Act 5 — TALES OF THE MERMAID TAVERN (continued 3)

Ben was our only guest that day. His tribe Had flown to their new shrine—the Apollo Room, To which, though they enscrolled his golden verse Above their doors like some great-fruited vine, Ben still preferred our Mermaid, and to smoke Alone in his old nook; perhaps to hear The voices of the dead, The voices of his old companions. Hovering near him,—Will and Kit and Rob. "Our Ocean-shepherd from the Main-deep sea, Raleigh," he muttered, as I brimmed his cup, "Last of the men that broke the fleets of Spain, 'Twas not enough to cage him, sixteen years, Rotting his heart out in the Bloody Tower, But they must fling him forth in his old age To hunt for El Dorado. Then, mine host, Because his poor old ship The Destiny Smashes the Spaniard, but comes tottering home Without the Spanish gold, our gracious king, To please a catamite, Sends the old lion back to the Tower again. The friends of Spain will send him to the block This time. That male Salome, Buckingham, Is dancing for his head. Raleigh is doomed." A shadow stood in the doorway. We looked up; And there, but O, how changed, how worn and grey, Sir Walter Raleigh, like a hunted thing, Stared at us. "Ben," he said, and glanced behind him. Ben took a step towards him. "O, my God, Ben," whispered the old man in a husky voice, Half timorous and half cunning, so unlike His old heroic self that one might weep To hear it, "Ben, I have given them all the slip! I may be followed. Can you hide me here Till it grows dark?" Ben drew him quickly in, and motioned me To lock the door. "Till it grows dark," he cried, "My God, that you should ask it!" "Do not think, Do not believe that I am quite disgraced," The old man faltered, "for they'll say it, Ben; And when my boy grows up, they'll tell him, too, His father was a coward. I do cling To life for many reasons, not from fear Of death. No, Ben, I can disdain that still; But—there's my boy!" Then all his face went blind. He dropt upon Ben's shoulder and sobbed outright, "They are trying to break my pride, to break my pride!" The window darkened, and I saw a face Blurring the panes. Ben gripped the old man's arm, And led him gently to a room within, Out of the way of guests. "Your pride," he said, "That is the pride of England!" At that name— England!— As at a signal-gun, heard in the night Far out at sea, the weather and world-worn man, That once was Raleigh, lifted up his head. Old age and weakness, weariness and fear Fell from him like a cloak. He stood erect. His eager eyes, full of great sea-washed dawns, Burned for a moment with immortal youth, While tears blurred mine to see him. "You do think That England will remember? You do think it?" He asked with a great light upon his face. Ben bowed his head in silence. * * * * "I have wronged My cause by this," said Raleigh. "Well they know it Who left this way for me. I have flung myself Like a blind moth into this deadly light Of freedom. Now, at the eleventh hour, Is it too late? I might return and—" "No! Not now!" Ben interrupted. "I'd have said Laugh at the headsman sixteen years ago, When England was awake. She will awake Again. But now, while our most gracious king, Who hates tobacco, dedicates his prayers To Buckingham— This is no land for men that, under God, Shattered the Fleet Invincible." A knock Startled us, at the outer door. "My friend Stukeley," said Raleigh, "if I know his hand. He has a ketch will carry me to France, Waiting at Tilbury." I let him in,— A lean and stealthy fellow, Sir Lewis Stukeley,— liked him little. He thought much of his health, More of his money bags, and most of all On how to run with all men all at once For his own profit. At the Mermaid Inn Men disagreed in friendship and in truth; But he agreed with all men, and his life Was one soft quag of falsehood. Fugitives Must use false keys, I thought; and there was hope For Raleigh if such a man would walk one mile To serve him now. Yet my throat moved to see him Usurping, with one hand on Raleigh's arm, A kind of ownership. "Lend me ten pounds," Were the first words he breathed in the old man's ear, And Raleigh slipped his purse into his hand. * * * * Just over Bread Street hung the bruised white moon When they crept out. Sir Lewis Stukeley's watch-dog, A derelict bo'sun, with a mulberry face, Met them outside. "The coast quite