Chapter 10

[_Last Grooves._]

_A large apartment dimly lighted. Tables with writing materials. A practicable door and stairs in L.F., practicable doors, R. and L.U.E.'S, chairs, &c._

_CROMWELL enters, R., very much agitated, followed by his daughter ELIZABETH. After pacing across and back, he stops short in the middle of the stage and speaks._

_Crom._ Have I not promis'd thee that I will save him, If he will save himself? [_To his daughter._]

_Eliz._ Thou hast, dear father. And then, with blessings on thy righteous name, Rejecting all they offer thee, vain titles, And selfish, mean, dishonourable honours, Thou wilt return unto our natural home At Huntingdon, and I will read to thee, As I was wont. Thy hair then will not whiten So fast, and sometimes thou wilt have a smile Upon thy countenance, that grows so stern Of late, I hardly dare look up to thee, And call thee "dearest father"-- Shall it be? Did the king speak thee fair?

_Crom._ [_Gloomily._] Too fair, too fair! E'en to be honest fair. Our good John Milton Speaks bitter words. He saith Lord Strafford grac'd Right well the block, that put his trust in him. What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?

_Eliz._ 'Twas not the fault of Charles that Strafford died.

_Crom._ It was his fault to sign-- He should have died Himself first. Daughter! urge me not--I'll do What the Lord wills in this. Go! mind the household, Thou little Royalist.

_Eliz._ Nay! father, hear me--

_Crom._ Away, puss! Where are Richard and thy husband?

_Eliz._ I will not leave thee, 'till thou promisest--

_Crom._ As the Lord liveth, is it not enough To struggle with a royal hypocrite, To keep his feet from falling, 'mid dissension, On all sides, worse than chaos, liker hell! To be thus baited, by one's own pale household, Prating of what they may not understand? Thy brother Richard with his heavy step, Ploughing his way from book-cas'd room to room, With eye as dull as huckster's three-day's fish, And just as silent; then thy mother with Her tearful and beseeching look, that moves Like a green widow in a mourning trance, The very picture of "God help us all;" And thou, with sickly whining worse than they, Do ye think I shall do murder? Why not go At once unto the foe, and there be spurn'd By Henrietta, that false Delilah?-- Or plot my death for loyalty? What is A father in your minds weigh'd with a king? Yet what is "king" to you? ye were not bred To lick his moral sores in ecstasy, And bay like hounds before the royal gate On all the world beside--Go hence! go hence! I would be left alone--

_Eliz._ O father, hold! And pardon me for my distracted thought. Thou knowest best, and I am wrong indeed: I did but pine to see thee more with us, To see thee happier--

_Crom._ My child, my child! Mercy shall look with eyes like thine on me Though justice frown beside. [_Takes her hand._] Look up, my child! Ask what thou wilt except our country's shame.

[_Cromwell hands Elizabeth off, R., and remains looking after her._]

_Enter, R.D.U.E., MILTON, IRETON, BRADSHAW, MARTEN, HARRISON (who brings a saddle and places it upon the table), LILBURNE, ARTHUR WALTON, LUDLOW. Enter, L., Sir HARRY VANE, HACKER, same time._

_Brad._ [_A letter in his hand. To VANE and HACKER, who have just entered._] So, gentlemen--Had you been here just now, you would have heard at length, this precious information, which our worthy General Cromwell, and Ireton here, have laid before us. A letter to the Queen, and secret intercourse with France--a rare betrayal, and richly worded too. 'Tis well we have friends at court, ere now it had been at Dover.

_Vane._ I thought he did stand pledged to all we ask'd.

_Har._ The royal Judas! [_Cromwell comes forward._]

_Crom._ O sirs! It is but A king's prerogative to break his faith. We are not fitting judges of this thing.

_Har._ But we will judge. I say, whose dogs are we!

_Crom._ Peace, Harrison. Thou naughty traitor! Peace.

_Ireton._ Away with all, save vengeance on the deed.

