University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—A library in an old country house. Alice and her grandmother, Mrs. Bellamy.
Mrs. Bellamy.

But now that you are back, Alice, the sunshine
is warm again. Tell me, child, what saw you in
London? Ah, how well I mind me! years, years
ago! gentlemen wore their shoes slashed then, as
King Henry was gouty. A fine man, Alice; nay, a
fine young man, though when I say this you will
smile, seeing that to you he is ancient history!
How do men cut their coats now—after France?

Alice
(wearily).

I know not, dearest 'mother, but methinks France
and Spain are the fashion with the Papists.

Mrs. Bellamy.

Ah well, 'tis true these be but small things, as
compared to the kingdom of God! Your beauty,
child, is a shadow: heed it not, as once I heeded
mine. Ah! had you gone to Court, you might have
heard sad tales of me! Well, well, one is not o'er
wise at seventeen. Your grandfather was one of the
handsomest men of his time. Folks praised us both.

Alice.

And he loved you?—above Court favour, above
plots and counterplots, and brake not his faith unto
you?

Mrs. Bellamy.

Loved me! Ah, could you but have seen his
love, 'twas the talk of the town! And then his
jealousy!

Alice.

You never gave him cause?

Mrs. Bellamy.

Not wittingly, child, not wittingly; but I had only
to speak a kind word to a Court gallant, only to show
the tip of my shoe—so (my feet were always small)
only to lift my hand—so (Holbein has painted my,

hand), and your grandfather seemed in one moment
transformed into the Evil One. How he stormed
and raved! How he reviled and cursed me! But
I am foolish, Alice, thus to dwell on the pleasures of
youth! Read to me from the Scriptures. We wait
for God's kingdom.

[Crosses herself.
Alice
(reproachfully).

Dear 'mother, remember you are now of the new
faith, and these popish signs should be as nothing
to you.

Mrs. Bellamy.

As you say, child, with us these things are as
nothing, and I am grieved at the contumacy of your
uncle, my youngest son, who will not conform himself
to the Protestant faith. Howbeit, 'tis an old habit,
which comes natural to one born, as I was, a Papist,
and who waited, as I have told you, upon the mother
of the late Queen Mary, Mrs. Bullen being my fellow-tirewoman.
But tell me more of London. What did
you on the eve of my wedding-day? A day you had
good cause to remember, sweet one, since without it
you had not been here at my knee.

Alice.

Ah, grandmother, I had a dream, and such a
dream! I shudder as I think of it! My very flesh
creeps—and it was on your wedding-day too. Do
you believe, dear grandmother, in visions?

Mrs. Bellamy.

There be visions and visions, grandchild; and
though nine out of ten may come of an ill-baked
pasty, or of wine too young in the wood, yet we read
of visions in God's word; and I have heard say that
without baking or boiling, or drinking wine, there
have been visions. Some are of God.

Alice.
This was my horrid dream: I was in London—
In London and alone—and Anthony
(My Anthony I deem'd not long ago,
Ere he had broken faith to me and mine)
Had said to me, “Sweet Alice, I am thine
In life and death.” Methought he said the words
At some high altar, but the priest was hid,
So saw I not his vestments, neither knew
If he were of the new faith or the old,
Nor wist I how the nuptial church was deck'd—
If trick'd in popish-wise—

Mrs. Bellamy.
It bodes ill luck
To dream of being in a church in white.
Go on.

Alice.
You know 'tis good to be belov'd,
And know your true love beautiful. Anon
You made your boast of him you wedded once—
My grandfather—his love, his jealousy,
His noble presence. All the pride of heart
You felt in those far days before my birth
Felt I, dear mother, seeing Anthony
Stand by me, straight and tall, beside the steps
Of that high altar; but, as all my heart
Uplifted in its gratitude to heaven,
Most suddenly the altar was transform'd
Into a grilling furnace, through whose bars
The red-hot fierceness scorch'd my very cheek.
I turn'd away to shun the angry glare,
And met the fix'd eyes of the hooded priest,
Till then conceal'd—the man that married us.

Mrs. Bellamy.
It bodes a very burning up of love
To dream that you are married near a fire.

Alice.
Hear on, sweet 'mother, so your dear gray hair
Wax not the whiter as I tell my tale.

Mrs. Bellamy.
Oh, child, a dream—only an idle dream.
We all of us have had our foolish dreams.
Mine were as strange as any. I remember—

Alice.
Nay, hear me out. The hidden hooded priest
Here turn'd on me his eyes—two coals of fire—
And then I saw his face—a peelèd skull—
As though 'twere Death's own semblance—and his hands
Rattled against the glowing altar-rails,
Naked and fleshless, as he leant thereon,
The better to behold me. Then the church,
Aisle, nave, and choir, seemed crowded with dim forms,
Shrouded and hooded, swarming thick as rooks
Gleaning a field of barley. At the first
I thought that suddenly the sheeted dead
Had risen thousand strong from where they'd lain
Down in the damp church vaults, their tablet stones
Uplifting, for some strange accomplishment
Of God's high purpose—but, in truth, I wrong'd
The sainted dead.

Mrs. Bellamy.
What were they? Tell me, child.

Alice.
Fiends, 'mother. Could they have been else than fiends?
Although their features, hidden under cowls,
Show'd not to shock me, yet methought their shrouds
Hung down fan-folded, like a bat's limp wing
That tires of flitting. But e'en as I gazed
Leap'd they the fenced partitions of the aisle,
And came towards us, as a thunder cloud
Darkens the last faint patch of summer sky.
Then, sparing me, they closed on Anthony,
And drawing from beneath their folded cloaks
Falchions and pointed weapons, with the same,
With one accord, those nearest of the fiends
Cleft him asunder, as they cleave a traitor
Quick after hanging, till his sever'd head
Came rolling to me (oh, my love! my love!),
I watching, dumb with horror, all my brow
Beading with anguish, for so warm the blood
That ran from him so lately warm with life
And love of me, I could not choose but deem
He knew and lov'd me still, and that pale brow
Held soul and sense of Anthony. My grief
Outweighing maiden fear, I stooped to kiss
And bid farewell unto my true love's face,
Deeming his dear lips waited for my kiss
And last farewell, but as I bent me down
The blackest of the demons bent him too,
And, snatching at the helpless waiting mouth
By its poor boyish undergrowth of beard,
He flung it in the furnace 'fore mine eyes,
That stared in agony.

