_Will._ Thy experience did ever squint, and the obliquity of the mind grows worse with years. Yet I grant thee, as it hath happened, thou hast been equal to the occasion, which is true greatness, and that thou art great no one who looks at thee can deny.

I am glad that Wyckoff hath at length paid his long reckoning.

_Host._ But he hath not, he hath not!

_Will._ Did you not see them take him?--

_Host._ Tis all very well to jest, but I have often seen, that when a poor man is defrauded, first there is no justice whatsoever, and again, if there be any, it is in this wise, that, while the wrong-doer suffers by the Law, the Law swallows up the simple desired thing, which is rest.i.tution. The Law takes the money, the Law disposes of the chattels, and finally, Jack Ketch, who is the Law's Ancient and most grim functionary, lays claim to the clothes. There was more real justice, friend Will, in the little finger of the Law of Moses, than in the whole right arm and sword of our boasted English trull, and you may throw her scales and blind-man's-buff frippery into the bargain.

_Will._ Stop, stop, thou art struck with an apoplexy of sense. Wisdom peeps through both thine eyes, like the unexpected apparition of a bed-ridden old woman at a garret window. Thou art the very owl of Minerva, and the little bill, that thou ever carriest with thee, is given thee for this purpose, to peck at man's frailty in the matter of repayment. Come, thou art in danger. I must have thee bled.

_Host._ I tell thee I have bled, as much as e'er a kettle-pated fellow of them all in these wars. I am defunct of nearly all my substance.

_Will._ Substance? Why there is scarcely a doorway thou canst pa.s.s through; and if one of h.e.l.l's gate-posts be not put back a foot or two, thou wilt be left, at thy latter end, like a huge undelivered parcel in the lumber-room of Charon.

_Host._ I know not any carrier of that name, but 'tis ill twitting a man, when he is in earnest, and did I not love thee, and were this not a day of rejoicing, thou shouldest drink no more out of mine own silver flagon.

_Will._ Nay, I meant not to offend thee. Come, we part soon. My master will pay thee thrice that thou hast lost by this captain.

_Host._ Pish! I care not for ten times the money.

Thou understandest not the feelings of a tradesman.

_Will._ Come along, come along. The boat stays under the bridge. Mistress Barbara is already on board the ship, and swears that tar is the perfumery of Satan. Come, I may never see thee again, and although we shall not moisten our parting with tears, it would scarcely, methinks, be appropriate that we should say to each other "G.o.d be with you!" thirsting.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III.

[_Last Grooves._]

_Drawing-room at Whitehall, with practicable folding doors and curtains, in the last Cut, 3rd Grooves.

A Nurse discovered in attendance. The Lady ELIZABETH is lying on a Couch, surrounded by the Family of CROMWELL. Her Sisters are kneeling around her._

_Eliz._ Leave me awhile; I shall be better soon.

I would but see my father; pray you seek him, I wish to speak with him.

_Lady Crom._ Nay, my sweet child, You must not be alone.

_Eliz._ Dear mother, pardon, I shall be better.

_Nurse._ The physician said She must not be denied the thing she asks.

_Lady Crom._ Well, then--but let me cover thee, my sweet, The night is cold.

_Eliz._ No! no! I scarce can breathe.

_Lady Crom._ Indeed she mends, her eyes are brighter. Come.

[_They rise, and go out quietly._]

_Eliz._ [_Raising herself._] Unbare my beating bosom to the wind, And let the breath of Heaven wander through The dreary twilight of my tangled hair.

Mine eyes shall never sparkle any more, Save with the fearful glitter of unrest; My cheeks flush not with any hope on earth; But with the live glow in their ash burn on.

Death holds his Carnival of winter roses Till their last blossom drops within the grave.

Hush! what was that? I thought I heard a noise: He comes, my father comes! Away all thought Of self--Away, base pa.s.sion, that would bind My winged soul to earth,--hush! hush! he comes.

[_Pause._]

Twas but the night-wind's flagging breath! No sound Of mortal footstep, as it hither crept Tiptoe and carefully, 'twas like a murderer, That in his sleep walks forth. See, how he threads his way 'Mid all the antique chattels of the room Where it was none! Mark, where his careful feet Avoid yon blood-stains, though they shrink not when The grey rat courses o'er them! Nay, 'tis gone.

A shape of fancy's painting to the sight.

'Twas but the wind, I said--whose fleeting voice The vaulted corridor did syllable aloud, Mingling my name with tombs.

Again, I hear It is his heavy footstep--

_Enter CROMWELL, L._

Father! here Come close and press me warmly to thee, quick!

Lest Death step in between us--'

Reach me here That cup. My voice fails--not that hand! 'tis blood,

[_He lets fall the cup._]

As in my dreams. I would a.s.soil him. Father!

'Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear Thought guiding action in all human things, Not in the busy, whirling masque of life, Reality unreal, but in truth.

Then the eye cuts as the chirurgeon's knife Mocks the poor corpse. I saw not when he died: Yet last night was a scaffold, there! all black, And one stood visor'd by, with glittering axe Who struck the bare neck of a kneeling form-- Methought the head of him that seem'd to die, With ghastly face and painful, patient stare, Glided along the sable, blood-gilt floor, As unseen fiends did pull it by its ma.s.s Of dank and dabbled hair, and when I turn'd Mine eyes to see it not, the headsman's mask Had fallen to the ground-- Thou didst not do it?

For it was _thy_ face. Father, answer me! [_She implores in a very earnest att.i.tude, and gradually falls back._]

_Crom._ [_Stands amazed at his daughter's action._]

I'll hear no more. 'Twas not my daughter spoke-- She's dead, and Heaven reproves me with a voice From yon pale tenement of clay. My hair's on end.

She said that fiends dragg'd his, 'tis mine they tug.

Avaunt! I meant well. [_Shouts are heard without._]

Hark! hear without A Babel of hoa.r.s.e demons clamouring loud For Cromwell, the Protector!

[_His daughter points upward._]

No! not there.

I cannot follow thee. A Spirit stands, Anointed, in the breach of Heaven's walls, Behind him streams intolerable light, His floating locks are crown'd--His look repels-- I was his murderer on earth--His gaze Speaks pity; but not pardon--Let me rise, There's mercy on his brow--I fall, I fall.

I tell ye loose me, ere I see him not: His form recedes, clouds hide him from my sight: A hand of midnight grasps me by the throat.

They call'd me Cromwell when I liv'd on earth, And said I slew a king. There is no air--

[_He sinks exhausted on a chair._]

_Enter PEARSON._

_Eliz._ [_To PEARSON._]

Pearson, thou lov'st him?

_Pear._ Madam, with a love Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap.

[_Looks at CROMWELL._]

The dark fit is upon him. I have found 'Tis best to leave him to himself;--