clear, eh, Hart?" Said Stukeley. "Ah, that's good. Lead on, then, quick." And there, framed in the cruddle of moonlit clouds That ended the steep street, dark on its light, And standing on those glistening cobblestones Just where they turned to silver, Raleigh looked back Before he turned the corner. He stood there. A figure like foot-feathered Mercury, Tall, straight and splendid, waving his plumed hat To Ben, and taking his last look, I felt, Upon our Mermaid Tavern. As he paused, His long fantastic shadow swayed and swept Against our feet. Then, like a shadow, he passed. "It is not right," said Ben, "it is not right. Why did they give the old man so much grace? Witness and evidence are what they lack. Would you trust Stukeley—not to draw him out? Raleigh was always rash. A phrase or two Will turn their murderous axe into a sword Of righteousness— Why, come to think of it, Blackfriar's Wharf, last night, I landed there, And—no, by God!—Raleigh is not himself, The tide will never serve beyond Gravesend. It is a trap! Come on! We'll follow them! Quick! To the river side!"— We reached the wharf Only to see their wherry, a small black cloud Dwindling far down that running silver road. Ben touched my arm. "Look there," he said, pointing up-stream. The moon Glanced on a cluster of pikes, like silver thorns, Three hundred yards away, a little troop Of weaponed men, embarking hurriedly. Their great black wherry clumsily swung about, Then, with twelve oars for legs, came striding down, An armoured beetle on the glittering trail Of some small victim. Just below our wharf A little dinghy waddled. Ben cut the painter, and without one word Drew her up crackling thro' the lapping water, Motioned me to the tiller, thrust her off, And, pulling with one oar, backing with the other, Swirled her round and down, hard on the track Of Raleigh. Ben was an old man now but tough, O tough as a buccaneer. We distanced them. His oar blades drove the silver boiling back. By Broken Wharf the beetle was a speck. It dwindled by Queen Hythe and the Three Cranes. By Bellyn's Gate we had left it, out of sight. By Custom House and Galley Keye we shot Thro' silver all the way, without one glimpse Of Raleigh. Then a dreadful shadow fell And over us the Tower of London rose Like ebony; and, on the glittering reach Beyond it, I could see the small black cloud That carried the great old seaman slowly down Between the dark shores whence in happier years The throng had cheered his golden galleons out, And watched his proud sails filling for Cathay. There, as through lead, we dragged by Traitor's Gate, There, in the darkness, under the Bloody Tower, There, on the very verge of victory, Ben gasped and dropped his oars. "Take one and row," he said, "my arms are numbed. We'll overtake him yet!" I clambered past him, And took the bow oar. Once, as the pace flagged, Over his shoulder he turned his great scarred face And snarled, with a trickle of blood on his coarse lips, "Hard!"— And blood and fire ran through my veins again, For half a minute more. Yet we fell back. Our course was crooked now. And suddenly A grim black speck began to grow behind us, Grow like the threat of death upon old age. Then, thickening, blackening, sharpening, foaming, swept Up the bright line of bubbles in our wake, That armoured wherry, with its long twelve oars All well together now. "Too late," gasped Ben, His ash-grey face uplifted to the moon, One quivering hand upon the thwart behind him, A moment. Then he bowed over his knees Coughing. "But we'll delay them. We'll be drunk, And hold the catch-polls up!" We drifted down Before them, broadside on. They sheered aside. Then, feigning a clumsy stroke, Ben drove our craft As they drew level, right in among their blades. There was a shout, an oath. They thrust us off; And then we swung our nose against their bows And pulled them round with every well-meant stroke. A full half minute, ere they won quite free, Cursing us for a pair of drunken fools. We drifted down behind them. "There's no doubt," Said Ben, "the headsman waits behind all this For Raleigh. This is a play to cheat the soul Of England, teach the people to applaud The red fifth act." Without another word we drifted down For centuries it seemed, until we came To Greenwich. Then up the long white burnished reach there crept Like little sooty clouds