Mrs. Bellamy.
Oh, horrible!

Alice.
And, dearest 'mother, I, who dare not look
Even at the maim'd body of a toad
Crush'd by a cart-wheel, looking, saw all this;
The tenderness I felt for ev'ry shred
That once had seem'd my lover, making fear
My second care—my first that he should heed,
All mangled as he was, my last fond words,
And bless me ere he burnt. So lately lived
My Anthony, that all my mind refused
To know him kill'd; I deem'd but his young life
Dispersed, yet sentient. My Anthony—
Nay, twenty Anthonys, dash'd on the ground,
As one might spill red sacramental wine
(Wherein, as Papists deem, God's spirit lives,
Who worship Him in ev'ry crimson stain),
So seem'd these bleeding fragments of poor flesh
My Anthony—all marr'd and murder'd thus—
Helpless to clasp and kiss, or say farewell,
But still my Anthony—still loving me—
Not turn'd into a foe.

Mrs. Bellamy.
Most terrible!
And was he dead, his young life shiver'd thus
To twenty atoms? Rather had it seem'd
To me, as 'twere the sacramental cup,
Dash'd by some angry demon to the ground,
Spilling God's spirit.

Alice.
Aye, far rather this
Than that which is to follow! Bear with me,
This memory unnerves me.

Mrs. Bellamy.
My poor child,
I marvel not that fear possess thy heart
At so great horror; most assuredly
The Lord hath spoken to thee in a dream.

Alice.
The worst's to come. My only abject fear
That I might lose my love, nor let him know
Once more my love of him, I leant across
The altar rails to where the furnace glow'd,
Betwixt the iron bars whereof I saw
My Anthony's poor face, yet unconsumed,
Seeming transparent, as an agate held
This side the light; but as I form'd my lips
Into a word of tenderness, his own
All suddenly grew to a ghastly grin,
As tho' of dire derision. I beheld,
Glitt'ring, an angry double-row of teeth,
Saw-sharpen'd, with the furnace red behind;
These closed on one another, as he hiss'd
The name of her he lov'd—the Queen of Scots;
Then laugh'd a grating laugh, the which the fiends
Echoed, till all the rafters of the church
Shook with the ghastly chorus, whilst his lips
Burn'd slowly to a cinder, whose last words
Had left me doubly desolate. 'Twas then
I heard these words, deliver'd at the last,
By one whose voice rang louder than the fiends'
Harsh, shrilling laughter: “Traitor unto heav'n!
Traitor unto thy country and thy queen!
Traitor to wife and child, and fond first love!
E'en traitor unto traitors!” And there fell
A silence, as may be the tomb's, and then
I 'woke to find myself in mine own bed,
In Fleet Street, at my cousin Willoughby's.

Mrs. Bellamy.
Indeed, indeed that were a vision sent
Of heaven as a warning! Never dream
Boded more evil to young Anthony,
His soul and body both! 'Twere best to eschew
One so ill starr'd, my Alice! In the days
When you two, cousin-like, must needs, forsooth,
Play carelessly at being man and wife,
Against my wishes, was there no small voice
That warn'd thee, Alice, that a youth thus fill'd
(Like to the sails of some gay privateer,
Gold-laden from the Indies, under Drake,)
With winds that blow o'er many colour'd capes
And coral-stranded isles, were no fit mate
For one whose life, like thine, has been retired
And hidden 'mongst the folk-forsaken shades
Of this old manor-house? Ah, 'tis a youth
Headstrong and arrogant, he stands foredoom'd.
Men say his mind is fill'd with foolishness
Since he return'd to England from abroad.
But there are other men as good as he
In England, aye, and better too, my child,
And cousins, too, upon thy father's side,
Worth ten of Anthony for steadfastness;
Your cousin Willoughby's brave soldier-son,
Your guardian—a man of twice your years,
But none the worse for that—a steady man,
One in whose care I fain would leave my girl.
True, Anthony is rich—but what is wealth
To one attainted?

Alice.
Nay, that very wealth
Was what I seem'd to love in him the least.

Mrs. Bellamy.
You are a foolish child; learn to be wise
Of one who has paid wisdom's bitter price.

Alice.
Yet not to warn him—if indeed the voice
Of God hath spoken! I who ne'er can be
His wife, since now another bears his name,
May I not be his guardian, to point,
If not the road to good, at least the road
That leads away from evil, maybe death?
You would not have me husband so my breath
As that I should not waft him one good word,
But let him go his way?

Mrs. Bellamy.
How should a maid
Pursue a young man, to unearth the thought
Deep buried in his dark ambitious soul?
Not meeting him, it were not safe to trust
Your fears unto a letter in these days,
Since if, indeed (as I have heard surmised),
He herd with traitors, to admonish him
Of what might be his danger were to you
A danger likewise. Ah! I know these days
In which we live, who all my life have dwelt
As spied by Argus eyes! I scarce dare think!
To know a traitor means to aid a traitor;
To love a traitor means to be a traitor;
To be a traitor means—it means the block!

Alice
(sadly).
The block is our most merciful escape
From these dark days. I pray I meet no worse,
For 'tis at least an honourable death
(Since those have died on it who did no wrong),
And some say painless.

Mrs. Bellamy.
Those who told thee this
Had ne'er endured such painlessness. But fie
On one of my ripe years to let you speak
Of blocks and traitors! Out on me, I say,
For an old fool, despite my silver hair.
We scare ourselves until we almost start
At our own shadows!

[Both start, hearing knock at the door.
Alice.
Who is it that knocks?

[Enter Giles, a servant.]
Giles.

The dutiful compliments of Colonel Nicholas Willoughby,
but lately returned from the Low Countries,
and might he visit you to-day at noon, after the
dinner hour? He is halting at the inn at the town.

Mrs. Bellamy.

At dinner, Giles! at dinner! Our cousin Willoughby!
No need, in sooth, that he should ask
ere he visit those who will be o'er ready with a
welcome! Bid him ten thousand times welcome,
and we wait him impatiently! [To Alice.]
Your
cousin Nicholas, dear child, lately returned from
the Low Countries! He comes at a happy moment
to banish all our gloomy fears and presages!

Alice.

I feel in no mood for him. I cannot see him.

Mrs. Bellamy.

Alice! Your cousin Nicholas! He who used in
the old time to call you his little wife!

Alice.

Aye, granny, I remember it well. His “little wife,”
and I will never be his little wife!

