University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—A guard-room at Tutbury Castle. Lord Shrewsbury, holding in his hand Walsingham's letter. Messenger standing near a window looking into the grounds.
Shrewsbury
(muttering to himself).

Strange! there must be some deeper meaning in
these words than meets my dull understanding.
[Reads.]
“Be not over stern with the Queen of
Scots, now her health faileth. No need to restrain
her to the leads, if she can take the air in the
gardens;” and then these words afterwards—“But
keep close watch on her morning, noon, and night.”
If 'tis to trap her I will be no party to it, for she
must lull herself with no hope of a false security.
Heigho! what with these two queens and mine own
she-devil, life is but a sorry pastime!

Messenger
(advancing).

Is there no way, my lord, by which I might have
sight of the queen ere I return to London? Doth
she ever use these gardens? So I might but see
her pass I should be content. A right royal lady
still, I hear.

Shrewsbury.

No doubt but what meets the eye is that
which pleaseth most in her, and this I say after
some acquaintance; and yet much of the beauty
of this queen is bought, aye, and as yet unpaid
for.

Messsenger.

But will she pass into the garden?

Shrewsbury.

She hath been abed for the last five days, pleading
an abscess in her neck, and this, with the swelling
of her legs, hath made my work easier; yet not
one of these things can be sworn to, for, you must
know, she hath her own physician. Now, this is the
way with this queen, she will lie in bed eight
days at a stretch, sometimes denying herself to all

comers, untired and slovenly, after the manner of
the French, and looking (as I am told by my lady)
double her age when bereft of those dyes and
pigments that so help her beauty.

Messenger.

My lord, you are somewhat hard on her majesty.

Shrewsbury
(continuing).

At other times she will sit arrayed in all that
she hath of her best—and she hath gewgaws enow
in all conscience, seeing that now we are moving
from Tutbury she demandeth eighty waggons to carry
them. At these times she will see those that are
allowed audience of her, eating with them, or playing
games with dice or draughts on the coverlid of her
bed, and entertaining them with lively talk. I hear
that she hath entertained embassies in this fashion in
Scotland, and this, coupled with her extravagance
and her adulteries, so outraged the rough Scots
that it lost her her kingdom!

Messenger
(smiling).

You are, indeed, merciless, my lord, to what many
deem only the pretty failings of woman!

Shrewsbury.

Nay, nay; I am but just. There is much in her
that is neither pretty nor womanly, but she hath some
great qualities. Lesser at times than a woman,
there are moments when she rises above the mental
height of a man; and could Langside have been won
by courage and despising of fatigue, she had not
now been here—nor I either, God help me!

Messenger.

Is any of this old courage remaining to her?

Shrewsbury.

At times, when suddenly rising, she will order
saddle-horses, and hunt and hawk one day after
another, making the limbs of the ladies of her
following to ache for a week. How they endure
it I marvel. But her chiefest virtue is to endear
to her those about her immediate person. Though
'tis, peradventure, but the calculation of a selfish
nature, to insure that they leave no whim ungratified.

Messenger
(smiling).

I may, at any rate, report, my lord, that you are
a most loyal subject of our queen's, and that you
will say not one good word of her rival, your

whimsical captive. One of these said whims may
take her majesty to the garden. With your permission
I will stroll there for awhile, whilst your
lordship prepares your answer to my papers.

Shrewsbury.

My lens is set to focus her at a wise distance.
Neither am I so near her as to be under her
glamour, nor so far as but to judge her by the noise
of an inflamed and scurrilous report. I see her as
she is—a princess of high courage, but a woman
and a liar.

Messenger.

All great princes should know the diplomatic art
of lying. Our queen can lie!

Shrewsbury
(aside).

Aye, but badly. This queen will lie against her
and beat her.

Messenger.

Nevertheless I would fain see her. I await your
summons in the garden.

[Exit Messenger, leaving Shrewsbury plunged in thought, and again reading paper.

Scene II.

—An apartment at Tutbury Castle. Mary Stuart reclining on a sofa in a loose robe. Enter Mary Beaton, her attendant.
Mary Beaton.
Your majesty did call?

Queen.
Yes. I would rise
And tire me in my best, I have a boon
To ask my lord, my gaoler.

Mary Beaton.
Which same boon,
Being a member of the one true faith
(Unlike the heretic churl we parted from,
Without much waste of weeping), he will grant,
I feel assured, dear madam.

Queen.
I less sure.

Mary Beaton.
What! seeing you, sweet madam, plead to him,
All tired to conquer better men than he?

Queen.
Your Scotch and English are a race of churls,
Unlike the light French lords; to Shrewsbury
I seem no better than this chair or table,
(I say this truth in all humility).
To him methinks all women seem alike.

