 | Anthony Babington |  |
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!
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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—
You change for the worse and not for the better.
This is a saying that they have down in Kent.
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(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?
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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!
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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!
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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—
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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,
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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—
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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!
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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,
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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“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.
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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,
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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!
102
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'.
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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.
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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.
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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,
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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?
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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!
| Anthony Babington | |