Mrs. Bellamy.

A foolish child—alas! A foolish child! But girls
are ever fanciful.

Alice.

Oh grandmother! I have yet kept something
back. I did warn Anthony; I sought him out, yea
even in a common tavern-room, where he and some
companions sat at wine. Old Nancy met him in
Newgate Market—she would have known his voice
and noble bearing amongst a thousand; yet had she
doubted, Mr. Salisbury, who was with him, would
have confirmed her, he being without disguise.
Anthony wore not his own hair, and had a beard.
She saw him enter the tavern of the “Three Tuns,”
whereof she apprised me, and we went there together.

Mrs. Bellamy
(reproachfully).

Ah child, child! If I am to see you link your
fate to a conspirator, I have indeed cumbered too
long the earth; for I fear me report speaks but too
truly, and that Anthony hath in hand some dark

dealings. For what else his false hair and beard? or
wild Tom Salisbury his companion, whose mother
must rue the day she bore him? though, what could
be hoped from one in the following of Lord
Leicester? Ah, well-a-day! And you, Alice, seeming
like my very own child!

[Exeunt, sighing.
[After a pause, enter Colonel Willoughby.]
Willoughby.
Here is the dear oak room, and all unchanged
As when, a young man, all aflare with hope
Of glory in God's cause, victorious arms,
Retrievèd fortunes, and high honours won,
I join'd to these a dream of home and love,
When that fair slip of maidenhood, my ward,
Then budding into girlhood, grew to be
The woman she is now! I marvel much
If she fulfil the promises she made
To be a beauty? Let me think—her age—
Her age must be by this some twenty years,—
Those seven which have snatch'd my last of youth,
And made of me this rough-hewn soldier-lout,
Have changed her to a woman.
[Looks in mirror.
Forty years
Mated to twenty summers! Forty years!
And not so spent in holding dainty skeins
Of lady's silk, in chambers arras-hung,
Rustling with broider'd petticoats, that she,
This gentle child, should deign to view my suit
With eyes of favour. I shall seem to her
Only the rude campaigner that I am,
My fingers all too harsh to wind her skeins,
Too rough to lure sweet music from her lute,
Save at the risk of snapping all its strings
Thro' clumsy handling, and with voice too gruff
To trill a sonnet.

[Enter Mrs. Bellamy.
Mrs. Bellamy.
Cousin Nicholas,
Ten thousand welcomes! Aye, and wherefore sue
Of one so proud as I to welcome you?
Alice and I are all too pleased to bid
You, our dear cousin, to our simple board.

Willoughby.
How is my cousin Alice?

Mrs. Bellamy.

Not o'er well. You will smile, cousin, at so much
zeal in one so young, but I do believe she is vexed
for the safety of the queen's majesty. Strange
rumours reach us from town.

Willoughby.

You are hinting at these plots to assassinate the
queen—the disaffection among the Papists. Let
my fair cousin rest; it will pass off—mere thunder
showers to herald the brighter morrow. Let them
come down, say I. [Enter Alice, unperceived.
And
as for the traitors, we shall gibbet them, cousin; we
shall gibbet them. [Perceiving Alice, and taking her hand.]

And so, fair cousin, we meet again. After a
rough life in rough places I find myself once more in
my boy haunts; for this old manor-house was known
to me long ere you came to gladden it. [Aside.]
As
beautiful as one might imagine an angel!

Alice.

And yet after all, cousin Nicholas, they have done
but little in Flanders for God's cause.

Willoughby.

All is as yet in a great uncertainty; but, as I was

saying to my good cousin there, these be but thunder
showers. Events will shuffle themselves right, by
God's grace. The Frenchmen vexed us somewhat—
they being but half friends, and more than half foes,
if the apple of discord may thus be split. But we
wait God's good time.

Alice.

'Twere hazardous dealing with them, without
doubt. For me, true friend or true foe.

Willoughby.

Then, cousin, I am for you—your true friend.

Alice.

Be not o'er rash, lest I should prove you, cousin,
in some way you wot not of. You are returning to
town ere long?

Willoughby.

Indeed I fear me, fair cousin, my stay must not
extend over to-morrow. Though we are, as it were,
disbanded, I shall not give up the soldier till these
thunder clouds clear somewhat. My services are
still at the disposal of my queen, and I am in this
part on a special mission.

Mrs. Bellamy.

Your cousin means by thunder clouds, plots, Alice
—plots which have their rise in Spain.

Willoughby.

Calm yourself, Alice. Let not these reports distress
you. A cloud of midges in the air—they bite, but
rarely draw blood. No names are as yet given (nay,
and if they were, it would ill become me to divulge
them), but from all I hear some dozen foolish boys
are banded together in the interest of the Scottish
queen, who hath in her nature so little prudence and
reserve, as we know of old, that through indiscretion
she will betray even her own friends. But these
conspirators are but like mites in a cheese, which
may help it to seethe and fester, but which change
not its outward form. So silly women and boys can
never alter the form of the State. We want for that
the club of a giant and a master mind.

Alice.

Alas! poor misguided young gentlemen!

Willoughby.

All we shall know of them in the after years, poor

fools, will be their quarters hoisted to scare their
fellows, and their heads rotting on Tyburn Gate.

[Alice shudders.
Mrs. Bellamy
(turning the subject).

How did you travel from London? Alone?

Willoughby.

Alone, save for my body-servant, and ill-mounted
(for my horse cast a shoe on Hounslow Heath, and
went lame from a flint), all through the desolate
country between Bagshot and Blackwater, the wind
wafting to my nostrils, ever and anon, the scent of
the carrion swinging on Hartford Bridge Flats, set
there to frighten other malefactors, who, nevertheless,
still haunt this wild tract; so was I not displeased
to fall in, near Basingstoke, with two gentlemen,
well mounted and armed, attended by six servants,
and with them I made some of my journey, parting
company at Popham Lane, where the gentlemen
were met with fresh horses from Micheldever. “Take
mine,” said the elder of the two young gentlemen,
“since I have not far to go, and have saved mine
to keep your pace—so that he will easily take me a
short stage further.” This offer I gratefully accepted,

seeing it was made with so good a grace, and by a
gentleman born and bred, for then it was that I
found him to be Mr. Titchborne, a Catholic gentleman
of old family, living near Alton; but as he also
frequents the town, I shall hope to repay his civility.