Mary Beaton
(smiling).
Yet there be chairs and chairs, and so with tables—
He knoweth rich from homely furniture,
And gold from pewter!

Queen
(sadly).
These are such gloomy, chill, imprison'd days,
I sometimes wonder they have left me life
Worth counting living! You must wonder too?

Mary Beaton.
I wonder at nothing now! All wonderment
Is dead in me. Your highness's brief years
Have been so fill'd with all astonishment.

Queen.
Ah, not so brief! my night is closing in.
Ah, Mary, could we wend to some warm shore
Smiling to greet us! I have read such tales
Of sweet Italian places by blue seas,
I long to seek them! Could we drink in life
And great glad sunlight under olive trees
Gray, with their gnarled trunks, their dreamy shade,
Like vapour meeting skies serene and blue,
Which flush to rosier light at eventide
Behind the black sharp furthest mountain-ridge,
There citrons hang upon the burden'd bough,
Or flow'r to waft a challenge of defiance
Towards the crowding violets, as jealous
Of which should smell the sweetest! Think on this,
And then behold yon fest'ring lichens creep
Amongst the slimy cresses on that pond,
See yon starved robin pecking at a worm
Amongst the clinging furrows deep with clay,
And listen to the wind that beats the smoke
Adown this dismal chimney: yet forsooth
They call this spring-tide! All my weary soul
Is longing for the South!

Mary Beaton.
The while I deemed
Your heart, dear madam, hungered for the North.
Methought your royal spirit sought the shore
Of pine-clad Denmark, where Lord Bothwell bides.
And yet 'tis cold in Denmark, is it not?
There blow methinks the dread north winds of heaven,
Let loose like sleuth hounds on their track that flee
From slow despair. This had I thought, dear madam.

Queen.
Ah! I would take my north wind to the South,
And hold it to my bosom till its breath
Breathed life into me, whilst without the world
Thaw'd to the warm midsummer of my love.
Oh, Mary, there was never love like this—
A bold north love, sun-scented with the south!

Mary Beaton.
Ah! may your highness bask in such a love—
May it come to you with the crown o' the realm!

Queen
(sadly).
It may come to me with a martyr's crown,
Strive not to dupe me who am now no child,
My bold north love is o'er, Bothwell is dead!

[Weeps.
Mary Beaton.
Nay, madam, you are gloomy. Have good courage!

Queen
(continuing).
Ah, child, you deem these days have left me shorn
Of all my bygone buoyancy of mind?
How long, ye saints, must I, Christ's handmaid, wait
For freedom or for glory in a world
Where these base elements wherefrom I groan
Exist not?
You will wonder at the change
So lately come to one of my proud blood.
Doubtless you deem I lose my spirit's fire
Stifled amidst the cold, and damp, and squalor
Of this our prison-house, wherein the rains
Drip thro' the mould'ring ceilings, whilst the winds
Rattle the crazy casements, where the owl,
The bat-mouse, and the noisome dunghill rat
Are fellow-sojourners with Scotland's queen!

Mary Beaton.
Yet now your highness knows all this is past.
Since we are bound ere long to Chartley Manor.

Queen.
Past! Yea, my transient gleam of sun is past,
But not the coming evil of new days!
Sometimes I deem my race is doom'd to ill.
When have we thriven? 'Twere too long to tell
Of plot and counter-plot, risings in arms,
Not even like yon chess-board, black with white
Alternate, knew my inoffensive years
Storm and fine weather—sorrow, always black;
The poor bright squares of happiness so rare
Mere white surprises on the growing dark!

Mary Beaton.
Ah, madam, you are fanciful to-day!

Queen.
Nay, nay, not fanciful, but truthful, child.
Think how I throve amidst a storm of hail—
My mother and the cardinal at war
With hydra-headed heresies. Remember
How these two struggled to exterminate
The hornet-horde of heretics! Remember
The man that nail'd the ram's horns on St. Francis,
And then the impious Wishart—thought of these
Kindles my blood so hot that it could burn them!

Mary Beaton.
Calm yourself, madam, they were burnt on earth,
And now burn on for ever!

Queen.
Calm is past.
Come storm—come anything save this dead life!
Come change, come turmoil! Nay, I hug my wrongs,
Since now I hope the near accomplishment
Of God's just vengeance on His enemies,
And mine, and yours! Ah, can you hear of them
Seeming unmoved, as now?—and you a Beaton,
Blood of the murder'd cardinal!

Mary Beaton.
Ah, madam,
You seem'd to have forgotten this till now,
With half your wrongs, and e'en Lord Bothwell's death.