the two black boats To meet us. "He is in the trap," said Ben, "And does not know it yet. See, where he sits By Stukeley as by a friend." Long after this, We heard how Raleigh, simply as a child, Seeing the tide would never serve him now, And they must turn, had taken from his neck Some trinkets that he wore. "Keep them," he said To Stukeley, "in remembrance of this night." He had no doubts of Stukeley when he saw The wherry close beside them. He but wrapped His cloak a little closer round his face. Our boat rocked in their wash when Stukeley dropped The mask. We saw him give the sign, and heard His high-pitched quavering voice—"in the king's name!" Raleigh rose to his feet. "I am under arrest?" He said, like a dazed man. And Stukeley laughed. Then, as he bore himself to the grim end, All doubt being over, the old sea-king stood Among those glittering points, a king indeed. The black boats rocked. We heard his level voice, "Sir Lewis, these actions never will turn out To your good credit." Across the moonlit Thames It rang contemptuously, cold as cold steel, And passionless as the judgment that ends all. * * * * Some three months later, Raleigh's widow came To lodge a se'nnight at the Mermaid Inn. His house in Bread Street was no more her own, But in the hands of Stukeley, who had reaped A pretty harvest ... She kept close to her room, and that same night, Being ill and with some fever, sent her maid To fetch the apothecary from Friday Street, Old "Galen" as the Mermaid christened him. At that same moment, as the maid went out, Stukeley came in. He met her at the door; And, chucking her under the chin, gave her a letter. "Take this up to your mistress. It concerns Her property," he said. "Say that I wait, And would be glad to speak with her." The wench Looked pertly in his face, and tripped upstairs. I scarce could trust my hands. "Sir Lewis," I said, "This is no time to trouble her. She is ill." "Let her decide," he answered, with a sneer. Before I found another word to say The maid tripped down again. I scarce believed My senses, when she beckoned him up the stair. Shaking from head to foot, I blocked the way. "Property!" Could the crux of mine and thine Bring widow and murderer into one small room? "Sir Lewis," I said, "she is ill. It is not right! She never would consent." He sneered again, "You are her doctor? Out of the way, old fool! She has decided!" "Go," I said to the maid, "Fetch the apothecary. Let it rest With him!" She tossed her head. Her quick eyes glanced, Showing the white, like the eyes of a vicious mare. She laughed at Stukeley, loitered, then obeyed. And so we waited, till the wench returned, With Galen at her heels. His wholesome face, Russet and wrinkled like an apple, peered Shrewdly at Stukeley, twinkled once at me, And passed in silence, leaving a whiff of herbs Behind him on the stair. Five minutes later, To my amazement, that same wholesome face Leaned from the lighted door above, and called "Sir Lewis Stukeley!" Sir Judas hastened up. The apothecary followed him within. The door shut. I was left there in the dark Bewildered; for my heart was hot with thoughts Of those last months. Our Summer's Nightingale, Our Ocean-Shepherd from the Main-deep Sea, The Founder of our Mermaid Fellowship, Was this his guerdon—at the Mermaid Inn? Was this that maid-of-honour whose romance With Raleigh, once, had been a kingdom's talk? Could Bess Throckmorton slight his memory thus? "It is not right," I said, "it is not right. She wrongs him deeply." I leaned against the porch Staring into the night. A ghostly ray Above me, from her window, bridged the street, And rested on the goldsmith's painted sign Opposite. I could hear the muffled voice Of Stukeley overhead, persuasive, bland; And then, her own, cooing, soft as a dove Calling her mate from Eden cedar-boughs, Flowed on and on; and then—all my flesh crept At something worse than either, a long space Of silence that stretched threatening and cold, Cold as a dagger-point pricking the skin Over my heart. Then came a stifled cry, A crashing door, a footstep on the stair Blundering like a drunkard's, heavily down; And with his gasping face one tragic mask Of horror,—may God help me to forget Some day the frozen awful eyes of one Who, fearing neither hell nor heaven, has met That ultimate weapon of the gods, the face And serpent-tresses