University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—An Apartment.
Ballard
alone. (He walks anxiously about.)
There are some men, when they have dared an act
At which earth shudders, and the pallid sun
Grows sick to look upon, will haply feel
Keen inward gnawings, and the tooth o' the conscience
Eat out their sum of gain. Such men are fools.
Is't not extremes that temper the hard steel?
E'en so, methinks, in actions such as this,
And for such prize as mine, the soul should own
Itself wax stronger, knowing it hath pass'd
Through both the ordeals of danger and of bliss.
Night strides apace, and yet she doth not come.
Methinks the gloom hath hasten'd, as if Phœbus
Had hurried from the sky, and the coy stars
Were half afraid to twinkle. Let them be so.
Her beauty shall be light enough for me.
A footstep—no! Yes, by my hopes, 'tis she.

Enter Agnes, with a disordered step. She looks wildly round.
Here, here, at last—let me return due thanks
Or ere my wilder'd brain hath quite forgot
Mercy as well as suffering—for, methinks,
Forgetfulness were best of mercy now.
(She kneels.)
Accept, oh God! my thanks, that thou hast born me
Through the hot furnace of this agony.
Do with me further as thou see'st best;
And grant me,—though e'er to know pleasure more
Is not to be my lot, yet that I may—
If that to me is not impossible—
Have thine assistance to forget past woe,
Yet still, as suffering ought to be forgot;
And if this greatest pang be not the last,
Still through my trials keep me innocent.
Temper the malice of mine enemies;
Forgive their hatred; and oh! shield the friends,
The few—few friends those enemies have left,
Nor let the legacy of love be pain.

BALLARD
(coming forward.)
Amen, amen.

AGNES.
Ha! shield me, ye sweet Powers!

BALLARD.
Why start'st thou, lady—'twas a gentle pray'r.

AGNES.
Wretch, wretch! oh! never had I breathed that pray'r,
Had I once thought that ever eye of mine
Should rest on thee again.

BALLARD.
And wherefore so?
I am thy friend.

AGNES.
Thou!

BALLARD.
I—nay, never task
That lip to frown, for it becomes thee not,—
And I would fain prove that my words are sooth,
Yea, therefore came I hither.

AGNES.
Frontless villain!
What drove thee here, I know not; but if hate
And loathing, more than for the foulest thing
That poisons eye, can drive thee hence—begone!
Shame is ashamed of thee, else would'st thou never
Dare meet the gaze that knows thee.

BALLARD.
Pretty anger!
Fain would I, thou would'st know me for thy friend.

AGNES.
Friend! and can such a word dwell on thy lips?
Know'st thou not that I know thee—perjured wretch!
Cold-blooded traitor, sacrilegious wretch!—
Hence, thou incarnate treach'ry; thou foul toad
Cased up in marble!—

BALLARD.
Call me what thou wilt,
Sweet railer; words and looks cannot blot out
My written right; I am thy guardian:
Know'st thou that character? (Shews a scroll.)

Nay, never turn
Thine eyes away! With all their power to change
That which they look on, there's no danger here.

AGNES.
'Tis Babington's!—oh! how am I entoil'd?

BALLARD
(exultingly.)
Thus art thou written mine, and Fate hath set
A seal unto the bond. Mine thou must be,
Or else an outcast—for what tongue shall greet,
What hand shall clasp, what bosom shelter in't,
Aught that's derived of a regicide,
Or owns the hated strain of Babington?

AGNES.
Iron-tongued man, as well as iron-hearted—
And can'st thou breathe that name?

BALLARD.
And wherefore not?
He knew the game at which he chose to stake:
He knew the penalty, and he hath paid it.
What was't to me, an if he loved a meteor
That singed the poor moth's wings.

AGNES.
Monster!

BALLARD.
Angel!

AGNES.
(Aside.)
Shelter me, Heavens, shipwreck'd and cast alone
Thus among villains.
Oh, sir! if your heart
Have left one drop of ruth, pity a being
Almost distract with misery already.
Why, why pursue a wretch whose abjectness
Can only move compassion; whose sad eyes
Are blind and dim with tears; whose shatter'd heart
Sorrow hath crush'd and kill'd? List to me, sir;
Indeed I am not worth the torturing.

