University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in Babington's House.
Enter Ballard and a Huntsman.
BALLARD.
This meeting's dangerous. What thou would'st say,
Speak, and begone.

HUNTSMAN.
I only stay to hear
Such message you may think fit to breathe
To the Ruling Ear.

BALLARD.
Devotion to the order;
An eye that rests not, nor a heart that shakes;
A zeal that cannot freeze—'tis idle all—
Had I not these, why do I sojourn here?
Say that all's well—no more;—yes; nearer still—
(In a low tone.)
I'll draw his fangs, but from his den must first
Lure forth the serpent.—Mark the words, say this—
Begone—stay—What to Babington, even now,
Brought'st thou from Charnock?

HUNTSMAN.
E'en two foreign hounds,
Of Germany, I think.

BALLARD.
'Tis well—begone!
[Huntsman goes out
Take hence thy fawning eye, that spy'st at once
Upon and for me. I am past them now;
Too deeply in for any will to master
Except mine own; and, for my countermine,
The college shall work hard to delve so deep.
Enter Gifford.
Gifford, how now?

GIFFORD.
I come, sir, by the card—
I have succeeded

BALLARD.
Speak low.—Art thou sure?

GIFFORD.
As sure as one well-crafted politician
Is of another. What I did impart
They swallow'd, as you'd have them.

BALLARD.
Art thou sure
They traced thee not? If thou hast been a trail
To draw their bloodhounds hither, woe to thee! mark me,
Art sure they track'd thee not?

GIFFORD.
I'll pawn my soul on't.

BALLARD.
Pawn something better! noted'st thou of any
That met thee on the way, or else outrode?

GIFFORD.
No one have I beheld,—except, e'en now,
A squinting fellow in the corridor;
A falconer of Master Charnock.

BALLARD.
Oh!
He hath been here belike to babble of
Some foreign hounds, or something of such sort.
Thou hast done well; retire. The business
That's now in hand requires some space of thought.
Go! and be wary.
[Gifford retires.
Now am I in mine element,
The world of subtle thought—ay, thoughts that soar
Like eagles, 'mid the lightning-parted clouds,
And play amid their flashes. Hover now
Round me, ye demons that o'er-rule the storm;
That point the lightning at the stagg'ring bark;
Or urge the rushing clouds; or, laughing, stride
The billow that engulfs the struggling wretch,
And grin in his drench'd face.
Come to my breast,
Thou spirit, that can'st ride upon the waves
Calmly, as if they roll'd not, and impel
The buried helm with an untrembling hand;
For 'tis thy time;—now, when the lowering clouds
And troubled ocean darkly seem to meet,
Brewing the coming tempest. Let it fall
As 'twill—small care of mine! I am the master
In this momentous chase, and can unleash
My hounds on whom I will. Eye sees them not.
Darkly they sweep, like the wild Indian dog,
Through trackless forests and eternal shades;
Aghast the trav'ller hears th' approaching bay,
The savage rush, and headlong flying game,
And all is still again; nor sees he whence
It came, nor whither it goes—no matter whither,
So that the spoil be mine.
I have two paths
Before me, and but pause which I must take.
There was a time when, if I were but high,
I would have sat me on the rugged rock
As soon as the soft sward; 'tis not so now.
I have drank new passion since I saw this house:
Ambition stoops to take a yoke-fellow;
And the strong speed of iron Resolution
Lags for a flower i' th' way. Why should it not?
Say that there be two heights which I may scale,
Still shall I choose the greenest; and where'er
The flowers of dalliance shall the soonest bud,
There do I fix my climate.
(A clock strikes.)
'Tis the hour;—
And now to govern the hot fiery spirits
That stoop to be mine instruments; to blow
Their flames on high, as doth the cunning smith
Until his work be forged—then—quench them, haply
With blood instead of water.—Fools! but ask them
What brings them to this venture; one shall talk
Of loyalty, another whine of love,
Another friendship, and a fourth religion;
Ay, marry,—even so. If they will play
Without a stake, they get their rubs for nothing.
Of all Love's, Loyalty's, or Religion's jokes,
Your martyrs are the sorriest. I must be gone.

[Ballard goes out.

SCENE II.

