SCENE.--_Woodvil Hall_.

SANDFORD. MARGARET.

(_As from a Journey_.)

SANDFORD The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humour of dejection, that I have never seen any thing more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.

MARGARET How bears he up against the common rumour?

SANDFORD With a strange indifference, which whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.

MARGARET I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?

SANDFORD As of an a.s.sured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.

MARGARET I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.

SANDFORD I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively pa.s.sion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shewn. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him) and appeared to be touched with a sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.

MARGARET The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour should have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit.--Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?

SANDFORD An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.

MARGARET A good rest to us all.

SANDFORD Thanks, lady.

ACT THE FIFTH

JOHN WOODVIL (_dressing_).

JOHN How beautiful, (_handling his mourning_) And comely do these mourning garments shew!

Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly By outward types the serious man within.-- Alas! what part or portion can I claim In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, Which other mourners use? as namely, This black attire, abstraction from society, Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles, A cleaving sadness native to the brow, All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, (That steal away the sense of loss almost) Men's pity, and good offices Which enemies themselves do for us then, Putting their hostile disposition off, As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.

(_Pauses, and observes the pictures_.) These pictures must be taken down: The portraitures of our most antient family For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd, To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, And pointing to the pictures where they hung, Repeat by course their worthy histories, (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, And Ann the handsome, Stephen, and famous John: Telling me, I must be his famous John.) But that was in old times.

Now, no more Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.

I rather, I, by most unheard of crimes, Have backward tainted all their n.o.ble blood, Rased out the memory of an ancient family, And quite revers'd the honors of our house.

Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes?

The secret history of his own times, And fashions of the world when he was young: How England slept out three and twenty years, While Carr and Villiers rul'd the baby king: The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, b.a.l.l.s, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, And Beauties of the court of James the First.

_Margaret enters._

JOHN Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?

O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, And diminution of my honor's brightness.

You bring some images of old times, Margaret, That should be now forgotten.

MARGARET Old times should never be forgotten, John.

I came to talk about them with my friend.

JOHN I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.

MARGARET If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old play-fellows,) the spleen being gone, The offence no longer lives.

O Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, Under pretence of visiting my father, (Being then a stripling nigh upon my age) You came a wooing to his daughter, John.

Do you remember, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, (Young maidens must be chary of their speech,) I kept the honors of my maiden pride?

I was your favourite then.

JOHN O Margaret, Margaret!

These your submissions to my low estate, And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.

Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd s.e.x, Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, Could not so separate, but now in this My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

MARGARET Dost yet remember the green arbour, John, In the south gardens of my father's house, Where we have seen the summer sun go down, Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?

And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, There dwell

"Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure,"

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; And make confession seven times a day Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; And I your saint the penance should appoint-- Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid Aside, like an old fashion.

JOHN O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts, My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, I have no part in any good man's love, In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, I fade and wither in my own esteem, This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.

I was not always thus. (_Weeps_.)

MARGARET Thou n.o.ble nature, Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John, Upon her knees (regard her poor request) Your favourite, once-beloved Margaret, kneels.

JOHN What would'st thou, lady, ever-honor'd Margaret?

MARGARET That John would think more n.o.bly of himself, More worthily of high heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) O not for one offence mistrust heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come-- John yet has many happy days to live; To live and make atonement.

JOHN Excellent lady, Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

MARGARET (_rising_) Go whither, John?

JOHN Go in with me, And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

MARGARET That I will, John.-- (_Exeunt_.)

SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.