Mrs. Bellamy.

'Tis a fine old name. I have heard say the
Titchbornes have lived in South Hants and were
of note before ever we were taken by the Normans.

Willoughby.

Anyhow, here was I the richer by a stout strawberry
roan, Mr. Titchborne telling me he would care for
my poor nag till my return; but upon hearing my
destination, says the younger gentleman, “Take heed
that I do not get there before thee! for I shall be
that way myself in a day or two, and will bring you
your horse, if he be cured, and take charge of my
friend Titchborne's as far as Popham Lane.

Mrs. Bellamy
(to Giles, who enters).

So, if a gentleman should come for Colonel
Willoughby's strawberry roan, you will apprise us of

it, so that we may not be wanting in civility to him.
Young gentlemen do not come this way every day,
do they, Alice?

Alice.
I care not whether they come or go!

[Exit.
Willoughby.
And now, dear cousin, tell me of your son.
Had that strange rumour aught of truth in it
Wafted to me in Flanders, and which said
That he had gone distraught?

Mrs. Bellamy.
He gone distraught!
A son of mine! Why, even your whole body,
Brave tho' it be, containeth not the sense
He holds in half his hand! Yet list to me,
I will not hide from you that he of late
Hath strangely borne him—living much apart,
With Father Harington, a Jesuit,
A learned man. And now these two together
Have often left us women to ourselves,
Too busy for the welfare of their souls
To care how their despisèd bodies fare.
He may be here anon, to eat with us,
But there are times he flies from us all day.
Yet is this godliness, not folly, cousin;
And if at times he seems a moody man,
Silent and self-contain'd, ah, blame him not;
For why, his thoughts are all too high for us.
His lot is hard.—And so they said distraught!—
Distraught of Jeremy, whose angry face
I would that you could look on when he knows
They said he was distraught!

Willoughby.
Nay, pardon me,
I did but ask the truth of these reports.
But what is it that makes his lot so hard?

Mrs. Bellamy.
Well, look you, it was hard—he as a lad
Lov'd solitude and pray'r; and, being born
In that old faith now crumbling, eagerly
Read he of miracles, and martyr'd men
Dying for God. Anon this new reform
Crept o'er the land; and, finding many of us
Waiting for purer ways of serving God,
Grew like the sweet new ripeness of a fruit
Flushing towards the light. Yet so imbued
Was he, my second son, with his beliefs
He would have burnt for them, so kept his faith
Whilst we turn'd Protestant, seeing the day
Veil'd from his eyes. You know he purposèd
To take the priestly vow, but then our king
Brake up the monasteries through the land.
Later ensued his elder brother's death,
Leaving us Alice only, and no son.
Then said his father, “Thou must make our house,
Nor shall I will thee aught at my decease
If thou should'st sink thy manhood in the monk;
But baby Alice shall possess my all,
Yet even she, should she, improvident,
Wed with a Papist, shall be dispossessed.—
From this she hath been saved.

Willoughby.
How? Wherefore saved?

Mrs. Bellamy.
'Tis a long tale to tell—and you had heard
Had there been aught in it of real import,
You being left her guardian. Let it pass,
For 'tis not worth the naming. Both were young—
Their dream is long since over—years ago—
Only a childish folly.

Willoughby.
Only that?

Mrs. Bellamy.
Aye, truly, cousin, and this in your ear—
I think, had Jeremy not been my son
Whom well I know above all base intent,
I had imagin'd that he forced her somewhat—
Threw them together—dazzled the young man.
This had I thought, had he not been my son—
Yet being son of mine, methinks his friends
Plotted thus putting Alice out of chance
Of any stray inheritance.

Willoughby.
Well, well,
But she hath truly put all this away?

Mrs. Bellamy.
I do believe it—but you know young maids
Will ofttimes nurse a shadow. 'Tis enough
For them to gaze upon a faded rose
Or kiss a tatter'd letter. These suffice
Till some brave gentleman of flesh and blood
Scare off such phantoms.

[Enter Alice. Mrs. Bellamy goes into another part of the room, leaving them together.]
Alice.
Cousin Nicholas,
Anon you said that you were my true friend—
I ask you a friend's service.

Willoughby.
Ask not twice—
The service is perform'd.

Alice.
It is a letter
I wish to send under your care to town.

Willoughby.
Indeed a paltry boon! and I that hoped
You wish'd my right hand or my grizzled pate!

Alice.
Nay, do not jest; this is no common letter,
Nor must you tell one in the whole of England
That I entrusted it to you. 'Tis not yet writ—
I ask you first—

Willoughby.
Nay, twenty thousand letters!
I am your Mercury of the wingèd heel.

Alice.
Nor must you let it meet a living eye,
Nor leave it carelessly to soil and fray
Here in your leathern jerkin. Place it there!
[Indicating his heart.
It is for my near kinsman, Mr. Babington—
A private matter. Though you know him not,
You know him, doubtless, as my mother's nephew;
Like you, that makes him cousin; and he lodges
Right in the way to go from Charing Cross
Over the fields to London.

Willoughby.
I obey.
Give me the letter privily and soon,
As I must start to-morrow.

Mrs. Bellamy.
They are late—
Your uncle and the Father. Sure to-day
They will not shun our company. Good cousin,
With your permission, we will seek the terrace,
Where, should they come home by their common way,
We needs must meet them.

[Exeunt into the garden.
[Enter Jerome Bellamy by another door, accompanied by Father Harington.]
Bellamy.

Aha! a few moments alone to consider ere we are
plagued with the fat heretic! and pen and ink to
scratch a word to that die-away wench, Alice. [Takes up pen and writes.]

See, this will do. The most
foolish of women can hoodwink a man, so you may
trust her to lie to the trooper. [Reads.]
“Anthony
Babington will be here in less than an hour. There
are reasons for deeming it expedient that he should
not be known as such. He hath met Willoughby
before, who yet was ignorant of his name. See that
your grandmother and the servants speak of him
as Mr. Bellingham, and thus take some trouble off
the hands of him that houses you out of charity.”
Giles!

[Calling servant. Enter Giles.

This message to Mistress Alice. She is in the
garden. Give it her at once, and await her orders.

[Exit Giles with letter.
Father Harington.

Mr. Babington hath a brave countenance and a
most courteous bearing.

Bellamy.

He fatteneth on his one idea, which is to him like
good roast meat after kickshaws.

Father Harington.