Queen
(continuing, excitedly).
You deem this crush'd me, child—yea, for awhile
Such dealing chill'd my blood, and seemed to sink
My mind unto a swoon-like apathy,
Killing the queen within me, who became
Naught but an ailing woman. This is o'er,
And with the first return of health and spring
I feel the couchant tiger in my blood
Arise refresh'd, as having slept awhile,
And thereby gained new suppleness and force:
I thirst for vengeance! Let them guard her well,
Their queen! And have I written with this hand,
Calling her “my good sister?” She shall rue
The day when she held prisoner in her land
One of the old Stuart stock! Hast ever seen
A pictured semblance of the king of beasts
Bound down with cords, which at the under side
A little mouse is gnawing with his teeth?
Either I dream, or, too elate with hope,
I meet my wish too far this side its end;
Or else—(nay, child, maybe I only dream!)—
Some little mouse is gnawing at my chain.

Mary Beaton.

God grant it, madam, and that he break not his
teeth!

[Enter Servant.]
Servant.

Lord Shrewsbury craves permission to speak with
your highness.

Queen.
We wait him. Let him enter.

[Enter Lord Shrewsbury.]
Shrewsbury
(bowing low, but not looking the Queen in the face).
Do I find
Your majesty restored to health again?

Queen
(coaxingly).
An you would deign to raise your eyes, my lord,
Perchance you might observe that this poor face
Wears trace of coming summer. These new winds
Bringing these moister mornings, fill our lungs
Less harshly than that piercing pain of weather
Before the rains. 'Twere sweet to wander now,
Breathing the scent of May-buds satisfied
That thirsted for this rain.

Shrewsbury.
This may not mean
Your majesty would walk abroad to-day?
Your majesty who some few days ago
Bewail'd yourself, talking of rheumatism,
With argues, faintings, water in the blood—
Deeming these dire distempers all begot
Of English damp and English prison fare—
So hath your majesty misnamed the diet
With which we strive to flatter, if may be,
Your majesty's fine palate, used, no doubt,
To Frenchmen's food. We Englishmen are rougher,
Perchance—I do not know, but yet methinks
I, standing here, well reach'd my middle age,
Could tackle your ten Frenchmen!

Queen.
Nay, my lord,
You ever seem to fly off “hunting hares,”
As we who chased the red deer used to say
Long since in Scotland, when it chanced some hound,
Mistaking passing accident for purpose,
Scented the lesser quarry. And, again,
Whene'er you have your fling at Frenchmen's fare,
At Frenchmen's cut of clothes or cut of beard,
We notice that your lady and yourself
Will look at us askance. Nay, by the rood!
We think, my lord (forgive us for our speech),
On one thing only are you two agreed—
To flaunt us for a Frenchwoman!

Shrewsbury
(coldly).
Nay, madam,
You surely wrong me. As for Lady Shrewsbury
I will not answer—nay, I wash my hands
Of Lady Shrewsbury!

Queen.
What! of your own wife!
And you a Catholic? Out, out upon you!
We needs must school you who are 'neath your rule,
My Lord of Shrewsbury! Then, as for Frenchwoman,
After the queen's decease (whom God defend),
Where lives there in the land one, like ourself,
Uniting nearest blood with truest faith—
The one true faith—your faith, my lord, and mine?

Shrewsbury.
Nay, madam, these are subjects I eschew!
I know my duty to my sovereign lady,
And may I know it at a later day
If (as some hope who serve your majesty)
The crown she wears pass to another's brow;
But now I will not parley of such chance.
Yet I, who seem to you a blunt, rough man,
Have yet some forethought of your highness's weal,
And so I would advise you, should you walk
Or ride abroad to-day, between the rains,
To have a care, and mind you that those watch
Your grace's movements who are bound to do it
From lealty to their queen, to whom myself
Am likewise bounden, thus to do her service,
Yet to you, madam, would I, too, be faithful,
And so I warn your highness.

Queen
(to Mary Beaton, aside).
Can he mean
Those watch for me as some now watch for her,
To do me bodily harm? Nay, nay, not thus
Would she best clear her kingdom of my claims!
Nay! I defy her malice!
[Aloud to Lord Shrewsbury.
Then my lord
Gives his permission that we walk abroad?

Shrewsbury.
Yes; I am blunt, and so forgive my words.
I give permission not of my free will;
'Tis that I have her majesty's commands
To deal more leniently with your highness.
Of my free will I had not seem'd so kind,
Deeming no good can come unto your highness,
Of long duration, whilst at liberty
To foster madmen's dreams, who make your name
A pass-word for their treasons. This will be
Unknown e'en to yourself, whilst men may say
“The Queen of Scots can take her walks abroad,”
“The Queen of Scots may mark this sign or that.”
Yet, madam, let the Queen of Scots remember
The Queen of England hath her at her bidding,
And see she proves her worthy of the trust
Which makes that queen (for what good, heaven knoweth!)
Deal softly with her! I have said my say,
I make your highness my obeisance.