_Brad._ [_After placing the letter in the saddle._] There! in that greasy, patch'd and reeking leather, Lies a king's royal word, a Stuart's honour, The faith of Charles, his most majestic pledge Broken, defil'd, dishonour'd evermore.

_Har._ Why cry ye not, "God save our righteous King"?

_Crom._ Through me, he did proclaim, he would accept Our army's terms. Alas! had we been cozen'd, I, that believed his false tongue, had betray'd The hope of Israel---

_Vane._ It is true, indeed, He is the slave of his pernicious Queen.

_Mar._ I say the King of England henceforth is An alien in blood, a bitter traitor-- What doth he merit of us?

_Ireton._ This! 'Tis right That one man die for all, and that the nation For one man perish not--

_Crom._ Ho! what? son Ireton.

_Vane._ Alas! indeed he merits not to live.

_Brad._ What say ye?

_Ireton._ Death!

_Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker._ [_Severally._] Death! Death!

_Brad._ I think, Sir Harry, You said, "not live," the others all say, "Death," Why then we are agreed-- Stay! General Cromwell, There was no word from you--

_Crom._ I thought to save My breath; ye were so eager.

_Arth._ Hold, a moment. I do desire your ears--

_Crom._ Our _ears_? Your _years_ Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders, Till they have said-- We would hear Master Milton: He hath to speak. [_To Milton._] What think you of the man, The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd In Ireland against our English throats? Was it well done; deserves it that we crouch?

_Mil._ Oh, it was base, degrading and unhappy, To make God's different worship, damning means Of an unholy war between his people; To be the beggar of his people's blood, To set that crown upon his false, weak brow, His pale, insolvent, moat dishonour'd brow, From which, too wide, it slipp'd into the mire, To fit him ne'er again.--

_Crom._ A right good figure! Who'll pluck the crown from out this royal mire?

_Mar._ They say his queen, our foreign, English queen, Doth ofttimes antler him; perchance 'tis reason Why his crown fits him not.

_Mil._ Oh, it was base To use such means to gain such selfish end! So I have heard, There _have_ been men, in such a hapless clime, As this poor Ireland, unctuous, wordy men, With slug-like skins, and smiling, cheerful faces, That, with their pamper'd families, grew fat, By bleeding Famine's well-nigh bloodless frame; Lessening the pauper's bitter, scanty bread, Season'd with salt tears; shredding finer still The blanket huddled to the stone-cold heart Of the wild, bigot, ghastly, dying wretch.-- Thus, for a devilish and unnatural gain, Mowing the lean grass of a Golgotha! Sitting, like grinning Death, to clutch the toll Tortur'd from poverty, disease and crime; And this with Liberty upon their lips, Bland words, and specious, vulgar eloquence, And large oaths, with the tongue thrust in the cheek, And promises, as if they were as gods, And no God held the forked bolt above! Turning all ignorance, disaffection, hatred, Religion, and the peasant's moody want, To glut themselves with hard-wrung copper coins, Verjuic'd with hot tears, thin and watery blood; Brazening the conscious lie unto the world That it was done for hallowing Freedom's sake, Until the names of "Freedom," "Patriot," stank, Blown on and poison'd by these beggar lips; That men had need to coin fresh words to mean The holy things with stale use so defil'd.

_Arth._ But Charles hath not done _this_! Our poet friend, Full of the knowledge of all times, hath painted A picture all in vain.

_Vane._ But he hath done A mischief similar--I see the point-- Hath he not arm'd the bigot, ghastly wretch, To stab our English lives? hath he not sown A crop of wild sedition, discord, hate, Using the vain creed of the rabble herd To wage this war against us?

_Ire._ Hath he not Tamper'd with France, our curst fantastic foe, And natural enemy?

_Brad._ Did he not first Unfurl his bloody standard to the winds At Nottingham, since when peace hath not smil'd On all this tortur'd land?

