University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE: WHITEHALL PALACE.
Cromwell discovered seated.
Cromwell.
On me and on my children!
So said the voice last night! A lying dream!
This blood—this blood on me and on my children?
It is my wont to feel more heartiness
When face to face with action. But this deed
Doth wrap itself in doubt and fearfulness.
Do I well to confront him at this hour,
Even when yon scaffold waiteth for its victim,
And his pale face doth look like martyrdom?
I will not. Out upon my sinking heart!
The standard-bearer fainteth, and my followers
Grow slack. I'll hie me to them.—
And yet, if by the granting him his life
He abdicate—no shifts—he abdicate!
Then—then this offer of the Prince of Wales—
This young Charles Stuart—he in our absolute power,
As he doth promise if we spare his father.
Why if he come—I had not thought of that,—
Both son and father given to our hands:
Then have we scotched the snake!

Enter an Attendant, who hands Cromwell a letter.
Attendant.
My Lord-General—from the King!
[Exit Attendant.

Cromwell
(reads the letter).
Enter the Queen.

Queen
(aside).
Sainte Vierge, aidez moi! This is the man who holds
My husband's life within his hands. Ah! could I—
Sainte Marie, inspirez moi, mettez votre force dans mes prières.
I see him as the drowning swimmer sees
The distant headland he can never reach.
Sir, do not go. I wish to speak to you.

Cromwell.
Madam, I wait.

Queen.
Oh, Sir! the angels wait and watch your purpose:
Unwritten history pauses for your deed,
To set your name within a shining annal,
Or else to brand it on her foulest page!

Cromwell.
Madam, 'tis not for me to answer you.
And for unwritten history—thou nor I
Can brief it in our cause; 'twill speak the truth!
England condemns the King, and he shall die!

Queen.
Oh, pity! pity! Hast a human heart?
How canst thou look at me so cruelly?
I look for pity on thy stubborn cheek
As I might place a mirror to dead lips
To find one stain of breath.
The brightest jewel ever set in crown
Were worthless to the glisten of one tear
Upon thy lid—one faint hope-star of mercy.
Be merciful! A queen doth kneel to thee.

Cromwell.
Not to me! Nor am I now
A whit more moved because thou art a queen!

Queen.
I am no queen; but a poor stricken woman,
On whom this dreadful hour is closing in.
[Chimes the half-hour.
Dost hear the clock? Each second quivering on
Is full of horror for both thee and me.
Endless remorse thy doom, and sorrow mine.

Cromwell.
Madam, no more. I shall have no remorse
For an unhappy duty well perform'd.

Queen.
Thou call'st it duty; but all heaven and earth
Shall raise one outraged cry, and call it murder;
It shall be written right across the clouds
In characters of blood till Heaven hath judged it.

Cromwell.
Nay, you forget: the righteous cause doth prosper.
If this be crime, the hand of Heaven not in it,
Then had thy husband flourish'd; on our side
God's heavy judgment fallen, shame and slaughter!

Queen.
God speaketh not in thunder when he judges,
But in the dying moans of those we treasure.
And in the silence of our broken hearts!
Thou hast a daughter, and her cheek is pale;
Her days do balance between life and death.
Whether they wither or abide with thee.
Let him be cruel who hath none to love;
But let that father tremble who shall dare
Widow another's home! She loves the King.
Take now his sacred life, and hie thee home.
Smile on her, call her to thee, she will linger.
Ask for thy welcome, she will give it thee!
A shudder as she meets thee at the door;
A cry as thou wouldst think to touch her lips;
A sickening at thy guilty hands' caress!
The haunting of a mute reproach shall dwell
For ever in her eyes till they be dead!

Cromwell
(moved).
Silence! You speak you know not what. No more!
Thou voice within, why dost thou seem so far?
Shine out, thou fiery pillar! Bring me up
From the dead wilderness—

Queen.
Oh! yield not to that voice, hearken to mercy,
And I will join my prayers to thine henceforth
That thy Elizabeth may live for thee.

Cromwell.
Madam, I came here with intent of mercy,
And with a hope of life.

Queen.
Of life!—of life!