that turn flesh to stone— Stukeley stumbled, groping his way out, Blindly, past me, into the sheltering night. * * * * It was the last night of another year Before I understood what punishment Had overtaken Stukeley. Ben, and Brome— Ben's ancient servant, but turned poet now— Sat by the fire with the old apothecary To see the New Year in. The starry night Had drawn me to the door. Could it be true That our poor earth no longer was the hub Of those white wheeling orbs? I scarce believed The strange new dreams; but I had seen the veils Rent from vast oceans and huge continents, Till what was once our comfortable fire, Our cosy tavern, and our earthly home With heaven beyond the next turn in the road, All the resplendent fabric of our world Shrank to a glow-worm, lighting up one leaf In one small forest, in one little land, Among those wild infinitudes of God. A tattered wastrel wandered down the street, Clad in a seaman's jersey, staring hard At every sign. Beneath our own, the light Fell on his red carbuncled face. I knew him— The bo'sun, Hart. He pointed to our sign And leered at me. "That's her," he said, "no doubt, The sea-witch with the shiny mackerel tail Swishing in wine. That's what Sir Lewis meant. He called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see. This is the Mermaid Tavern, sir, no doubt?" I nodded. "Ah, I thought as much," he said. "Well—happen this is worth a cup of ale." He thrust his hand under his jersey and lugged A greasy letter out. It was inscribed The Apothecary at the Mermaid Tavern. I led him in. "I knew it, sir," he said, While Galen broke the seal. "Soon as I saw That sweet young naked wench curling her tail In those red waves.—The old man called it blood. Blood is his craze, you see.—But you can tell 'Tis wine, sir, by the foam. Malmsey, no doubt. And that sweet wench to make you smack your lips Like oysters, with her slippery tail and all! Why, sir, no doubt, this was the Mermaid Inn." "But this," said Galen, lifting his grave face To Ben, "this letter is from all that's left Of Stukeley. The good host, there, thinks I wronged Your Ocean-shepherd's memory. From this letter, I think I helped to avenge him. Do not wrong His widow, even in thought. She loved him dearly. You know she keeps his poor grey severed head Embalmed; and so will keep it till she dies; Weeps over it alone. I have heard such things In wild Italian tales. But this was true. Had I refused to let her speak with Stukeley I feared she would go mad. This letter proves That I—and she perhaps—were instruments, Of some more terrible chirurgery Than either knew." "Ah, when I saw your sign," The bo'sun interjected, "I'd no doubt That letter was well worth a cup of ale." "Go—paint your bows with hell-fire somewhere else, Not at this inn," said Ben, tossing the rogue A good French crown. "Pickle yourself in hell." And Hart lurched out into the night again, Muttering "Thank you, sirs. 'Twas worth all that. No doubt at all." "There are some men," said Galen, Spreading the letter out on his plump knees, "Will heap up wrong on wrong; and, at the last, Wonder because the world will not forget Just when it suits them, cancel all they owe, And, like a mother, hold its arms out wide At their first cry. And, sirs, I do believe That Stukeley, on that night, had some such wish To reconcile himself. What else had passed Between the widow and himself I know not; But she had lured him on until he thought That words and smiles, perhaps a tear or two, Might make the widow take the murderer's hand In friendship, since it might advantage both. Indeed, he came prepared for even more. Villains are always fools. A wicked act, What is it but a false move in the game, A blind man's blunder, a deaf man's reply, The wrong drug taken in the dead of night? I always pity villains. I mistook The avenger for the victim. There she lay Panting, that night, her eyes like summer stars Her pale gold hair upon the pillows tossed Dishevelled, while the fever in her face Brought back the lost wild roses of her youth For half an hour. Against a breast as pure And smooth as any maid's, her soft arms pressed A bundle wrapped in a white embroidered cloth. She crooned over it as a mother croons Over her suckling child. I stood beside her. —That was her wish, and mine, while Stukeley stayed.