous coast of a light love;
And the summer morning of my happiness
Covered with weeping clouds and darkness.

ANNE.
Husband!

MARY.
It is the first time she has spoke that word.
Call'st thou upon him, poor heart, in thy sleep,
Whom waking thou dost almost quake to think on?
Yea—he shall come once more to answer thee,
Once more to hear thee speak; soft—soft—no noise.
[Exit Mary.

[Music plays while Anne sleeps.
ANNE.
Sweet music! heavenly strains! my soul is borne
Upon your gentle stream away—away.
There is forgiveness for the broken spirit.
Thou Merciful! forgive—forgive—forgive—

[Enter Mary and Winthrop.
MARY.
Lean on me, do—do—while you tremble so.
Gently; don't wake her; she is yet asleep;
Do not go near to her. Oh, pray!

WINTHROP.
Sin—sin—
Could there be any death else?

MARY.
O brother!
Now you are here, I fear what I have done.
Begone again before she wakes.

WINTHROP.
So young!
But one short draught of life, and so much bitter;
And now the cup is rudely snatch'd from thee,
And dust thrust in thy mouth!

MARY.
Come, come away,
If she does wake, the sudden sight of you
Will kill her.

WINTHROP.
In a little while this body,
The temple once of beauty, oh, how rare!
Now desecrated, ruin'd, and forsaken,
Shall be hid in the earth; they'll lay her i' the ground,
And I shall walk upon it still, and feel
The sun.

MARY.
O brother! if she wakes, have pity!
Be kind to her!

WINTHROP.
Be kind to her! O God!

MARY.
Hush! hush!

WINTHROP.
I have done this—I've murder'd her!
I, that must covet this fair flower, and snatch it
Out from the sunny garden where it grew,
To wither in an old man's wintry bosom!
That could not see, but push'd her tottering steps
Even to the dizzy verge of steep temptation.
But, oh! but, oh! she seem'd to me so excellent,
I did not recollect that she was mortal.

MARY.
Peace, she awakes! Stand from her sight awhile.
How is it, sweet? has thy sleep cheer'd thee?

ANNE.
Yes.
My spirit stands a tip-toe to begone;
Accursed fear has fled away for ever;
I am at peace. To have seen my husband once—
Once to have heard him utter ‘I forgive thee—’

WINTHROP.
I do forgive thee, wife! I do forgive thee!
So Heaven have mercy on me, as I do
Forgive thee with all my soul!

[Anne falls from her chair.
MARY.
You have been too sudden;
Her spirit hath hurried all affrighted hence.

[Winthrop raises her.
ANNE.
Oh, bless thee, bless thee, noble heart!

WINTHROP.
And thou,
Forgive thou me for having married thee
Unto conditions so unlike thine own.
Forgive my having thrust thee to the brink
And desperate precipice of thy temptation.
Forgive my sternness, and unyielding temper,
And all the rugged harshness of my nature.

ANNE.
Death, the divorcer, marries us anew.
When I am cold, and carried to that bed
That knows no fellowship, upon my hand
Put thou once more my wedding-ring—i' the church—
Put it upon my finger once again.

WINTHROP.
I will.

MARY.
Footsteps draw near; one knocks.

JAMES
(without).
'Tis I!

MARY.
O Heaven!

ANNE.
That is James Forrester; let him come in.

MARY.
No! no!

ANNE.
Let him come in.

WINTHROP
(opens the door).
Come in; you're welcome
To this solemn house, where death, with icy hands,
Is slackening all our dearest knots of life.

JAMES.
To such a house come I a fitting guest.
Behold my sable garb, and hear the sum
Of my great loss in few poor words: my brother
Is dead.

MARY.
Alas!

WINTHROP.
Sorrow comes thick on sorrow!
We shall be stripp'd.

JAMES.
Of the manner of the death,
Which leaves me lonely in the world, I'll tell ye
Anon; a devil—that devil Alford—slew him;
And yet I am his murderer.

MARY.
Hold! hold!
These news have stunn'd her; why, how pale, how still!
Brother, raise your arm, her head has fallen on it;
She sleeps.

WINTHROP.
Yes, the cold sleep; she will not wake
Till the dead wake, for she is dead.

JAMES.
O Heaven!

WINTHROP.
Two of the jewels of my life are gone;
The one, most precious, flaw'd, and stolen from me;
The other, seized, and rudely cast away.
Both by one hand—may God requite its dealings.
What now remains, but that I take my last,
And giving that away—like to a beggar
Whose scrip is empty, and whose alms are spent,
Stretch out my limbs, and die.

MARY.
Oh, brother! brother!
Are these the words with which you give me forth
To my new fortunes? Miserable maiden!
What joy shall ever smile upon my fate,
Whose earliest hours of love, and of betrothment,
Are spent amidst sights of death and sounds of mourning?

WINTHROP.
No, my sweet Mary—no, my darling child!
I am to blame, to blame, but bear with me;
And in the embers of my heart I'll rake,
And find some warmth there yet, to bless thee with.
Thy marriage peal shall be no funeral knell,
Nor shall a pall o'erhang thy bridal bed;
Let pass these days of mourning, and again,
Before I die, I'll smile to bid thee joy.

JAMES.
Cheer thee, dear love! comfort, my gentle Mary!

WINTHROP.
Come and live with me, here, until I die;
You are my heiress, all is here your own.
The waters of my life have run to bitterness,
And the failing fountain trickles cold and slow.
Let its last ebbing drops fall in the sunshine
Of your sweet love and holy happiness.