 | Anthony Babington |  |
ACT IV.
Scene I.
—(Some months are supposed to have elapsed since last Act). The oak room at Jerome Bellamy's. Alice and Willoughby in conversation.Willoughby.
Oh it is all out! and it is as infernal a plot as ever
the Evil One put into the mind of a man to imagine.
It has run through the whole of England as swiftly as
the distempered blood flows through the veins of one
that is bitten of a mad dog, another moment and it
had attained the heart.
Alice.
It is all most terrible!
Willoughby.
Besides the queen's death and the Spanish invasion,
as concerning the sacking of the City of London;
they had devised to rob some of the richest men in
England, to fire the ships, and to cloy all the great
ordnance—and all this to bring back the Pope! If
this is their Religio Catholica, 'twere better had they
christened it Diabolica. But you, of course, are well
informed of all this!
Alice.
Wherefore am I so well informed? It hath all
been to me as some horrible dream!
Willoughby.
Because (and my heart bleeds when I say to
you these words) your own cousin is at the head of
this plot—that Anthony Babington, for whom you
gave me this letter—your mother's nephew—your
cousin but not mine, I thank heaven!
Alice
(in agitation).
Where did you get this letter? Its seal is broken
—who has read it?
Willoughby.
Four sham freebooters, who tore it from my breast
on the night when, you may mind you, you said
it there,” and there it was they found it. I shall
never forget that your hand was there—
Alice.
When did this happen?
Willoughby.
Months ago now, after our last sad meeting. Since
then the plot hath been so surging and thickening
around us, we have had our hands and minds full,
I warrant you. After all they were no freebooters,
but some of our queen's party on the look out for
traitors. It seems Peter Barton, a servant of Babington's,
had turned queen's evidence, and was on the
look out, deeming, no doubt, when he came into
these parts that, as he was your kinsman, he would be
your guest. This ruffian was shot by Mr. Bellingham,
my travelling companion, who took him for the robber
he seemed, and I had afterwards some trouble in
proving their error to those that had hold of me, as,
having on me a letter for him, and the darkness somewhat
hiding my features, they took my grizzled locks
for a wig, and my sturdier frame for borrowed flesh,
for it seems he hath many disguises, being sometimes
Tom o' Bedlam, and so would have it until daylight
that I was Babington and no other.
Alice.
And Mr. Bellingham?
Willoughby.
He was off across the bleak moorland like a
roe-deer. One had said he fear'd for his life had
he not seem'd hitherto a gallant young gentleman—
nor since then have I heard of him.
Alice.
Nor I either; and these men read my letter?
Willoughby.
These men read your letter, and, throwing it
back to me, said it was only from some foolish
wench who was sweet on the traitor, tho' they said
it proved his treasons without doubt, in that his sweetheart
prayed him to desist from them. So this was
the man you lov'd!—a traitor—a renegade—one who
would have compassed the queen's death!
Alice.
Ah cousin, spare me!
It was for him that as a thing of naught you
set aside the love of an honest man—for the sake
of one whose name will be for ever a slur on his
old house—and a byword for the whole of loyal
England to scoff at!
Alice.
I will not answer you; my lips are sealed. You
are speaking at random, knowing no more who is
the man I have loved than you know now where
is that Babington at whom you are jeering.
Willoughby.
Ha! I do not know where he is? Am I so
far from suspecting his whereabouts? Why, then,
am I here? Did I come once more to madden
myself with your scorn of my love? Nay! I obeyed
but the voice of a stern necessity which bids me
search this house in the queen's name. Anthony
Babington is in this house.
Alice.
In this house? Nay, you are speaking, indeed, at
random!
Thank God if I am, Alice. I would not for
worlds that Anthony Babington were found in this
house; for if he is here it is that as is suspected—
your uncle is one of his accomplices. And though,
if he leave as my prisoner, he is a doomed man
(since out of the loyalty that I owe the queen
I will not that he escape), and though you once
said to me that whilst he lived you would wed “no
other living man,” still, such is the folly of love,
Alice, that though I answered then, “Would that he
were dead,” I say now, “Would heaven I may not
bring him to his death, would heaven I could save
him!”
Alice
(bitterly).
And yet you would not that he escape you?
Such is the love of a man!
Willoughby.
Such is the duty of a soldier to his queen. Then
he is here? I pray'd this had not been!
Alice
(excitedly).
Ah! now I have it! All is as plain as day. My
grandfather's will left me my uncle's heir if I should
new religion. You are my guardian, my kinsman,
and a Protestant to boot, a soldier, and one trusted
of the queen. With all this you might hold high
junketing in London and at Court had you but the
wherewithal—but this, you have said, will come in
marrying me. This is your boasted love; this is
why you come to me now, my heart bleeding for
my poor kinsman, my playmate, my childhood's
friend—and tell me he is doomed to die, that a price
is set on his head, and that he is a regicide, a traitor,
and a disgrace to his old house!
Willoughby.
Calm yourself, Alice; you are unjust.
[Aside.]
Ah, this was then really the man she loved!
Alice.
You hope for his death! You hope for my uncle's
attainder! These two out of your path, and, you
have said, “I shall gain two things”—by which you
meant, a rich wife and the death of one you thought
she had loved; forby, if my uncle dies, and I am
wedded to you, a Protestant, I am his heir—his heir
and your wife, as you think. You think these old
bow their heads to you and own you for master.