— And, over against me, on the other side, Stood Stukeley, gnawing his nether lip to find She could not, or she would not, speak one word In answer to his letter. 'Lady Raleigh, You wrong me, and you wrong yourself,' he cried, 'To play like a green girl when great affairs Are laid before you. Let me speak with you Alone.' 'But I am all alone,' she said, 'Far more alone than I have ever been In all my life before. This is my doctor. He must not leave me.' Then she lured him on, Played on his brain as a musician plays Upon the lute. 'Forgive me, dear Sir Lewis, If I am grown too gay for widowhood. But I have pondered for a long, long time On all these matters. I know the world was right; And Spain was right, Sir Lewis. Yes, and you, You too, were right; and my poor husband wrong. You see I knew his mind so very well. I knew his every gesture, every smile. I lived with him. I think I died with him. It is a strange thing, marriage. For my soul (As if myself were present in this flesh) Beside him, slept in his grey prison-cell On that last dreadful dawn. I heard the throng Murmuring round the scaffold far away; And, with the smell of sawdust in my nostrils, I woke, bewildered as himself, to see That tall black-cassocked figure by his bed. I heard the words that made him understand: The Body of our Lord—take and eat this! I rolled the small sour flakes beneath my tongue With him. I caught, with him, the gleam of tears, Far off, on some strange face of sickly dread. The Blood—and the cold cup was in my hand, Cold as an axe-heft washed with waterish red. I heard his last poor cry to wife and child.— Could any that heard forget it?—My true God, Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms. And then—that last poor wish, a thing to raise A smile in some. I have smiled at it myself A thousand times. "Give me my pipe," he said, "My old Winchester clay, with the long stem, And half an hour alone. The crowd can wait. They have not waited half so long as I." And then, O then, I know what soft blue clouds, What wavering rings, fragrant ascending wreaths Melted his prison walls to a summer haze, Through which I think he saw the little port Of Budleigh Salterton, like a sea-bird's nest Among the Devon cliffs—the tarry quay Whence in his boyhood he had flung a line For bass or whiting-pollock. I remembered (Had he not told me, on some summer night, His arm about my neck, kissing my hair) He used to sit there, gazing out to sea; Fish, and for what? Not all for what he caught And handled; but for rainbow-coloured things, The water-drops that jewelled his thin line, Flotsam and jetsam of the sunset-clouds; While the green water, gurgling through the piles, Heaving and sinking, helped him to believe The fast-bound quay a galleon plunging out Superbly for Cathay. There would he sit Listening, a radiant boy, child of the sea, Listening to some old seaman's glowing tales, His grey eyes rich with pictures— Then he saw, And I with him, that gathering in the West, To break the Fleet Invincible. O, I heard The trumpets and the neighings and the drums. I watched the beacons on a hundred hills. I drank that wine of battle from his cup, And gloried in it, lying against his heart. I sailed with him and saw the unknown worlds! The slender ivory towers of old Cathay Rose for us over lilac-coloured seas That crumbled a sky-blue foam on long shores Of shining sand, shores of so clear a glass They drew the sunset-clouds into their bosom And hung that City of Vision in mid-air Girdling it round, as with a moat of sky, Hopelessly beautiful. O, yet I heard, Heard from his blazoned poops the trumpeters Blowing proud calls, while overhead the flag Of England floated from white towers of sail— And yet, and yet, I knew that he was wrong, And soon he knew it, too. I saw the cloud Of doubt assail him, in the Bloody Tower, When, being withheld from sailing the high seas For sixteen years, he spread a prouder sail, Took up his pen, and, walled about with stone, Began to write—his History of the World. And emperors came like Lazarus from the grave To wear his purple. And the night disgorged Its empires, till, O, like the swirl of dust Around their marching legions, that dim cloud Of doubt closed round him. Was there any man So sure of heart and brain as to record The simple truth of things himself had seen? Then who could plumb that night? The work broke off! He knew that he was wrong. I knew it, too! Once more that stately structure of his dreams Melted like mist. His eagles perished like clouds. Death wound a thin horn through the centuries. The grave resumed his forlorn emperors. His empires crumbled back to a little ash Knocked from his pipe.