—A large Hall.
Enter Babington.
Methinks there is a weight upon the air,
As if the clasping element sympathized
E'en with our bosoms. Be it so. This heaviness
Is nature's impost. When Columbus launch'd
Upon the ocean of his enterprize,
Until the sun-tipp'd Spanish hills were lost,
Even that elated and expansive spirit
Did linger on the land that he was leaving,
As lead were on its wings. Lend me thy plumes,
Oh Love! to lighten mine. Nerve me, oh Honour!
To this most just, but perilous enterprize—
Fame, let me mount up to thy firmament,—
Or, if I fail, even like those wand'ring stars
That plunge into th' obscure abyss of night,
But leave a glorious track of light behind them,
So let me perish.
Enter Ballard, Tichbourne, Charnock, and Abingdon.
Boone!—and gentlemen,
Friends, comrades,—nay, all brothers, welcome!

CHARNOCK.
Welcome!
Now, if a man may augur from a look,
Our meeting here should have a happy end,
From yours this morning.

BABINGTON.
Sir, your prophecy
Shall be fulfill'd; at least, so let us trust.

BALLARD,
(aside.)
Not quite so fast; your sunny dawns, they say,
Have tearful endings.

TICHBOURNE.
Prophecy! a fig!
Give me a stirring hand and a bold heart,
They are the best of augurs. Let's to business.

BABINGTON.
Gentlemen,
Wherefore we meet is known unto you all—

BALLARD.
Pause you a while. They say e'en walls have ears,
And spies, mole-like, can mine beneath our tread;
I will make sure o' the outer portal, ere
A dangerous breath be breathed.

TICHBOURNE,
(warmly.)
What!—in this house?
If treason can couch down with Babington,
Why, then, give up our vain confed'racy.
The world's past mending. If doubt harbours here,
Ours is a needless trouble. Ay, sir—look
Ten thousand meanings if you will, and none
A good one.

BALLARD.
Sir, my meaning's single, plain,
And not unusual. With most politicians,
The quality called Caution, commonly
Is rated at some little, and it's opposite
Is held for dangerous—or, what's worse—suspicious.

TICHBOURNE.
Suspicious?—no—let me contain myself.—
Methinks, sir, 'twere as well to quit this key:
Leave such sage maxims to the needy plotters,
Or stabbers, liquorish of each other's throats,
'Midst whom they were hatch'd. Here, in this company,
There's but one rule, and that well serves for all;
He who doubts here, should be himself suspected.

BALLARD.
Stabbers—suspected—Have I heard aright?
Sure I mistake you, honourable sir.

BABINGTON.
No more. You, Tichbourne, as you are my friend,
Mark me; this hot disruption of our purpose
Is ill—I say that it becomes you not.
Father, methought the spirit of your calling
Chastised your bosom of these humorous pranks
Which in unreverend youth we may excuse,
But scarce in you.

BALLARD,
(aside.)
Now note this down, my soul;
Insulted, school'd, forget it not—ay, note it;
Brand it here, shame, in burning characters.
(Aloud.)
—Oh! sir, mistake me not; you say most true;
The spirit of mine order doth command
To bend to injury. We are but flesh—
Bear with me. I have not forgot my vow.
—'Tis past. See how, before your breath, mine anger
Hath melted like the snow! Is't not enough?
If there be more shapes of humility
I must pass through, propose them. I am but
Your servant; and but wait to know what trust
Your honours please to give into my hand,
And so perform it.

BABINGTON.
Sir, this is too lowly—
You are my bosom friend and counsellor,
Nor shall be counted less: no more of this;
It grieves me more than I shall speak of now.
My friends, this cloud being happily o'erpast,
We will to business.
Wherefore we meet is known unto you all;
A general wrong needs no interpreter.
Have we not seen the ruin that hath roll'd
O'er our dear country; Pestilent heresy
Flame like a brand cast in the autumn corn,
Till all the goodly harvest is burn'd up;
Holy Religion turned to robbery!
Her sacred shrines unroof'd, and made the haunts
Of th' unclean fox and owl; Penance-worn Age
Chased forth to die beside some bypath ditch;
And stainless Innocence turn'd loose to shiver,
And starve i' the causeway—Destitution nipt;
Honour betray'd for of her sister Faith;
Beauty oppress'd, because she is not false;
Goodness proscribed, because it will not change?—
And who have done these things? not savage Goths,
Who conquer only that themselves are strong,
Who know not light, because themselves are dark;
But the wolf Lucre, vestured like the lamb;
And bat-like Sophistry, whose filmed eyes
Find day in twilight, and whose leathern wings
Flit ever round the ruins that it loves;
Amphibious, miscreate; loathsome alike
To those who crawl, as well as those who soar.
Is this not so? If then, or blood will quench
This fiery pestilence, or fire burn out
The hideous reptiles that infest our fields,
Why should we pause or start? If that your veins
Have ta'en a feverous, or an aguish taint,
Do ye not lance them? If a rabid tooth
Hath torn ye, sear ye not the wound? My friends,
Which of us here shall not do for his country
What for himself he doth?