You are mistaken. You are blind. You do not
know. No, no, never! never! Each sighing tree
would seem a wailing ghost to you. All these
pictures would scowl at you from under their beetle
brows. These creaking wainscots would sound as
the grating laughter of fiends. At midnight his white
face would haunt you, whilst everything, alive or
dead, from roof to basement, from the song of the
first sad bird at dawn to the croak of the black rook
that comes home last from the fields at eventide,
would hiss at you the same words, “Anthony Babington
is gone, and it was you that brought him to
his death!”
[Weeps.
Willoughby.
Then Babington is here in hiding? And I, with
my great love for you, must deal you this blow.
Alice.
I swear he is not here. He is no more here than
your love. I have found the key-note to your love!
Willoughby.
My poor child, you know not what you are saying.
niece of a traitor hath to swallow much that is not
to his liking; though this one who loves her will
readily do. If Anthony Babington is found in this
house it is true that he is a dead man, and so far
out of my way if he is the man who stood between
us. But this fact will prove your uncle is of the
plot. He will suffer with Babington. His goods
will be forfeited to the Crown, and you are a pauper
and homeless; and so I say, not for myself but for
you, pray Heaven we find no traitors in this house.
Alice.
I will swear to you, by all that I hold sacred, he
is not here!
Enter unperceived Jerome Bellamy and Father Harington.]
Bellamy
(aside to Harington).
Did I not say that you may always trust a woman
to lie?
Willoughby
(continuing).
I will take your word, cousin Alice; and though
my warrant obliges me to search the house and the
way abuse me of so undesired an authority.
Alice.
Thank you, cousin; and I crave your forgiveness
if any of my bitter words wounded your kind heart.
I have been well-nigh beside myself since this bad
news.
Willoughby.
I will not let this stand between what you would
call our friendship, Alice.
[Perceiving Bellamy.]
Kinsman, I have a sad duty to perform. I hold
here a warrant to search your house for some traitors
who are known to be harboured in this neighbourhood.
They have doubled, like foxes, and you must
not marvel if your religion, coupled with your kinship
to this Babington, maketh it suspected that he may
be here.
Bellamy
(ironically).
Sir, you have but your duty to perform. Go,
search every nook and corner of this poor dwelling.
See, here are the keys of every chamber, and those
that are unlocked you will be free to enter. In one
you will find my agèd mother in her bed, upon
from heaven. Spare her gray head as much as you
can of what must needs bow it to the dust! This
worthy Father [pointing to the priest]
, who has been
for many years my counsellor and spiritual guide,
desires that he escape not the humiliations that have
been heaped upon others of his cloth. He desires,
nay, he demands, that you search him, as also the
chamber in which he is lodged. Nay, tear aside
his soutane and look that beneath it he doth not
wear trunk hose. Mark well the cut of his tonsure.
See, he has bared his white hairs—
Willoughby
(embarrassed).
Nay, cousin, you both wound and embarrass me!
—this is a sad duty.
Bellamy
(continuing).
Here, sir, is my library of study
[opens a door to
left]
—here where it is my habit to write. Search
each paper and document, nay, look well betwixt
the leaves of each old book, and see that you
examine the fittings of the wainscot. To the left
there are situate my kitchens, larders, and outhouses,
not forgetting the wood-lofts and hay-ricks, for 'tis
hay or faggots. Here are my serving men and
maids who are at present lingering over their ale
[opening a door to right].
Look well at each one of
them. Rise, varlets, and pull your forelocks to the
gentleman who is searching the house in the name
of the queen!
[Servants discovered at supper.
Willoughby
(scarcely looking at the servants assembled).
You are hard on me, cousin!
Alice.
Uncle, you are hard on cousin Nicholas, who
wishes us no ill!
Willoughby.
God knows I do not, and I heartily trust my
search may prove unsuccessful. Have I your permission
to do my sad duty? I search first the house
and then the gardens and grounds.
Bellamy.
Assuredly, sir; and lest it be thought we go but
to throw dust in your eyes, neither myself nor any
of my family shall accompany you.
Aye, blockhead, go and search among stocks and
stones for the man who stood anon but three paces
from you! Go into byre and barn, and turn over
the straw in the horses' stall. You will not find
him. Anthony Babington is here!
[Enter Babington, Barnwell, and Donn, disguised as rustics, from room to the right.]
Alice
(in horror).
What, here! Anthony here! Great God, what
will become of us!
Babington.
Thanks to you all for helping us to outwit that
short-sighted swashbuckler. These are my two
friends, Mr. Robert Barnwell and Mr. Henry Donn;
but for you
[turning to Bellamy]
we had all been
in a sorry plight.
Alice
(in alarm).
Back, then, to your place of hiding, for the love
of heaven, since you are here!
Babington.
Not till I have pledged you all in this bumper,
[Raising glass.]
Long live Queen Mary!
Willoughby
(entering unperceived).
Nay, long live Queen Elizabeth! Anthony Babington,
Robert Barnwell, and Henry Donn, I arrest
you in the name of the queen's majesty!
[Aside.]
Though would to heaven some other man had the
doing of this deed!
[Enter soldiers, servants, &c.]
| Anthony Babington | |