[Exit.
Queen.
What think you, Mary, means that exhortation?
It somehow seemed half sermon and half threat,
And yet it had in it a ring of friendship,—
I cannot fathom it.

Mary Beaton.
He seemed to speak
Almost as nurses chide a wilful child,
Saying “Thou shalt not, or thou shalt repent.”
Oh! that your highness should thus suffer wrong
To your high queenly dignity!

Queen.
Hush, child!
We have borne deeper wrongs, and it may be
Our gaoler is an honest man at heart,
The which may bleed for us; or else perchance
His lady, like the tiger-cat she is,
May have aspersed us to him, who at us
Hurls the ill-humour he is forced to hide
From her keen eye that rules him. All ends well
Seeing our boon is granted, and these feet
(So falt'ring now!) may tread, between the rains,
Those garden-glades, and these lips breathe the balm
For which they thirst, of spring-buds satisfied!

[Mary Beaton helps the Queen on with her mantle. The Queen herself, stooping, puts on her shoes.
Mary Beaton
(in horror).
Nay, madam, not the left! the right foot first
Let me withdraw it, and thus break the spell!

Queen.
That would but hinder me. What is the hour?

Mary Beaton.
Five o' the clock; remember, prithee, madam,
The harm that for like foolish act assail'd
The Emperor Augustus, for 'tis writ—

Queen.
We risk no such mischance, who have no army
To mutiny, nor pay to satisfy;
So let the shoe stay on, and get thee cloak'd
And bonneted to bear me company.

Scene III.

—A terraced garden with an ivied wall. Shrubs near it, amongst which Walsingham's Messenger conceals himself on hearing the Queen and Mary Beaton.
Messenger
(aside).
A goodly lady, eyes that might have graced
The brows of Egypt's queen; a royal air,
And such a voice as leads men to their doom.
At last these eyes have seen the Queen of Scots,
She that hath made such turmoil in the land!

Queen
(to Mary Beaton).
This is the place, here where the bulging buttress
Doth seem as though it totter'd. Here, to-day,
If friends are lurking near, I shall behold
A handful of gray pebbles from the sea
Scatter'd amongst the ivy. They are here.
Now was I bade to droop in careless wise
Over the masonry, as tho' to scan
The distant landscape. One will come 'ere long,
Who, climbing up the shadow'd side of wall,
Will slip into my hanging hand the cyphers,
Telling if all goes well. If seen by any,
Well, 'tis some yokel who hath made a vow
To see the Queen of Scots and touch her hand,
For the king's evil. He will act the clown
To those who set upon him. You will watch,
And at the sound of coming voice or footfall,
Trill gently that old song I made in France.
Now leave me, Mary.

Messenger
(aside).
Ha! it seems to me
I witness some conspiracy. Strange chance!
Now to observe and listen.

Queen
(hearing someone on the other side of the wall, over which she is leaning).
Is't a friend?

Voice of Babington.
A friend who sayeth from his inmost heart,
“God speed the harvest.”

Queen.
Babington himself!
Our page at Sheffield. We had known your face
Amongst a thousand! For all service done
And doing for us, we desire to thank you.
We are alone, so you are free to speak.

Babington
(showing himself, disguised as a rustic).
Madam, my most dread sov'reign and my liege,
To this dear moment hath my wingèd hope
Travell'd till now unbless'd. I kneel, abash'd,
Before my one anointed queen of queens!

[Kneels.
Queen.
Arise our truest friend, nor kneel to one
So fetter'd and abased: in all your land
There bides no beggar is as poor as we—
Bereft by sland'rous tongues of honour, crown,
(We mourn for honour first), nay crowns, my friend—
Bereft of all we women-folk hold dear.
Rise, Babington, nor kneel to such an one—
Yet could these few poor unconsider'd words
Of broken English—(it is hard your tongue)—
Tell you but faintly all our thanks to you
And those your brave companions, we could speak
Indefinitely. Time encroaches, friend,
Give us the cyphers. Ah! and not so changed
As when our pretty page!

[Strokes his cheek.
[Babington kisses her hand and gives the cyphers, which the Queen conceals in her sleeve.
Queen
(scornfully).
And so they thought
To cage for ever in their cobweb cage
A Queen of Scotland and a Queen of France!

Babington.
Madam, a Queen of England—prais'd be God!
Some noble hearts beat only to that end.

Queen.
We thank those noble hearts, and bid them beat
Till our sad heart cease beating. There is hope
Whilst life thus thro' this somewhile tortured frame
Flows without sign of flinching. Fare you well!

Babington.
Your highness leaves me happiest of slaves.
Like Moses, may the glory of my face
Illuminate the souls of those who wait.
Adieu my dear liege-lady!

[Kissing both her hands.
Queen.
Fare you well!

[Mary Beaton is heard singing in the distance, to warn the Queen of approaching footsteps.