— He dropped his pen in homage to the truth. The truth? O, eloquent, just and mighty Death! Then, when he forged, out of one golden thought, A key to open his prison; when the King Released him for a tale of faërie gold Under the tropic palms; when those grey walls Melted before his passion; do you think The gold that lured the King was quite the same As that which Raleigh saw? You know the song: "Say to the King," quoth Raleigh, "I have a tale to tell him; Wealth beyond derision, Veils to lift from the sky, Seas to sail for England, And a little dream to sell him, Gold, the gold of a vision That angels cannot buy." Ah, no! For all the beauty and the pride, Raleigh was wrong; but not so wrong, I think, As those for whom his kingdoms oversea Meant only glittering dust. The fight he waged Was not with them. They never worsted him. It was The Destiny that brought him home Without the Spanish gold.—O, he was wrong, But such a wrong, in Gloriana's day, Was more than right, was immortality. He had just half an hour to put all this Into his pipe and smoke it,— The red fire, The red heroic fire that filled his veins When the proud flag of England floated out Its challenge to the world—all gone to ash? What! Was the great red wine that Drake had quaffed Vinegar? He must fawn, haul down his flag, And count all nations nobler than his own, Tear out the lions from the painted shields That hung his poop, for fear that he offend The pride of Spain? Treason to sack the ships Of Spain? The wounds of slaughtered Englishmen Cried out—there is no law beyond the line! Treason to sweep the seas with Francis Drake? Treason to fight for England? If it were so, The times had changed and quickly. He had been A schoolboy in the morning of the world Playing with wooden swords and winning crowns Of tinsel; but his comrades had outgrown Their morning-game, and gathered round to mock His battles in the sunset. Yet he knew That all his life had passed in that brief day; And he was old, too old to understand The smile upon the face of Buckingham, The smile on Cobham's face, at that great word England! He knew the solid earth was changed To something less than dust among the stars— And, O, be sure he knew that he was wrong, That gleams would come, Gleams of a happier world for younger men, That Commonwealth, far off. This was a time Of sadder things, destruction of the old Before the new was born. At least he knew It was his own way that had brought the world Thus far, England thus far! How could he change, Who had loved England as a man might love His mistress, change from year to fickle year? For the new years would change, even as the old. No—he was wedded to that old first love, Crude flesh and blood, and coarse as meat and drink, The woman—England; no fine angel-isle, Ruled by that male Salome—Buckingham! Better the axe than to live on and wage These new and silent and more deadly wars That play at friendship with our enemies. Such times are evil. Not of their own desire They lead to good, blind agents of that Hand Which now had hewed him down, down to his knees, But in a prouder battle than men knew. His pipe was out, the guard was at the door. Raleigh was not a god. But, when he climbed The scaffold, I believe he looked a man. And when the axe fell, I believe that God Set on his shoulders that immortal head Which he desired on earth. O, he was wrong! But when that axe fell, not one shout was raised. That mighty throng around that crimson block Stood silent—like the hushed black cloud that holds The thunder. You might hear the headsman's breath. Stillness like that is dangerous, being charged, Sometimes, with thought, Sir Lewis! England sleeps! What if, one day, the Stewart should be called To know that England wakes? What if a shout Should thunder-strike Whitehall, and the dogs lift Their heads along the fringes of the crowd To catch a certain savour that I know, The smell of blood and sawdust?