Cromwell: A Drama, in Five Acts

by Alfred Bate Richards

CROMWELL.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

[1st Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]

A Lane near a Village. Afternoon.

Enter ARTHUR WALTON and WILLIAM, R.S.E.

Arthur. Give me your arm, my feet tread heavily;
The sameness of this scene doth pierce my heart
With thronging recollections of the past.
There is nought chang'd—and what a world of care,
Of sorrow, passion, pleasure have I known,
Since but a natural part of this was I,
Whose voice is now a discord to the sounds
Once daily mellow'd in my youthful being.
Methinks I feel like one that long hath read
A strange and chequer'd story, and doth rise,
With a deep sigh to be himself again.

Will. One would not think, Sir, how much blood had stain'd
Old England, since we left her, finding thus
All things so peaceful; but one thing I mark'd
As we did skirt the village.

Arth. What was that?

Will. The king's face was defac'd—the sign o' the inn
At jolly Master Gurton's—mind you not
How sad it look'd? Yet 'neath it I've been gay,
A time or two; 'tis not my fortune now:
Those bright Italian skies have even marr'd
My judgment of clear ale.

Arth. I'faith 'twill need A marvellous scant repair.

Will. One jovial day Of honest mud and wholesome English fog.

Arth. That sign! 'twas once the royal head of James;
Some thirsty limner passing made it Charles;
I've heard it said 'twas e'en our good Queen Bess,
By curious folk that trac'd her high starch'd ruff
In the quaint faded back of antique chair,
Her stomacher in Charles's shrivell'd vest—
Who in his turn is gone. Well, take this letter,
See the old knight; but not a word to him.
Stay, I forgot, my little rosy cousin
Should be a woman now; thus—full of wiles,
Glancing behind the man that trusts her love
To his best friend, and wanton with the girls
She troops with, in such trifling, foolish sort,
To turn the stomach of initiate man.
Fie! I care not to hear of her; yet ask
If she be well. Commend me to my brother;
Thou wilt not tarry—he will give thee gold,
And haste to welcome me—go! At the inn
We'll meet some two hours hence.

[Exit R.]

Will. Hem! I doubt much
About this welcoming.—Sad human Nature!
This brother was a careful, godly youth
That kept accounts, and smiling pass'd a beggar,
Saying, "Good-morrow, friend," yet never gave.
Where head doth early ripen, heart comes late—
Therefore, I say, I doubt this welcoming. [Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

[Last Cut.] [2nd Grooves.]

An Apartment in a Manor House.

Enter BASIL WALTON and FLORENCE, R.

Basil. [following Florence.] I'll break thy haughty spirit!

Flor. Will you, sir?—
'Tis base, ungentle, and unmannerly,
Because, forsooth, you covet my poor wealth,
Which likes me not, as I care not for it,
To persecute a helpless girl like me.

Basil. I will protect thee; but accept my love. Nay, do not frown so.

Flor. Love! say'st thou? Profane, Vile misuse of that sacred word. Away! Touch not my hand with your cold fingers—Off!

Basil. Thou foolish child, wouldst throw thyself away
Upon some beggar? were he here, perchance
Thy cousin Arthur? Come, our lands unite,
Be prudent—

Flor. Prudent!
Oh, there is no match
Half so imprudent, as when interest
Makes two, in heart divided, one—no work
So vain, so mean, so heartless, dull and void,
As that of him who buys the hollow "yes"
From the pale lips where Love sits not enthron'd,
Nor fans with purple wing the bosom's fire.
Prudence! to waste a life, lose self-respect,
Or e'en the chance of love bestowed and met?—

Basil. Sweet cousin, wilt not love me?

Flor. No! nor wish To hate thee, could I help it—therefore, go!

Basil. Well then I must— [Seizes her hand.]

Flor. For pity's sake; if not I'll fly thee and my home.

Basil. Ha! leave your father, Desert the old man in his hour of need? Fine ethics, truly. [Advances.]

Flor. Heaven! Leave me, sir—
There something tells me Arthur will return,
Whom you have cozen'd of his heritage,
And then he'll aid me.