Which of the gentlemen is to kill the queen?

Bellamy.

There are six told off to do it, but Babington hath
the ordering of them all. Abington, Titchborne,
Barnwell, Tilney, and others. Some of them feel
anxious for the end, but it is too late to cry off
now. Tilney is for the queen being set upon in
her coach. Mr. Titchborne wishes God could be
served without killing her.

Father Harington.

Yet he said all was progressing happily?

Bellamy.

So happily that the end is almost sure. The Prince
of Parma is holding himself in readiness. Our long
service has not been without plentiful fruition.

Father Harington.

“God prosper the harvest!”

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—A garden. Moonlight. Colonel Willoughby and Alice.
Willoughby.
Ah, this is such an often-fancied scene
Of perfect home contentment, that I doubt
These very eyes that look on it, and deem
The whole some fleeting vision!

Alice.
None the less
Yours is true sight, since I with mine own eyes
See this same peaceful scene, and thank God for it.

Willoughby.
Then you, sweet cousin, are content with this—
These long, white, moonlit alleys, and these bars
Of close-cropp'd cypress? Far beyond their shade
Know you there lies a wondrous outer world
Of toil and turmoil? As the nestling, warm
From her soft breast that shelter'd it from ill,
Strains o'er the edge of home and longs for wings,
Have you, dear cousin, dream'd no dream of life
Far from these flat park lands?

Alice.
Yes, oftentimes,
And yet, as often have I pray'd to heav'n,
To keep me from the taint of outer life.

Willoughby.
Yet outer life not always needs corrupt.
Rather, methinks, after our first hot blood,
We who have donn'd the wand'rer's sandalled shoon,
See in our sweetest dreams green waving fields,
Or some such scene as this, with one hard by
Seeming as fair as now you seem to me—
The airy shape my spirit hath adored,
Transform'd into a woman!

Alice.
I have heard
That soldiers see in ev'ry passing form
Some such divinity. But it is late—
My grandmother has left us; come, good cousin,
Surely my uncle has return'd by now.

Mrs. Bellamy
(approaching).
I dream of my young days. How fair the night!
Take care of Alice, cousin, whilst once more
I pace the ivy terrace.

Willoughby.
Listen, Alice,
Leave me not now, whilst my unutter'd words
Are rising nigh to choke me! For this hour
I've seen foreshadow'd in my soldier's life,
Seeming a ray from some superior world,
Of utmost light and beauty! Know of me
That tho' I speak the language of rude camps,
Mine ne'er hath been the knee, till now, to bend,
As you would deem, to any passing form;
Nor have I knelt to one in woman's shape,
As now I kneel to you, sweet cousin Alice!

[Makes as though he would kneel.
Alice.
What would you with me that you kneel to me?
Rise, you abash me.

Willoughby.
I am all unused
To fine set-phrases; will you be my wife?

Alice.
Oh! cousin, can I be no other thing,
And so the better serve you? since my heart
Is that one only gift I must withhold.

Willoughby.
Then, Alice, let me never see you more!
Too much has hung upon too slight a thread,
I was a fool to dream that one like you
Could stoop to love me. Let us say farewell.

Alice.
Ah! cousin, are we women good for naught
Saving for wives or lovers? and of us
Can it be never said, as of you men,
“They two are friends, they two bear right good will
One t'ward the other?” Must it ever be,
“They two are lovers,” or, “They two are foes?”

Willoughby.
Where is the friendship that survives the sight
Of looks forlorn, and wit that vanisheth
At one friend's coming?

Alice.
Nay, say rather this,
Where is the friendship that survives the blow
Dealt to a vanity o'er sensitive?
For such, methinks, is your man's love of us.
And yet, too often, 'tis from no pretence
Of being better that we women shrink
From taking all you offer us; as oft
'Tis we who feel unworthy so full love,
Who, maybe, have not heart to give you back.
Some may have lov'd and may not love again;—
These are the women who are meant for friends—
True as the friend I fain would be to you.

Willoughby.
So you have also lov'd, poor child, like me?

Alice.
Perchance: suffice it that my heart is cold,
Nor wakes for aught save friendship; it may be
That once, like that poor fledgling from its nest,
I, leaning o'er the moss-embroider'd stone
Of this gray terrace, flank'd with peacock yews,
Craned at the outer world, and saw my fate—
One who was born to strive beyond these bounds
Of yew and cypress. Now all this is past;
Nor will I say, so you should pity me,
“My heart is love-sick of a great past love,”
Since, whether love, or whether loss of love,
I know not wholly which I mourn the most;
Yet this I know, that whilst one lives on earth,
And breathes, (though not for me,) his breath of life,
I ne'er will wed with other living man!

Willoughby.
Then would that he were dead!

Alice.
Hush! hush! alas,
You know not how such evil wish may speed!
E'en now he seems to walk a man foredoom'd!
[Enter Giles with a letter. Gives it to Alice, who reads (aside) in agitation.]

“Anthony Babington will be here in less than an
hour. There are reasons for deeming it expedient
that he should not be known as such. He hath
met Willoughby before, who yet was ignorant of his
name. See that your grandmother and the servants
speak of him as Mr. Bellingham, and thus take some

trouble off the hands of him that houses you out of
charity.” What strange confirming of my darkest
fears!

[Calls back Giles and explains to him contents of letter. Willoughby watching at short distance.
To Willoughby.]
Only a homely household matter, cousin;
We are to have another guest at supper.

Willoughby
(continuing).
So you have lov'd, poor Alice? then for me
Feel some kind pity; as for him you lov'd,
I ask no news of him, I want no word
To tell me who he was or what his name;
Nay, I would rather never see his face.

Giles
(throwing open window leading into garden).
Mr. Bellingham.

[Enter into the garden Babington, Bellamy, Mrs. Bellamy, and Father Harington.]
Willoughby
(aside).
My fellow-trav'ller, who, with Chidiock Titchborne,
Rode with me through the moorlands of South Hants!
Yet how the sudden sounding of his name
Came like the answer to my hasty words!

[Exeunt into the house, through the window.

Scene III.

—Babington standing alone at the deserted supper-table, a broken wine-cup on the floor.
[Enter Alice.]
Babington
(raising wine to his lips).

Your health, cousin Alice, and a handsome husband
from amongst the young men you may favour!

[Drains the cup.
Alice
(sadly).

What is the worth of a young man's love?

Babington
(scornfully).