— Ah, Sir Lewis, 'Tis hard to find one little seed of right Among so many wrongs. Raleigh was wrong, And yet—it was because he loved his country Next to himself, Sir Lewis, by your leave, His country butchered him. You did not know That I was only third in his affections? The night I told him—we were parting then— I had begged the last disposal of his body, Did he not say, with O, so gentle a smile, "Thou hadst not always the disposal of it; In life, dear Bess. 'Tis well it should be thine In death!"' 'The jest was bitter at such an hour, And somewhat coarse in grain,' Stukeley replied. 'Indeed I thought him kinder.' 'Kinder,' she said, Laughing bitterly. Stukeley looked at her. She whispered something, and his lewd old eyes Fastened upon her own. He knelt by her. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'your woman's wit has found A better way to solve this bitter business.' Her head moved on the pillow with little tossings. He touched her hand. It leapt quickly away. She hugged that strange white bundle to her breast, And writhed back, smiling at him, across the bed. 'Ah, Bess,' he whispered huskily, pressing his lips To that warm hollow where her head had lain, 'There is one way to close the long dispute, Keep the estates unbroken in your hands And stop all slanderous tongues, one happy way. We have some years to live; and why alone?' 'Alone?' she sighed. 'My husband thought of that. He wrote a letter to me long ago, When he was first condemned. He said—he said— Now let me think—what was it that he said?— I had it all by heart. "Beseech you, Bess, Hide not yourself for many days", he said.' 'True wisdom that,' quoth Stukeley, 'for the love That seeks to chain the living to the dead Is but self-love at best!' 'And yet,' she said, 'How his poor heart was torn between two cares, Love of himself and care for me, as thus: Love God! Begin to repose yourself on Him! Therein you shall find true and lasting riches; But all the rest is nothing. When you have tired Your thoughts on earthly things, when you have travelled Through all the glittering pomps of this proud world You shall sit down by Sorrow in the end. Begin betimes, and teach your little son To serve and fear God also. Then God will be a husband unto you, And unto him a father; nor can Death Bereave you any more. When I am gone, No doubt you shall be sought unto by many For the world thinks that I was very rich. No greater misery can befall you, Bess, Than to become a prey, and, afterwards, To be despised.' 'Human enough,' said Stukeley, 'And yet—self-love, self-love!' 'Ah no,' quoth she, 'You have not heard the end: God knows, I speak it Not to dissuade you—not to dissuade you, mark— From marriage. That will be the best for you, Both in respect of God and of the world. Was that self-love, Sir Lewis? Ah, not all. And thus he ended: For his father's sake That chose and loved you in his happiest times, Remember your poor child! The Everlasting, Infinite, powerful, and inscrutable God, Keep you and yours, have mercy upon me, And teach me to forgive my false accusers— Wrong, even in death, you see. Then—My true wife, Farewell! Bless my poor boy! Pray for me! My true God, Hold you both in His arms, both in His arms! I know that he was wrong. You did not know, Sir Lewis, that he had left me a little child. Come closer. You shall see its orphaned face, The sad, sad relict of a man that loved His country—all that's left to me. Come, look!' She beckoned Stukeley nearer. He bent down Curiously. Her feverish fingers drew The white wrap from the bundle in her arms, And, with a smile that would make angels weep, She showed him, pressed against her naked breast, Terrible as Medusa, the grey flesh And shrivelled face, embalmed, the thing that dropped Into the headsman's basket, months agone,— The head of Raleigh. Half her body lay Bare, while she held that grey babe to her heart; But Judas hid his face.... 'Living,' she said, 'he was not always mine; But—dead—I shall not wean him'— Then, I too Covered my face—I cannot tell you more. There was a dreadful silence in that room, Silence that, as I know, shattered the brain Of Stukeley.