Basil. [Aside.] Hath she seen him then, Or heard? I must beware—

[A Servant enters and beckons him out, L.]

Nay! none can know. [Aside.] Doubtless a message from him—I must see That they meet not, or else— [Aloud.] Adieu! fair cousin; I trust you'll find your senses yet ere long.

[Exit BASIL, L.]

Flor. Once more he's gone—O world! indeed thou art Too oft the bad man's friend.

Sir Sim. [Within.] Ho! nephew Basil, Ho! Basil!

[Enter SIR SIMON, R.] Where's my nephew? [To Florence.]

Flor. He has left
This moment, sir!
O listen, he is rude.
I cannot wed him,—Father! make me not
Unhappy—

Sir Sim. Nay! Thou know'st, indeed, my child,
How I do love thee. 'Tis a good young man,
And wealthy—no fool, like his brother. Fool,
Said I?—a madman, ape, dolt, idiot, ass,
An honourable ass to give the land
His weak sire left him, to our Basil—Ha!
He'll give none back, I think !—no! no!
Come, girl!
Wouldst thou be foolish, too? I would not marry
For money only, understand—no! no!
That I abhor, detest, but in my life
I never saw a sweeter, properer youth.
You like him not? Tush! marriage doth bring liking.
Ay! love too—you are young!

Flor. But, I've enough— Why wed at all?

Sir Sim. Girl! girl! I say, would'st drive
Thy father mad! A very handsome man,
A healthy fine young man—lands joining too!
Nay! I could curse you, wench! Not have him?
This
Comes from your mawkish sentiment. You are
No child of mine—

Flor. Dear father! Hear me!

Sir Sim. Mark!
You're not of legal age—I'll drive you forth.
I'd rather see you dead, here, at my feet,
Than baulk my counsels thus. Nay, try and see
If sentiment will feed you, trick you out.
O, who would be a father?

Flor. Have I not E'er shown you love and duty?

Sir Sim. Then obey! If I'd said nought—Oh! then you'd been in love With him, against my will—

Flor. No, sir, indeed! Spare me—I'll think—I'll try. Be kind to me!

Sir Sim. Well, well, child, 'tis not right to treat me thus:
If I were full of passion—harsh, unkind,
Your conduct were less cruel. But, you'll kill
The old man some day with your cruelty.
You don't care for him—not you; yet he acts
All for your good. Some day you'll think so when
You've lost him. Come, come, dry your tears, now kiss me;
I should die happy, were you married well.
I am old—all this agitation kills me.

Flor. Nay, father, talk not so.

Sir Sim. You should obey me. Your mother never dar'd oppose me thus; She swore obedience, and I made her keep it.

Flor. [Aside.] My mother, she died young, and yet too old;
The breath of her whole life was one long sigh;
She look'd like her own mourning effigy.
Her sad "good morrow" was as others say
"Good night." We never saw her smile but once,
And then we wept around her dying couch,
For 'twas the dazzling light of joy that stream'd
Upon her from the opening gates of heaven;
That smile was parted, she so gently died,
Between the wan corpse and the fleeting spirit.

Sir Sim. [Aside.] She looks just like her mother.
That pale face
Making its sad obedience a reproach.
If she would flout, sulk, scold, resist my will,
I'd make her have him ere the day grew cold.

Flor. Her very kisses chill'd our infant brows;
She pluck'd the very flowers of daily life
As from a grave where Silence only wept,
And none but Hope lay buried. Her blue eyes
Were like Forget-me-nots, o'er which the shade
Of clouds still lingers when the moaning storm
Hath pass'd away in night. It mattered not,
They were the home from which tears never wander'd.

Sir Sim. [Aloud.] I shall lose patience shortly. Oh, that gout! Here, girl, assist me. Would you see me fall?

Flor. Well, father, leave me to myself awhile. I would obey you if I could.