Oh, we all know it hath in it none of the force
or the fire of a maiden's; and she will love in such
pretty ways too—trying for the letter of his name
with a snail crawling over a slate, or flinging over her
shoulder the peel of an apple to see in what form
it will fall!

Alice.

It hath never fallen as an A.

Babington.

No, nor a B. either with me!

Alice.

What, did you ever try for my name?

Babington.

First tell me how long since you tried for mine?

Alice.

Why think at all of what was so long ago?

Babington.

Are we, then, now grown so wise? Our letters
are the same, Alice—A.B.—A.B. Is there no subtle
meaning, think you, herein?

Alice.

It was meant that we should never be joined, save
by the links of friendship. You have heard of the
saying—

If you change your name and not your letter
You change for the worse and not for the better.
This is a saying that they have down in Kent.

Babington
(passionately).
What care I, Alice, for the men of Kent?
What care I if the whole of England join'd,
Strong-tongued and vehement, to shriek the words,
You two are never to be link'd together?
Should I believe, or lend an ear to that
I knew was false?

Alice.
Nay, listen, Anthony,
I fain would speak with you—not many words;
I come to supplicate you on my knees
To speak of this most horrid mystery,
Which seems to suck you to its hidden depths
As would a whirlpool. Something is amiss,
And threatens England whilst it threatens you.
Now, tho' I never can be wife of yours,
Tho' all the love that liv'd betwixt us two
Is shiver'd like yon crystal drinking-cup,
Yet in my woman's heart some echo stays
The which your footfall wakes; some little pearl,
Toss'd by the tempest, ling'ring after storm,
To mind me that I lov'd you once—and thus
I would befriend you. Hear these few poor words
From your true sister-cousin. May she speak?

Babington.
Speak on—speak ever in those silv'ry tones,
So sister-calm! And hath it come to this
Betwixt us two, who swore nor life nor death
Should ever part us? Hath it come to this,
“Your sister-cousin?” and am I to rest
Contented with a sermon? Preach your best—
I listen to your words, but mark you, Alice,
I give no chilly brother-love for yours.

Alice.
You being husband, father, and my cousin,
Will list to words of reason, nor renew
A foolish dream we 'woke from years ago
(Full four long years), wherefrom you 'woke the first.

Babington.
“Wherefrom I 'woke the first!” And what were we
Those four years since, my Alice? What were we?—
A girl and boy playing with but the shadow
Of this dear night's reality.

Alice
(reproachfully).
Oh, cousin,
Think of your wife who loves you, and your child!

Babington.
Were you this incarnation of all light,
All majesty, all beauty, all repose?
Was I the man who now, here at your feet,
Cries to your heart for pity? Since those days
I have seen women who were counted fair,
Living in courts and camps and convent-walls,
And I have wander'd forth thro' many lands,
Dreaming my dreams of man's strange purpose here,
Seeking the shadow of the one ideal,
The which I clasp to-night!

[Endeavouring to embrace her.
Alice.
Oh, Anthony!
For love of all your saints, leave go your hold!

Babington.
Then say you do not love me, looking thus
Into these eyes that hunger, say the words—

Alice.
I do not love you.

Babington
(excitedly).
How! You dare to lie,
Thus looking at me? But your beating heart
Tells me you lie! Thank heaven that you lie!

Alice.
Oh, Anthony, I leave you! You are mad—
The wine has turn'd your brain. Think of your wife.

Babington.
Look you—my wife is nothing to my heart
Compared to what you are: for worthiness,
True-heartedness, and kindness are not love.
Love is a master-passion, and obeys
No tyrant rein nor spur; you lov'd me, Alice—
And now my heart is ripe to meet your love.
I know the nothingness of all my aims,
And kneel to you for mercy.

[Kneeling and clasping her hands.
Alice
(with emotion).
What would you?
Your words are as a madman's!

Babington.
This would I—
My horse is ready saddled, and the night
Will curtain us, save for yon rising moon.
You are my more than life. I may not live
Without your love. Come, bless a broken life—
Be the old loving Alice of the past,
And naught shall separate us.

Alice.
Fly with you?—
Now!—leave my uncle's house!—leave honour, friends,
For one who cannot even be mine own!
Become an outcast—plunge in misery
A virtuous lady and her innocent babe!
Your child—your child—ah! has he eyes like yours?
I shall be never wife and never mother!

[Weeps.
Babington.
This, then, was all your boasted love of me.
Oh, what a light and overrated thing
Is woman's love!—most, women that are fair!
How do they deal in phrases neatly set,
And call it loving, whilst their hearts beat cold
A measured tune beneath their bodices—
Those buckram bulwarks that so well defy
Our boldest sallies!

[Laughs hoarsely.
Alice
(shuddering).
Nay, nay! laugh not thus!
Such laugh is crueller than fifty frowns,
The while I see your angry glitt'ring teeth
Seeming saw-sharpened.

Babington.
So you drive me hence,
I and this poor unwelcome love of mine.
You wish me hence?—say it with your own lips!

Alice.
I wish you hence! I do not love you! Go!

Babington.
I go. But, Alice, listen to my words—
I go to what will doubtless seem to you
A sure perdition. Yet are you the cause,
Since you could save me.

Alice
(eagerly).
Save you? Tell me how!
I would give—

Babington
(interrupting).
Words again—mere woman's words!
You that seem'd ready once to cede your soul
Shrink now from hazarding that wav'ring thing
Gone with a breath, like spring's most fragile flower,
Or braving unabash'd the fiercest storms—
At once the fairest, falsest, foulest thing—
A woman's reputation!

Alice.
Scorn me not,
But say, how may I serve you?

Babington.
Look you here,
I will admit I had forgot how fair
Had seem'd the face that lured me when a lad.

Alice.
You only lov'd my face?

Babington.
Not that alone—
Soul, mind, and body, you were meant for me.
Yet had you left me wholly, it may be
I had forgotten. But you could not rest,
Being a woman from your topmost thread
Of auburn hair down to your pretty shoe,
And so you said, “I will not let him rest,
He shall not thus get quit of me.”

Alice.
Indeed,
I never thought to look upon you more!

Babington.
And for this reason, at the evening hour
You sought me in a tavern; blinding me
With such a blaze of unexpected light,
You shook my best endeavours. It was strange—
My comrades, drinking, swore for evermore
To bury all their foolish earthly loves,
And cling alone to her that reigns in heaven—
They drank, but as the wine cup pass'd to me
I heard your voice, and pausing, did not drink.

