 | The Tragic Mary |  |
Scene III
—Whittingham; beneath the aged yew-tree; Lethington is discovered, leaning on one of the scaly, red boughsLethington
Ay, you big snow-clouds, pile your virulence
Over the swarthy yew-tree. Let the white
Be blackened, and the sooty swathed in snow;
'Tis the world's process of transfiguration,
And thwarted issues. I am dolorous, sick,
And savage, a pined bridegroom—married but
On Twelfth Night, Feast of the Epiphany,
And thrust from my sweet bride ere she had learnt
Half the infinitude of that affection
Reserved for conjugal unbosoming.
I told my pretty lass I would create
And then receive her happiness; 'tis plain
Of all the parts of man I am most fitted
To play the bridegroom: the slow dalliance suits
The quietness of my nature; and to win
My ends by love and sheer persistency
Is to give favouring exit to the grace,
The living fount within, that I attempt
Vainly to dam. There is no brute in me;
This Bothwell must contrive the bloody work
Of which the apprehension turns me sick.
I must acquaint my love of my bruised rest,
My terrors and imaginings.
(Jotting down a note)
Sweet Mary,
The omens are not auspicious. I fear thy bridegroom
will come to an ill end. For last night in a dream I encountered,
as it were, a mangled funeral. I saw the tressels
and the staves, the peacock and the dog. The peacock would
not look at me; but the dog paused as before some decayed
matter. Dear, in my anguish at his snuffling, I struggled
so violently that the vision broke. 'Tis the cradle of your
warm breast that I lack. You alone can rescue me from
these ill dreams. Yours, to deliver from the dogs,
To my breast, and to mingle there with much foul
matter. How now! Yonder is Morton, parting with the
castellan, a sunny bluster on his brow.
My lord, you have a rosy face.
Morton
I have slept well in this air; it is my own.
Lethington
You mean your native air?
Morton
Mine, man, as the fish are in yonder stream.
It fans my harvests: shall I own the wheatfields and
not the breeze that bows them? It carries my feeding
rains into the valley; it sweeps my hills.
Lethington
'Twas the queen's bounty gave you
Whittingham.
Morton
The queen gave it; she shall by no means
she reaches her twenty-fifth year. I enjoy a goodly
heritage. When my paths drop fatness, I take it as a
sign I am one of God's elect; a man with a lean patrimony
is but a browsing goat. I feed among the green
pastures: that reminds me whose I am. I have been
lying fallow in the south; but, Maitland, my blank
ground is not unsown; it bosoms a young crop. Ah,
ah, my vengeance is lusty in me.
Lethington
But you must not blink
With such an eager eye. This death-chill morning,
And the grim velvets of the yew forebode:—
Cheerless for conference; yet a colloquy
I' the open air is safer than within.
I have myself made search beneath the shadow
Of the dark flats and found all tenantless.
Morton
But hold! where's Moray; he is one of us?
Lethington
Escaped from troubles, as the dove that fled
The ark when beasts grew quarrelsome within;
He will return anon, the twig of peace
And innocency in his mouth: meanwhile
I am enforced to break my honeymoon.
My marriage-morning when our sovereign bowered
My lady in the veil, a messenger
Brought word of the king's sickness; of a sudden
She softened, breaking as a wintry cloud
To prophecy of April.
There was rumour
Moray had tried with fireworks at the feast
Of the ambassadors . . .
Lethington
To take him off
By powder, and it failed. You see yon track
Of frosty breath? (Pointing to Bothwell riding swiftly)
It is our task to order,
Being circumspect, the footsteps of a fool,
To steer leviathan,
And regulate the plunges of the whale.
Moray is cautious; yonder is a man
Who will confound a murder with a brawl.
I leave you to give ear to his proposals;
I can but nurture, others must conceive.
(Peering at Bothwell through the boughs as he approaches)
I could pray—pray—in my detestation of him, and I am at
my very worst when I conceive a mind for prayer. 'Tis
a summoning of the legions of angels the Holiest abjured.
Yet to find incontinent a wish full in one's heart, a firm
desire! I will give it shape: Heaven blast him! So, it
is articulate, whizzed out into the air.
Exit
Enter Bothwell
Morton
This is mad riding in the frost—you steam.
Bothwell
The man is sick; it baffles me. God's blood,
I know not whither; there is nought to do.