ABINGDON.
None; none.

TICHBOURNE.
I go,
As far in this as any; only this,
The less of blood the greater is our gain.

CHARNOCK.
The less of blood, the less the devil's gain;
I know not who can gain by them but he.

ABINGDON.
Dost thou love blood?

CHARNOCK.
Sir, no. I love not blood;
But cannot hate their blood who would love mine.

BABINGTON.
Comrades, we shall but shed what blood we must,
And what we must, we ought.
We are agreed.
Let every hand that's here be join'd with mine.
My friends, ye know that we have deeply sworn
To this, and with our souls impledged our honours,
To stand or fall together. Ye know, too,
That more to knit up this stern brotherhood,
These features are all limn'd; so, if we fail,
They may know whom to strike; if we succeed,
They may know whom to praise. Yet, even now,
If any pulse of those I have touch'd here
Beat cold or fearful—I say, even now,
That man is free to go. I would not have
A hand to join me in this enterprize,
That struck not with devotion like mine own.
Doth any answer me?

BALLARD.
I ask thee this,
Dost thou suspect aught here?

BABINGTON.
Suspect? no, no!

BALLARD.
Then what but this, God speed our enterprize?

BABINGTON.
Amen, amen. How should we fail, for danger
But makes the brave man firm and confident,
Which gives the coward a vomit. Therefore, Peril
Shall be our handmaid.
We will meet no more,
My friends, until we meet to act. The signal
Of where, and when, ye are possess'd withal.
And now let us disperse. I would not have
My household note too much our conference.
Go not at once, but severally. Good morrow;
Charnock, we'll try your hounds at early dawn.
I'll follow your anon.
(They all go except Ballard.)
Stay, Father, I
Would speak with you.
Come nearer to me, Father
And friend—'twould wrong you, did I hide from you
Mine inmost thoughts. Father, you well must know
The purpose that we hold is dangerous;
Most perilous both in the execution
And after-compt; and God knows which of us
In the fell sweep and current of events
May not be stranded. In such exigence
It doth become a man to make provision
Against the worst, that those whose happiness,
Nay, very life, are twined with his, may bide
The separation—if that such must be.
There are two helpless women I would fain,
Whatever be the lot of Babington,
Essay to find some ark for, that may float
Their little fortunes up, if mine be wreck'd—
My mother, and her gentle ward—forgive me,
The heart will fill even though the eyes be dry
Sometimes. One moment's space and I go on—
If we miscarry, you shall haply 'scape.
Your calling doth forbid that you should plunge
Your hands into the blood that must be spilt
At the first threshold of our enterprize—
If it be so—as haply it may be,
Although God speed it other—but if 'tis,
Be you their guardian.
Now I have said,
But do not answer me, I know full well
Thou would'st be that without behest of mine,
But 'twas my duty, and we still commend
There where we know our words strike surest root.

BALLARD.
Sir, you may know mine answer—or you should—
Without the aid of any breath of mine.

BABINGTON.
Yet one thing more or ere I go. I think
You are possess'd that Tichbourne loves my ward,
The gentle Agnes, and I could well wish,
For that he is a good and gallant youth,
It were return'd. Let not the little heat
His spirit shew'd to-day make him weigh lighter
In your kind estimation. Haply here
Your council may avail us, for I have mark'd
She holds you in much awe, and knows besides
You are my dearest and most trusted friend
And counsellor.

BALLARD.
If any words of mine
May sway the balance to the side you wish,
Trust me I shall not spare them; and, meanwhile,
'Twere well I had some brief authority
Under your seal as to the trust wherewith
You please to honour me, but which, please Heaven,
Shall not be wanted.