Alice.
Would you had drank of it! then had you now
Spared me for your vow's sake. What! did I sin
So deeply, loving once, that you should scorn
And curse me now?

Babington.
Alice, I curse you not,
'Tis I am cursed by you. To you is given
The saving of me, but you scorn the task.
Now listen to me, and behold what hangs
On your girl-wisdom! Ah, not I alone
Await your will, but England, and the queen,
With half her nobles. As you see me now,
I am that Babington of whom hereafter
It will be said, he suffer'd for the cause
Of God and true religion; in a word,
I am the one head mover in this scheme,
Hatch'd nigh to breaking forth, to kill the queen!

Alice
(in horror).
To kill the queen! Elizabeth, the queen!

Babington.
To kill the queen of England. All is plann'd,
The train is laid, it only needs the match
(The which I hold or else withhold) to fire;
Then for that Babington whom men will name
In grateful hist'ry's bolder after-page,
Rich guerdon and renown, and high estate,
Should heaven prosper us. This I renounce
For love of you; I lay it at your feet,
Deeming you richer spoil than all the gold
Of Philip's Indies—this, if all succeed;
But if it pleaseth God to chasten us,
Humbling our hopes, because too rainbow-hued,
Then for that Babington whom the future page
Of servile hist'ry will denounce as base,
Regicide, villain, unregenerate.
The blight of early doom made terrible,
A cloven traitor's writhing agony—
This save me, Alice.

Alice.
Oh, you torture me!
Your love of me is cruel as the rack!

Babington.
See what you damsels fondly set against
Your boasted maiden-honour in the scale!
How precious is that pure virginity
You save for someone!

Alice.
Nay, you scorn'd it once,
And shall I prize what you have flung aside?
I have before me honour, duty—these,
And more, the honour that I owe your wife,
The love methinks I yet must bear your child.
Ask me to die for you.

Babington.
To die for me!
To die for me! That any fool could do.
Nay, live for me, and reign my queen of loves!
For you I leave all honours and renounce
All dangerous designs. Ah, Alice, come,
Come to these arms that wait you!

Alice.
Anthony,
I prithee leave me, or I leave you first!

Babington
(moving towards window).
I leave you, and I leave all good with you.
I go, my soul despoilèd of its wings.
You drive me from you for you do not love me,
I go to meet my destiny. Farewell!

[Exit out of window into garden.
Alice.
He goes to meet his destiny! Just heav'n,
Why dost Thou try me? Ah, I “do not love!”
Not love you, Anthony? God help my love!
God help us both!
[Falling on her knees—continuing.
Aye, what is this poor form
Of fainting, hesitating flesh and blood,
That I should set it thus against the State,
Against his dearest will, who seem'd to me
Once, more than queen and England all in one?
Nay—it is less than nothing! Still to wrong
One I have never seen, yet one I know
Noble and worth his loving. But the State—
“The queen with half her nobles,” is not this
Of more importance to the nation's good
Than even that pure life with all its trust?
Ah, help me, heaven! since my senses blurred
Refuse to lend me light!
[Rising from her knees.
I have a plan
Whereby to save him! What is this poor life,
This vaunted maiden-honour? For his sake
I will so shame myself in all men's eyes
As that they scoff at me, e'en tho' he own
Naught that is mine save this weak, falt'ring hand,
The which I pray may guide him! Yes, my pray'rs,
My tears shall move him. I will kneel to him,
Nor leave him till he swear by ev'ry saint
To shake him quit of all the dark designs
That lure him to perdition! Then shall she
Who loves him, maybe as I lov'd him once,
Hold to her heart once more a gentleman
Whose name shall blot no future hist'ry's page.
Yes, I will strive to ward aside the storm,
Nor perish in this light'ning flash of love!
[Writes hurriedly, and reads afterwards aloud.

“I will do as you desire, so you bid farewell to
treason; and will join you on the ivy terrace, as the
clock strikes ten.”

[Enter Giles as though to remove the supper.]
Alice.
Giles, you have ever been a trusty servant;
See here this letter, 'tis for Mr. Babington—
Nay, I will even put his name upon it,
His new name sounding strange to me; and hark,
See no one hath it saving Mr. Babington.

Giles.
He cross'd towards the stables as I pass'd,
Booted and spurr'd. He doth not stay with us?

Alice
(in agitation).
No—yes. (My brain seems reeling, and my words
Will tell my secret!) No, he does not stay—
We do not stay. Ah, Giles, think kindly of me!
God bless you, trusty Giles; give me your hand.

Giles
(giving his hand, after first wiping it).
A rough one, madam, but 'tis at your service.

Alice.
Go now, and give the letter.

[Exit.
Giles.
Poor young lady!
Her head seems wand'ring! Taking after him,
Our moody master! He is wrong in the head,
Sure as my name is Giles. Now for the letter—
“To Mr. Babington” examining it].
Ah, Mr. Babington!
I mind me when we used to see you here,
Flesh days and fast days, sweet on Mistress Alice.
Methought one day I might have pledged your name
With hers in such a bumper as this here.
Now I must drink them singly; howsomever,
The better plan for one who loves good liquor.

[Pours out goblet of wine, after first placing letter on table behind him.
[Enter Willoughby, who does not perceive Giles.]
Willoughby
(to himself).
Well, well—'tis for the best—'tis for the best.
Maybe 'twere foolishness to take a wife
In these unsettled times; yet will I serve her,
And be her sworn true knight. Aha! the letter,
Which I had nigh forgotten, lately sealed
By that soft cruel hand!
[Taking possession of letter, after first kissing it. Reading over the direction.
“To Mr. Babington.”
Yes, yes, her mother's nephew.
[Perceiving Giles.
Ah, what now?
When masters pray or slumber varlets drink.
On with my mantle for me. Hast a lantern?

Giles
(confused).
A lantern?—aye, a lantern—Mistress Alice—

Willoughby.
Make her my humble compliments, good Giles;
Then to the stables; whence I seek the village—
And so to London.

Giles
(aside).
Out upon the letter!
Where hath it wing'd to?

Willoughby.
Come, thou honest varlet!
[Aside.]
Yes, better not to see her—best to leave her
Silently, reverently, as a mem'ry
Of something sad and holy, gone for ever.