Morton
But for our present purpose, if the lad
Be like to die . . .
Bothwell
She will recover him;
I tell you she can lift up from the grave,
Just stooping o'er one.
Morton
Well, if he recruit . . .
Bothwell
One cannot stick one's hanger in a man
That's sick and dribbling. Were there but a field
To win, a universe to harry—not
This puling voice to stop!
Morton
Come, come! The deed,
Though it seem paltry, may have fine effect.
You would be king, and shall be, as reward
For my good pardon purchased by your love.
Compress yourself to rationality!
You have the queen's own hand-writ?
Bothwell
God, her great,
Committing glances. She pours forth the truth
Fast as the sun his arrows. Bless the lass!
For I would trail a pike to the world's end
For love of her.
Re-enter Lethington
Lethington
(To Bothwell)
Good morrow, earl.
Morton
(To Lethington)
You come
Lethington
A doubting, anxious letter from the queen;
Her lord is mending and needs change of air,
How say you, shall he lie at Kirk o' Fields,
Since he mislikes Craigmillar? 'Tis a site
Not much frequented, pleasant for the sick.
Morton
Has Balfour offered it?
Lethington
With free access
To all our company.
Bothwell
This Kirk o' Fields,
You say . . . I care not, so she carry him,
Stretched on a litter, to the wilderness.
Lethington
But for the manner of the action?
Morton
Pick
A quarrel with him, end him in a brawl.
Bothwell
I will not touch the leper.
Lethington
Tempt him out
Into the country on a sunny day,
And let the maskers wait upon his steps.
Bothwell
Let the earth swallow him! I do not need
That you should lean your brows upon your arm
To pencil me my plan. Some accident,
Some loosening of the walls—for we can dig
And burrow if the tenement be ours—
Shall raise him up a mound: we will provide
His burial; ask no question of his death!
I will not face a tremulous, sick man.
Morton
Lethington,
This lusty loyalist will be found a bridegroom
After our princess' heart.
Bothwell
(Fiercely, to Lethington)
Discredit me,
Speak low to Cecil of my impudence,
Hint to Elizabeth of my ambition
To give her unblessed, sterile throne an heir. . . .
Morton
(Quickly drawing Bothwell away)
What matter! Woo the woman afterward—
Will they or nill they, in the end 'tis one.
But look you, Bothwell, I am now at ease
On my estates, and a hoarse gratitude
To her who has re-seated me prevents
My open share in your conspiracy,
Unsanctioned by her warrant. Tell me now,
You who are high in favour, how the cause
Hath been advanced.
Bothwell
The true Evangel! Why,
The prince, you know, was christened Catholic,
And the queen wasted tears entreating me
To hold the grease, the candle, and the salt.
I will protest till she be Protestant;
She shows faint opposition when I rave,
A melting coldness.
Morton
The ambassadors
Marked how she put you in the foremost rank.
Bothwell
Until she went to Glasgow. Now, I swear
(They pass out, talking)
Lethington
To widow her! Does my policy involve
a marriage? There is a certain dunness about my heart
that disarms: I was witness of that hand-fasting at Hermitage—and
there is a kind that goeth not out save by
marriage; in peculiar, female cases espousal is a process
of exorcism. Whew, whew! What a vast desire I
have to whistle, to confide my shrewdness to the wind.
Re-enter Morton
Morton
Heigh-ho! Where have your wits been?
Kill a husband, and not be hot upon his wife! Do you
think I have listened to English gossip for nothing? 'Tis
in all people's mouths that Bothwell was king-consort at
the christening. He will get this hand-writ.
Lethington
He will not. Unfold further.
Morton
He shall rise to his ruin step by step; we
exalt him to a scaffold. Ere a twelve-month, I tell you,
we shall have the government in the hands of men, foes
of Papistry and friends of England. Come, Mr. Secretary,
is not this the mark you shot at from the first?
What has blanched you, man? 'Tis this damned, still
air. Into the house! Let us eat and drink.
(Standing
by Lethington, and watching Bothwell riding across
the plain.)
Does his ambition vex you? He fares forth
under the scowl of heaven, though he canter to his
So, he will see him into the wood.
Exit
Lethington
How I dislike the supernatural! How
my appeal to it shames me! For to clamour there must
be instant largesse. Fate accomplishes because she is
deaf.
Exit
| The Tragic Mary | |