Cromwell.
I offer'd him his life—he scorn'd my offer!

Queen.
No—no—he shall not. I am somewhat faint;
The hope thou showest striketh me like lightning.
Life! didst thou say his life? Ask anything.

Cromwell.
If he would abdicate and quit the kingdom.

Queen.
And he shall do it. I will answer for it.
Give me but breathing-time to move him, Sir.

Cromwell.
Stay, madam. If we spare your husband's life
Your son has offer'd to submit his person
Into our hands, and set his sign and seal
To any proposition we demand.

Queen.
“Thou strikest a fountain for me in the rock,
“And ere my lips can touch it, it is dry!”
My husband first must abdicate, and then my son.—
What was the answer of the King to thee?

Cromwell.
He doth refuse our mercy, and elects
To carry to his death the name of King.

Queen.
When all was lost at Newark, and thy King
Was bought and sold by his own countrymen,
'Twas thou who with a fawning cozenage
Lured thy good master to undo himself.
To doubt where all his hope was to confide,
And blindly trust where every step was fatal!
'Twas thou, when the repenting Parliament
Were fain for reconcilement, brought thy soldiers—
Thou (jealous stickler for the Commons' rights)
Arrested every true man in the house,
And packed the benches with thy regicides!

Cromwell.
What, madam, is the purpose of this railing?

Queen.
Thou think'st to make the mother a decoy,
And holding the lost father in thy grip,
Secure the son who yet may punish thee!

[Chimes.—Three-quarters.
Cromwell.
Madam, the clock! say, what dost thou intend?

Queen.
To choke my sighs, to hide each bitter tear,
To keep a calm and stedfast countenance,
To mask my anguish from his Majesty.

Cromwell.
So! it were well; and then—

Queen.
Then we will both be faithful to ourselves,
Even unto death!

Cromwell.
Will you not, madam, use your influence?

Queen.
Never! My husband, sir, shall die a King!

Cromwell.
Thou shadow of a King, then art thou doom'd! I wash mine hands of it.
(Aside.)
What melancholy doth ravin on my heart?
Thou child of many prayers, Elizabeth!—
I'll to the Generals. Fairfax relents
That will not I. My hand is on the plough;
I will not look behind.
[Exit Cromwell.

Enter Huntley and the Children.
Queen.
My lord, I thank thee. I am glad thou art come.

Huntley
(with emotion).
Methinks those Roundheads do make light of me,
Or I this morning might have got some honour.

Queen.
Honour!

Huntley.
To share my master's martyrdom.

[The Queen extends her hand in silence. Huntley kisses it.]
Queen
(to Huntley aside).
Do they know?

[Huntley shakes his head.
Prince Henry.
Mother, we come to bring dear father back.

Queen.
Sweethearts, you come to say adieu to him,
Perhaps for a long time—yes, a long time,
So he and I are very sad to-day.

Elizabeth.
“And we have no one now to tell us tales!”

Queen.
Children, you'll see your father presently.
Oh, be so kind, and love him; put no question.
Mes chéries! Look at him all brave and smiling.
Give him one sweet, long kiss, and say good-bye!
Stay with Lord Huntley. I will call your father.

[Enter Charles.
King
(to Queen).
My own sweet angel!
(To Children.)
What, my sweethearts, too!
(To Huntley.)
Ah! faithful friend! Thou here?

Huntley
(kneeling).
My liege!

King
(raising him).
Rememberest thou my coronation morning,
When from the balconies, in smiling clusters,
Bent down to greet me England's chivalry,
And all along a bright cleft sea of welcome?
Upon that morn I had no sprightlier cheer,
Trust me, no sweeter speed, no surer hope
Than I shall carry forth with me to-day.
Is thy son well?

Huntley.
My liege, I am less grieved than proud to say
My son fought stoutly in your cause—he fell

King.
I can repay thee such a precious debt
With only thanks and tears! A day may come,—
Huntley—methinks thou art young enough to see it—
When the young King comes back to take his own:
I do bequeath to him my debts of love.
Farewell!

Huntley
(overcome).
Farewell! my liege.
[Exit Huntley.

