University of Virginia Library

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.