Chapter 8
_A November night in 1654, six years later. MRS. CROMWELL'S bedroom in Whitehall, where CROMWELL is now installed as Protector._
_MRS. CROMWELL, now aged ninety-four, is on her death-bed. Standing beside her is ELIZABETH, ministering to her._
_Elizabeth:_ Is that comfortable?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Yes, my dear, very comfortable.
_Elizabeth:_ Bridget is coming now. I must go down to Cheapside. I must see that man there myself.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Very well, my dear. Bridget is a good girl. I may be asleep before you come back. Good-night.
_Elizabeth_ (kissing her): Good-night. (Softly, at the door.) Bridget.
_Bridget_ (from the next room): Yes, mother.
_Elizabeth:_ Can you come? I'm going now.
_Bridget:_ Yes.
(She comes in and ELIZABETH goes.)
_Bridget:_ Shall I read, grandmother?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Yes, just a little. Mr. Milton was reading to me this afternoon. Your father asked him to come. He has begun a very good poem, about Eden and the fall of man. He read me some of it. He writes extremely well. I think I should like to hear something by that young Mr. Marvell. He copies them out for me--you'll find them in that book, there. There's one about a garden. Just two stanzas of it. I have marked them.
_Bridget_ (reading):
How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose.
And then this one?
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Yes. Far other worlds, and other seas. I wish your father would come. I want to go to sleep, and you never know.
_Bridget:_ I think father is coming now.
(CROMWELL comes in. He wears plain civilian clothes.)
_Cromwell:_ Well, mother dear.
(He kisses her.)
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ I'm glad you have come, my son. Though you are very busy, I'm sure.
_Cromwell:_ Is there anything I can do?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ No, thank you. What date is this?
_Cromwell:_ The second of November.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ It's nearly a year since they made you Protector, then.
_Cromwell:_ Yes. I wonder.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ You need not, son. You were right. There was none other. And you were right not to take a crown.
_Cromwell:_ The monarchy will return. I know that.
_Bridget:_ Why not always a commonwealth like this, father?
_Cromwell:_ Hereafter there shall be a true commonwealth. We have done that for England. But there must be a king. There is no one to follow me. I am an interlude, as it were. But henceforth kings will be for the defence of this realm, not to use it. That has been our work. It is so, mother?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Truly, I think it. It will be a freer land because you have lived in it, my son. Our name may be forgotten, but it does not matter. You serve faithfully. I am proud.
_Cromwell:_ You have been my blessed friend.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ It was kind of Mr. Milton to come this afternoon. I can't remember whether I thanked him as I should like to.
_Cromwell:_ He likes to come.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Be kind to all poets, Oliver. They have been very kind to me. They have the best doctrine.
_Cromwell:_ That is an aim of mine--to find all men of worth and learning and genius--to give them due employment. The Lord speaks through them, I know. I would have none fail or want under my government.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ I know that. Bridget, girl, be a stay to your father and your mother. They love you. If you should wed again, may you wed well.
_Bridget:_ I will cherish my father's great estate, and I will be humble always.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ And now, I am tired. Bless you, Oliver, my son. The Lord cause His face to shine upon you, and comfort you in all your adversities, and enable you to do great things for the glory of your most high God, and to be a relief unto His people. My dear son. I leave my heart with you. A good night.
(They both kiss her.)
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Is Amos Tanner here?
_Bridget:_ Yes, grandmother.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ Ask him to sing to me. Very quietly. The song he sang that night at Ely--you remember--when John and Henry were there.
(BRIDGET goes out.)
_Mrs. Cromwell:_ You have been a good son.
_Cromwell:_ Mother, dear.
(BRIDGET returns with AMOS. Very quietly he sings:)
When I shall in the churchyard lie, Poor scholar though I be, The wheat, the barley, and the rye Will better wear for me.
For truly have I ploughed and sown, And kept my acres clean; And written on my churchyard stone This character be seen;
"His flocks, his barns, his gear he made His daily diligence, Nor counted all his earnings paid In pockets full of pence."
(While he is singing MRS. CROMWELL falls asleep and he goes. CROMWELL stands for a time with BRIDGET, watching his mother asleep.)
_Cromwell:_ Daughter, we must be loving, one with another. No man is sure of himself, ever. He can but pray for faith.
_Bridget:_ Father, you have done all that a man might do. You have delivered England.
_Cromwell:_ I have said a word for freedom, a poor, confused word. It was all I could reach to. We are frail, with our passions. We are beset.
(He prays at his mother's bedside, BRIDGET standing beside him.)
Thou hast made me, though very unworthy, a mean instrument to do the people some good, and Thee service. And many of them have set too high a value upon me, though others wish and would be glad of my death. But, Lord, however Thou dost dispose of me, continue and go on to do good for them. Give them one heart, and mutual love. Teach those who look too much upon Thy instrument to depend more upon Thyself. Pardon such as desire to trample upon the dust of a poor worm, for they are Thy people, too. And pardon the folly of this short prayer, even for Jesus Christ's sake. And give us a good night if it be Thy pleasure.
THE SCENE CLOSES
THE END
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[Transcriber's Note:
The following text was printed at the beginning of the original book. It is included here for historical interest only.]
Copyright, 1921, by Houghton Mifflin Company
Dramatic Rights in the United States Controlled by William Harris, Jr
CAUTION
All dramatic rights for John Drinkwater's _Oliver Cromwell_ in North America are owned and controlled by William Harris, Jr., Hudson Theatre, New York City. Special notice should be taken that possession of this book without a valid contract for production first having been obtained from Mr. Harris confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in private for gain or charity. Until further notice performances of this play in North America will be limited to those companies which appear under Mr. Harris's direction, and he absolutely forbids other performances by professionals or amateurs, including "readings," tableaux, and anything of such nature approximating a performance. The play is fully protected by copyright and any violations will be prosecuted.