King.
I had hoped that thou wouldst come with such fond longing,
That of my very longing came despair.

Queen
(to Charles).
The children—speak to them. I'll soon be calm.

King
(to Elizabeth, in a cheerful tone).
Well, sweetheart, do you like your holiday?

Elizabeth.
Father, and must you go away?

Queen.
Hush! hush!

King
(to Henry).
And you, my little truant! I have heard
That you begin to ride, and grow so stout.
Art thou not glad, thy mother hath come back?

Elizabeth.
Father, come back to Hampton Court with us.
The walks are cover'd with such bonnie pine-cones;
And, father, we might have a sail with you.

King.
Sweetheart, I am going from you for awhile;
And since thou'rt grown a tall man and a true,
I want thee to take trusty care of mother.
Thou'lt never grieve her, Henry, promise me;
And thou wilt talk of me right pleasantly,
Walk by her side, and prithee speak of me
As if I were at home—nay, walking with thee.

Elizabeth.
Tell us a story, father, say a ballad.

King
(to Henry).
Sweetheart, if they should want to make thee King
While Charles, thy loving brother, is alive,
Promise me now thou never wilt consent.

Henry.
Father, I shall be torn in pieces first!

King.
Brave boy! brave boy! It is a sacred promise.
(To Queen).
Now, mother,—sweethearts, run ye to the window;
Horses and soldiers, and bright morning clouds!
A bonny sight!—there, run and look at them.

[Children go to window.
Queen.
Do not speak much to me: I would be firm
Till—hold me to thy heart, but do not speak.

King.
There, there, bear up.

Queen.
How hast thou suffer'd! On thy dear worn cheek
I see a history I dare not read.
These dear grey hairs! Oh, sweetheart, where was I
As this hoar frost of sorrow grew upon thee?

King.
Mary, we both are changed; and yet, and yet
It seems but yesterday, bright yesterday,
Since first I met thee, a young flutter'd stranger,
Who came all trust, yet trembling, to mine arms.
Methinks I see upon thy rippled hair
The olden sunshine, and the woven shadows
Of moving leaves that floated o'er thy dress.

Queen.
Our brightest joys, still like the fatal opal,
Were bright yet baleful, sweet yet sinister.

King.
I have set by some little farewell tokens—
Dumb things that speak without the pain of words.
This emerald ring's for little Henriette;
Her tiny finger cannot fill it now;
In after years it will shine tenderly.

Queen.
I'll keep it for her.

King.
Within yon ebon cabinet you'll find
A little book; some idle thoughts of mine,
Which to a loving ear may have some music.
Give it to my Elizabeth from me.
Here is a locket, with our hairs in plait;
Send it to Mary—'tis a pretty emblem
Of our young married life begun so brightly.

Queen.
What more? I would do something. I can't speak.

King.
Nay, nothing more.
This miniature that I have kiss'd so often,
Till, like the pilgrim's lips, love left its trace
On the worn velvet!
This I will carry with me to the grave!
Cursed be the hand that robs it from my bosom!

Queen.
I am jealous of its place. Cursed be the hand
That strikes at thee, and does not kill me too!

King.
Oh, my loved solace on my thorny road,
Sweet clue in all my labyrinth of sorrow,
What shall I leave to thee?
To thee I do consign my memory!
Oh, banish not my name from off thy lips
Because it pains awhile in naming it.
Harsh grief doth pass in time into far music;
Red-eyed Regret that waiteth on thy steps
Will daily grow a gentle, dear companion,
And hold sweet converse with thee of thy dead.
I fear me I may sometime fade from thee,
[Queen presses to him.
That when the heart expelleth grey-stoled grief
I live no longer in thy memory:
Oh! keep my place in it for ever green,
All hung with the immortelles of thy love,
That sweet abiding in thine inner thought
I long for more than sculptured monument
Or proudest record 'mong the tombs of Kings.

[Soldiers enter, drawing up on either side of door. Bell tolls. Whilst the Queen seems to stiffen in grief, Charles kneels, kisses her, and goes to door.
King
(mournfully).
Remember!