_Har._ And are we not, The servants of the Lord, betray'd, despis'd, Insulted, wrong'd, by this false Ahab?--Come, Let him stand forth before his peers--the people, And die the death!-- Cromwell, what sayest thou? Why dost _thou_ lack speech?

_Crom._ I am mute to think Of what ye all say--words--ye dare not do it-- I say ye dare not, though ye were to die Not doing, what your gross and eager speech Makes easier than to cough, or spit, or cry "God save the King;"--but ere your thought hath fled A rood, a yard into the empty air, Dissolv'd is your high counsel, and Dismay Whips all the noble blood that fir'd your cheeks To the pale mantle of a creamy fear. Fie! fie! ye dare not do it--nay, son Ireton, What, Harrison so boisterous? keep your frowns To look upon his trial, since 'tis so--

[_Pointing to IRETON._]

Now hath he not a traitorous brow like his, Perchance, that did stab Caesar? those were days When men did e'en as much as they dar'd hint at.

_Har._ I said not _stab_, but bring him to the block: Let God's eye be upon the multitude, Theirs on the scaffold, the attesting sun Shine on the bare axe and th' uncover'd head. It is no coward act, lest he might sin; For he hath sinn'd, until our very dreams Bid England's tyrant die.

_Arth._ Oh, hear me yet: I had not join'd you, save I thought he sinn'd; I had not counselled, fought with you like brothers, But that I deem'd your cause was just, and honour'd Of good men and of God--I had not given My childish prejudice and old belief To carry arms against my country's king, But for the sake of mercy and of justice, And here I take my stand.

_Crom._ Why then stand there, till we come back again. 'Tis time to part--Come, Ludlow!

_Arth._ Hath he not Virtues that might rebuke us all?--ay, virtues More excellent in him than all his subjects, since All Sin doth aim at Kings, to be her own. 'Tis hard for princes to outshine in worth The meanest wretch that from his road-side hovel Shouts forth with hungry voice, "Long live the King!"

_Crom._ O wise and excellent argument, that There should be no more kings. Why spoil a man That hath a soul, a precious soul, to lose, To make a king that cannot help but sin? Let there be no more kings.

_Arth._ Then kill not Charles, For Charles the Second, reigns in England then.

_Crom._ Hum, perchance--

_Arth._ _He_ hath done us no offence, Ye would not slay him, if ye had him here. I tell ye, banish Charles, this present man, And none shall question, whilst his feeble race And name shall dwindle hence, as shall arise The fair proportions of our Commonwealth On the decay of kings, not on the death Of one weak monarch.-- What! doth any here Wish that himself be king?

_Crom._ He raves!

_Vane._ Nay! listen! He hath much reason.

_Crom._ [_Throws a cushion at Ludlow._] Ho! there regicide! Have at thee! [_Confusion._]

_Arth._ [ Vainly attempts to speak.] Gentlemen, I say then--Hear!

[_MILTON and others commence leaving. LUDLOW pursues CROMWELL, who finally runs down stairs, pursued by the former._]

_Arth._ [_To Milton._] Nay! nay! my friend.

_Milt._ Another time. This is not seemly.

_Har._ Surely, doth the Lord Need us elsewhere. Who holdeth forth below?

[_They all go but Arthur._]

_Re-enter CROMWELL from the stairs._

_Crom._ I do protest that I am out of breath-- Yet I commend thy reasoning.

_Arth._ But, my Lord.--

_Crom._ That rascal, Ludlow!

_Arth._ Will the trial be?

_Crom._ 'Twould justify us much.

_Arth._ But if he die--

_Crom._ [_In a hurried tone and walking off._] It is not thy affair, or mine--Why now-- Let's talk anon, I'm tir'd. Hast thou seen My daughter Frances?--fares she well to-day? Give me thine arm--I do admire thy reasons. You see, these angry fanatics boil over; 'Twill simmer down anon--The king must live. And yet he hath done much--wrought evil work, And so--

[_Exeunt. CROMWELL leaning on his arm and talking rapidly._]

END OF ACT III.