BABINGTON.
'Tis well thought upon,
You shall have such a document anon.
Its use—Heaven shall direct.
Farewell, dear father.

[Babington goes out.
BALLARD.
The stream, just ere it rushes o'er the cliff,
Runs swiftest; so men, on the brink of ruin,
Seem oft to run into destruction. Fate
Doth film their eyes, and they pull down their death
On their own proper heads.
Yea, 'tis most strange now. She, o'er whom I would
Have most authority, thrust on mine hands
For guardianship—myself too delegated
To plead for him, whose suit I most would blast—
If that events—as some have held—should be
Our chiefest prophets, these speak plainly out.
As dangers thicken, so must acts—and now
One hour determine what the next shall do.

[Ballard goes out.

SCENE III.

Enter Tichbourne and Plasket.
TICHBOURNE.

Why, Master Plasket, methinks thy mirth halts more
than wont—and thy face, that used to hang out motley on
every feature, is changed o' late. Art thou going to leave
off trade, that thou takest down thy sign?

PLASKET.

Truly, sir, I am but i'the fashion. Cameleon-like, I
even take my colour from that about me; an' if I have
left off mirth, it is as I have left off tags—because others
have done the like. Marry, I follow the mode, be it in
lace or in wit.

TICHBOURNE.

Thy wit was never strait-laced. I'll say that for thee;
but is this house grown so dull?

PLASKET.

Marry, the house is not so dull as the company.

TICHBOURNE.

Still a word-catcher! Tell me, how long hath this been?

PLASKET.

How long? exactly, since Master Boone sojourned
with us.

TICHBOURNE.

Master Boone!—Why is he an enemy to thy cloth?

PLASKET.

Master Boone is anything but a boon companion, that's
certain; and methinks he hath infected the rest with the
malady o' mournfulness. The very throstles have left off
whistling.

TICHBOURNE.

Thou lovest not Master Boone?

PLASKET.

Shall I lie?—Truly no!

TICHBOURNE.

Come, what object'st thou against him? There's more
in this than thou givest breath to.

PLASKET.

Nothing. Let him tell me what he is, and then ask my
objections.

TICHBOURNE.

Why, he hath a gentle favour; hath he not?

PLASKET.

Like my great grandfather's monument—'tis carved out
o' marble, methinks.

TICHBOURNE.

And a fair presence.

PLASKET.

His absence were better.

TICHBOURNE.

And a good eye.

PLASKET.

I'll see that, when he looks me i'the face.

TICHBOURNE.

And a good wit.

PLASKET.

Let him make me laugh!

TICHBOURNE.

And a thoughtful generosity—

PLASKET.

I'll say so too, when I get my legacy.

TICHBOURNE.

Psha! thou carpest and carpest, and yet tell'st nought;
in a word, What say'st thou to him?

PLASKET.

Even what he sayeth to me, Nothing.

TICHBOURNE.

Well; if coldness be a sin, how comes Christmas to be
blessed?

PLASKET.

Sir—as ye cellar up your wines, your meats, and your
conserves—so he that is cold hath secrets to keep. Could
ye break the ice of his coldness, who knows what foul current
runs beneath it!

TICHBOURNE.

I'll hear no more of this. I did not think thou had'st
so bitter a vein. Where is the Lady Agnes?

PLASKET.

Truly, sir, I know not; but, as I think, in the orchard
with my lady. I would ye could make her merrier, for she
is even like the rest of us.

TICHBOURNE.

I will make her merry, or she shall go near to make me
sad. Master Plasket, fare thee well—

[Tichbourne goes out.
PLASKET.
God be wi' ye; and may ye come back laughing!
This is no phantasy, there's matter in't.
Of late—I know not wherefore—but a gloom
Hath gather'd o'er these roofs, and, since that man
Became their guest, all he hath look'd upon
Hath ta'en a sad complexion from his eye.
There's mystery on his brow—nor do his accents
Sort with his looks. Have I not noted him
Shoot forth a swift glance of intelligence—
Like to an arrow from a leaguer'd wall,
Wing'd to some far-off aid—when he well deem'd
None mark'd him, but the menial that received it.
There was a time such motes would stir me not,
But now when ancient fealty is treason—
When altars are o'erturn'd, and faithful men
Dare hardly ask a blessing on their hearths,
We know not what to trust, nor what to fear—
I will watch well his bearing—

[He retires.