[Exeunt into garden.
[Enter Alice wrapped in a cloak.]
Alice
(nervously).
Voices! How anxiously my heart is beating!
'Tis not now ten o'clock, so Anthony
Waits me not yet. I would that they would hasten—
If they should see him waiting! Well, what matter,
So they guess not he waiteth there for me?
Alas! what dare I hope—what dare I pray for?
Success or failure? For I seem to stand
Upon a dizzy height, with storms above;
Whilst at my feet a horrid precipice
Yawns to receive me!

[Re-enter Giles from garden.
Giles
(muttering to himself).
A dang'rous time to travel, by my faith!
A foolish time to travel: but young heads
Are stronger than their elders'.

Alice.
Think you so?
Nay, worthy Giles, the world is new to them,
With all its dangers.

Giles.
By your leave, my lady,
I think young heads will bear the hardest knocks,
And house more harmless bullets. In mine own
There ran just now a silly old wife's tale
Of highway robbers; how her goodman's hat
Had twenty shot-holes on that Easter-eve
The when she thought he had been fooling her
With village wantons. So I said of the night,
“A dang'rous time to travel.”

Alice
(impatiently).
Foolish tales!

Giles.
She hath the old hat still—

Alice.
Nay, leave me now.
Your clatter deafens me—I have the vapours.

Giles.
For which, dear madam, take the head of a mole,
So it be caught towards the moon's decline,
And let it drip into a mug of beer
Brew'd on the birthday of some gentleman
Who owneth abbey lands—

Alice.
Away, good Giles.
Methinks you too have drunk of some such brew.
Get thee to bed!

Giles.
'Tis true I drank his health
Ere he departed.

Alice
(surprised).
Is my cousin gone—
My cousin Willoughby—and no good-bye?

Giles.
I heard him mutter it were better so.
He sent you, madam, his profound respects.

Alice.
Well, well. Now go.

Giles.
So, mistress, by your leave
(Forgive an old man who upon his knee
Hath ofttimes dandled you), two gentlemen
Of brave appearance, fearing man nor devil,
Will slink into the night like two kick'd curs,
For sake of two bright eyes; and yet, in sooth,
Who ever used to hold his head as high
As Mr. Babington?

Alice
(in astonishment).
How, Mr. Babington?

Giles.
He whom we thought would be our master here,
Only the wind blew wrong. The Mr. Babington
That rides to-night to London.

Alice.
Rides to London?
Where is he?

Giles.
On the road, and some way on,
With Colonel Willoughby—they ride together.
And so I said anon, like two kick'd curs,
Go from this house two gallant gentlemen,
Because of two bright eyes; whilst of the night
I said (an' so it please you—by your leave),
A dang'rous time to travel. Now I go.

Alice
(eagerly).
Not yet! Not yet! Ah, where is Anthony?

Giles.
Poor Mr. Anthony! He crosses now
The lone marsh lands betwixt us and the village,
With Colonel Willoughby. They ride together
Alone and unattended, Peter Barton
Will only join them there. I have known men
That rather would have broke their necks than ride
Alone and unattended by that way.

Alice
(passionately).
How, gone? So he could go, heart-whole and free,
And leave me?—leave me seeming unto him
The thing my letter made me out to be?—
A moth lured by the flicker of a love
Too fierce to ease the aching of this heart!
Oh heart! why didst thou ache for such as he?
Oh hand that wrote to him the words he scorn'd,
Thank God thou art not slave that wears his ring!
So I have bent me to the very earth,
And kiss'd those feet in fancy that have fled,
And left me crush'd and blushing and ashamed!
Ashamed? And wherefore should I be ashamed?
Deem'd he I plann'd this all for love of him?
For love of him who left me, loving once,
To wed another? Nay! My love is dead!
This was for England!—this was for the queen
With half her nobles! Whilst that Babington
Whose name shall blot our hist'ry's future page,
I know him not—he is not kin of mine—
He is forgotten! [Sobbing.]
Oh, my heart is broken,
Now Anthony is gone!

[Sinks towards a chair, half fainting.
Giles
(supporting her).
Ah, poor young lady!
Her mind is surely failing! Poor young lady!

Scene IV.

—Babington (under the name of Bellingham) and Colonel Willoughby waiting under a tree, surrounded by a swamp, with reeds, &c., having lost their way. Horses tied up near.
Babington.

So now our hare-brained plan of riding seven miles
in the dark meets its proper reward—nay, we do not
even deserve this dry spot to rest upon, where I see
nothing for it but to wait till daylight; for we can
go neither backwards nor forwards in this damnable
slough, and we have wandered some way off the
road.

Willoughby.

Be of good courage, Mr. Bellingham. Methinks
anon I heard voices and the clank of horsemen.
We are not far off the beaten track.

Babington.

Oh, it is not my courage that fails me, I was but
laughing at our sorry plight! Confess now, colonel
though you be, that there are fires more enticing than
those of these will-o'-the-wisps, and more terrible even
than those of your Flanders campaign. Confess that
it was the same cause made fools and cowards of us
both?

Willoughby
(sternly).

How, sir, the same cause? And how cowards?
Most of all, how coward?

Babington.

Oh, do not “sir” me. I am honest and outspoken,
for a man may speak his mind in a morass.
Walls have ears, but your green duckweed and
black bulrush are safe listeners. It was Mistress
Alice drove us both out of house and home, and
lodged us here with such scant comfort. Confess,
colonel, you are as deep in love with her as our
bodies anon were plunged in this reeking quagmire!

Willoughby.

Every heart hath its own secrets, Mr. Bellingham;
and, without seeming squeamish to you, let me say
that the man who keeps these to himself is the
wisest. Who goes there?

[Hearing voices.
Babington
(cocking his pistols).

Who goes there?

[Masked figures advancing, armed; amongst them the traitor-servant of Babington.
1st Stranger.

Take him that called the other Bellingham!

2nd Stranger.

Nay, take the one that was called Bellingham by
the other.

3rd Stranger.

We are robbers of the queen's highway. There is
no escape. Deliver up your moneys and papers.

[Willoughby overpowered by numbers, his pockets and saddle-bags rifled.
4th Stranger
(having discovered the letter addressed to Babington on Willoughby).

This is our man, and now for a noble recompense.

2nd Stranger.

“God prosper the harvest!”

Babington
(recognising the voice of Peter Barton).

Traitor!

[Shoots him dead and escapes, leaving Willoughby with the supposed robbers.