Sir Sim. That's right.
You know I'm rough, but then who loves you like
A father? You ought not to try me thus;
Indeed you ought not. Come, my dear, we'll go,
And find your cousin. [FLORENCE hesitates.] Hey! not now? Beware,
'Tis better now! no nonsense. Come, come, come.
You know you can do what you please with me,
But then you must be more obedient—so!
[Going slowly, R.]
Your hand! You do me harm, girl! with this strife.
Gently—your cousin never frets me thus. [Exeunt, R.]

[Enter BASIL reading a letter, WILLIAM following, L. FLORENCE returns, R., and steals behind them, and listens to their conversation.]

Basil. [With a letter in his hand.] Good William, thou shalt drink to me. [Gives him money.] And art thou still called thirsty William?

Will. What answer shall I bear to my master?

Basil. Thy master? 'Tis a good youth, though a wild—I hope he be well. Yet, frankly, I would that he had not just now returned. Our uncle is so violent, and will not hear his name. Arthur hath been so imprudent, loose, eh? William, I regret the old man hath heard of these things.

Will. My master is a very Puritan, sir!

Basil. [Aside.] Let his worth go begging, then—but he will soon be bad as his fortunes demand. Your poverty-stricken gentlemen were better on the coast of Barbary than in this civilized country. And whatever he do, he shall be judged harshly. [Aloud to William.]

I doubt not—Lies, lies; I said so at the time. Then you see my cousin Florence, a simple girl, trembles at his very name. You cannot wonder at it;—such stories have been told. Confess now, William, thy master hath been a prodigal. Doth he pay thy wages? Thou art scurvily clad. I have a place now—as it were.

Will. I desire no better, sir! I thank you, than where I am.

Basil. Oh! I did not mean unless you had left my brother first. Now, he desireth a thousand pound. Simply I have it not. There is no rent paid now. I would he had written rather than come. I will give him five hundred that I have, if he will pledge me his honourable word to leave England for five years. Are there not wars abroad whereby men live?—

Will. And die!

Basil. I would I could see him. But I have promised mine uncle not, and he cannot bear any shock to his health. Go, tell him this.

Will. Worshipful Master Basil! you will excuse me, but I must speak my master's mind. He saith he hath signed away his inheritance to thee, and that he expects this small gift, ere he comes among ye. He is but in sorry plight of dress, and he hath ever shown much affection for you.

Basil. Does he threaten? Hark ye, I owe him nought. Let justice be done. The fortune was mine by birth. Our father acted basely. My brother did very properly restore it. Shall he boast of a bare act of justice? He hath no claim on me. Shall I furnish his profligacies, his expenses, his foreign debaucheries, because I have gotten back mine own?

Will. You will not see him?—

Basil. No!

Will. Nor send him the money?—

Basil. No! except with the proviso I told thee of.

Will. You have no other message?—

Basil. No!

Will. Oh! Well, sir, I think the execution of my barren commission needs no farther stay. Touching that small portion of mammon wherewith thou wouldst endow my master's passage across the seas, in his name I will venture to refuse the gratility.

Basil. Wouldst jest, villain? There are stocks! Back to the beggar that sent thee. [Exit R.]

[WILLIAM going, L., FLORENCE approaches him from behind.]

Flor. Good friend! I have heard something of your discourse. I would fain see thy master.

Will. Art thou not his cousin, lady?

Flor. I am.

Will. He hath often spoken of thee far hence.

Flor. We were children together. Is his temper sweet as it used to be? Hath he grown taller? I have much to say to him. Is he sunburnt? Doth he wear a beard? They say much ill of him.

Will. Lady! believe it not; [aside]—for I affect much his society. [Aloud.] He is a good master and kind, though of a strange mood. For women, he cannot abear them.

Flor. Indeed! Good friend, nevertheless I must see your master. Bring me to him.

Will. I am going to the inn, where he awaits me. Will it please you to meet me opposite the old barn in two hours?

Flor. I will, I will, for I need his advice much. I am sore distressed. Here is for thee. Lose no time! [Gives him money.] Farewell! [Exit R.]

Will. By'r lady, angels! both of them. [Exit L.]