—When I dared to raise my head Beneath that silent thunder of our God, The man had gone— This is his letter, sirs, Written from Lundy Island: "For God's love, Tell them it is a cruel thing to say That I drink blood. I have no secret sin. A thousand pound is not so great a sum; And that is all they paid me, every penny. Salt water, that is all the drink I taste On this rough island. Somebody has taught The sea-gulls how to wail around my hut All night, like lost souls. And there is a face, A dead man's face that laughs in every storm, And sleeps in every pool along the coast. I thought it was my own, once. But I know These actions never, never, on God's earth, Will turn out to their credit, who believe That I drink blood." He crumpled up the letter And tossed it into the fire. "Galen," said Ben, "I think you are right—that one should pity villains." * * * * The clock struck twelve. The bells began to peal. We drank a cup of sack to the New Year. "New songs, new voices, all as fresh as may," Said Ben to Brome, "but I shall never live To hear them." All was not so well, indeed, With Ben, as hitherto. Age had come upon him. He dragged one foot as in paralysis. The critics bayed against the old lion, now, And called him arrogant. "My brain," he said, "Is yet unhurt although, set round with pain, It cannot long hold out." He never stooped, Never once pandered to that brainless hour. His coat was thread-bare. Weeks had passed of late Without his voice resounding in our inn. "The statues are defiled, the gods dethroned, The Ionian movement reigns, not the free soul. And, as for me, I have lived too long," he said. "Well—I can weave the old threnodies anew." And, filling his cup, he murmured, soft and low, A new song, breaking on an ancient shore: I Marlowe is dead, and Greene is in his grave, And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone! Our Ocean-shepherd sleeps beneath the wave; Robin is dead, and Marlowe in his grave. Why should I stay to chant an idle stave, And in my Mermaid Tavern drink alone? For Kit is dead and Greene is in his grave, And sweet Will Shakespeare long ago is gone. II Where is the singer of the Faërie Queen? Where are the lyric lips of Astrophel? Long, long ago, their quiet graves were green; Ay, and the grave, too, of their Faërie Queen! And yet their faces, hovering here unseen, Call me to taste their new-found œnomel; To sup with him who sang the Faërie Queen; To drink with him whose name was Astrophel. III I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave! —If there be none, the gods have done us wrong.— Ere long I hope to chant a better stave, In some great Mermaid Inn beyond the grave; And quaff the best of earth that heaven can save, Red wine like blood, deep love of friends and song. I drink to that great Inn beyond the grave; And hope to greet my golden lads ere long. He raised his cup and drank in silence. Brome Drank with him, too. The bells had ceased to peal. Galen shook hands, and bade us all good-night. Then Brome, a little wistfully, I thought, Looked at his old-time master, and prepared To follow. "Good-night—Ben," he said, a pause Before he spoke the name. "Good-night! Good-night! My dear old Brome," said Ben. And, at the door, Brome whispered to me, "He is lonely now. There are not many left of his old friends. We all go out—like this—into the night. But what a fleet of stars!" he said, and shook My hand, and smiled, and pointed to the sky. And, when I looked into the room again, The lights were very dim, and I believed That Ben had fallen asleep. His great grey head Was bowed across the table, on his arms. Then, all at once, I knew that he was weeping; And like a shadow I crept back again, And stole into the night. There as I stood Under the painted sign, I could have vowed That I, too, heard the voices of the dead, The voices of his old companions, Gathering round him in that lonely room, Till all the timbers of the Mermaid Inn Trembled above me with their ghostly song: I Say to the King, quoth Raleigh I have a tale to tell him, Wealth beyond derision, Veils to lift from the sky, Seas to sail for England And a little dream to sell him,— Gold, the gold of a vision, That angels cannot buy. II Fair thro' the walls of his dungeon, —What were the stones but a shadow?— Streamed the light of the rapture, The lure that he followed of old, The dream of his old companions, The vision of El Dorado, The fleet that they never could capture, The City of Sunset-gold. III Yet did they sail the seas And, dazed with exceeding wonder, Straight through the sunset-glory Plunge into the dawn: Leaving their home behind them, By a road of splendour and thunder, They came to their home in amazement Simply by sailing on.