BALLARD.
Thou talk'st in vain. Did'st thou beseech less well,
Had thy soft eyes less of persuasion in them,
Thy delicate lips less honied eloquence,
Thy silvery-falling tones less meltingness,
Thou might'st have better sped!
I love thee, lady,
And thou art mine. No tongue in all this world
Now will, or dare gainsay it. Mine thou art,
Past fate and fortune; therefore, teach thy lips
A better office than to plead against me;
I clasp thee for mine own, and Fate hath given thee.
—Nay, struggle not—Were every tear a pearl,
They should not buy thee from my arms.

AGNES.
Keep off;
Keep off, wretch—if but for thine own vile sake;
Heaven is above us still. Beware, I say;
Despair is dangerous, and, to the mad,
Weakness itself is strength.

BALLARD.
I am mad, too.
Be that at once my arms and my excuse;
Thou must with me, and therefore strive no more.

AGNES.
Say'st thou so? Then this outrage and its cure
Be on thy head.
[She draws a dagger and suddenly stabs him. He falls.]
He was a heart-stabber,
And laugh'd at blood! Ay, gasp thy life away!
Hast thou not lied enough, and glozed enough?
Still blood—more blood!—
And say there be, what then?
If murder be the key, I have but play'd
The popular tune, and where's the coil!
He's dead.
Now let their myrmidons come. If that my life
Shall pay the forfeit for this baffled villain,
'Twill well wind up this skein of ravell'd sorrow.
And now, what is there left me but to die?
They say those sore tormented sometimes sleep
Between their tortures, and I long for rest.
When have I rested now? 'Tis long, long past;
At least to me it seems so.
(Laying down the dagger.)
Lie thou there;
This is my deed, and I will mother it.
(She sits down by the body.)
So quiet, sweetheart?—Not a word! i'faith
Thou almost shalt begin to creep in favour.
Methinks mine eyes wax heavy, as if sleep
Would steal on them. Yet this were a wild pillow!
Methinks my head feels light—though mine eyes droop—
No wonder one should sleep, that hath not wink'd
These four days!
(She leans her head on her hands.)

(Starting up wildly.)
Hark! hark! Music!—'Tis ceased
now—'twas the same I heard i'th' east turret;—but there
the screech-owl spoil'd all! How cold I grow—my teeth
chatter—This neighbour lump of ice hath frozen me—
They come—ay—the executioners!—the executioners!

Enter Plasket, followed by Walsingham, Sir Amias Paulet, and Attendants.
PLASKET.
Thank Heaven, she's here. Woe and alas! more death!
What sight is this?—Dear lady—Agnes—speak.
Her eyes are fixed—alack! my lord, to what
A ruin have I brought you!

WALSINGHAM.
How pale she looks!
Oh! who that saw this statue animate,
Could e'er have wrong'd her

PLASKET.
Pity her, Heaven—alas!
Reason the guest hath fled, and the poor fabric
Totters to dissolution. Do you know me, lady?

AGNES.
Well!
Thou art the headsman—stay; not yet—not yet!
Tear not my heart out yet—'twill break anon.
Let me be buried with him—out, alack!
He hath no grave!—mine eyes darken—one breath more—
Babington!—Babington!

(She dies.)
WALSINGHAM.
She faints—her eyes close.

PLASKET.
My lord, her heart broke first; and these sad signs
Tell but that death's within.

WALSINGHAM.
Assistance there;
Remove that carrion hence—and thou, good fellow,
Say what thou art, that renderest in this kind
These last sad offices?

PLASKET.
My noble lord,
A humble servitor of Babington.

WALSINGHAM.
In what capacity?

PLASKET.
My lord, a jester's.

WALSINGHAM.
A jester's?

PLASKET.
Even so, my lord.

WALSINGHAM.
Such is the world;
So vanity doth end. Thou shalt serve me,
Though not i'the self-same way; for now, methinks,
Thy trade is out of tune. Is it not so?
But be thou of my house—and, whensoe'er
I would give Pride a purge; and lesson me
How fickle Fortune is, and Power how vain,
Goodness how helpless, and Humanity
How frail—how sinful—and how full of tears—
Be thou the minister—and relate to me
All the sad turns of this sad history.
Now look to thy dead mistress—cover her face—
Mine eyes fill even like thine.
Take up the body.
She shall have fitting funeral and all duty.

(Curtain drops.)