University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene 1.

An oratory. Lady Agnes Seaton kneeling before a representation of the Blessed Virgin.
LADY AGNES.
Oh holy Mary, hear and answer me!
A miserable mother, lo! I come
To spread my griefs before thee. Blessed One,
Though now thou art with heaven's beatitude,
I call on thee by the remembered pangs
That once were thine on earth; by the sharp sorrows
That pierced, as with a sword, through thy own soul;
As thou hast known a parent's deadly anguish,
To feel for mine!
'Tis unavailing all!
E'en prayer relieves not.

(Enter Friar.)
FRIAR.
Peace be with you, daughter!

LADY AGNES.
O, father, mock me not with words like these!
Peace can be mine no more.

FRIAR.
The peace of Heaven,
If not of earth; full rarely they agree;
And thus the soul that compasseth the one
Must oft renounce the other.

LADY AGNES.
I have sought it;
Have been imploring succor from on high;
But Heaven and earth alike conspire against me,
And all is dark above—below—around!

FRIAR.
O, say not thus! these clouds are earth-engendered.
'Tis from our saddened thoughts the mists arise
And dim the tearful vision, intercepting
The Light above, thence deemed to hide itself,
Though shining still forever and the same;
E'en as the restless world turned from the sun,
And when the night succeeded, lo! 'twas deemed
The sun had turned from them. She heeds me not. (Aside.)

Lady, as is my office and my wont,
I came to solace and to strengthen thee
With words of ghostly comfort; but, I know not,
The sight of thy sore suffering hath unmanned me,
And what I would I lack the heart to utter.

LADY AGNES.
Father, I own and thank thy sympathy.
All that a mortal can to mortal lend
I know thou dost; but never lot like mine
Called forth thy kindly services, for none
Was ever tried like me.

FRIAR.
Think, daughter, think
Upon the Syrian of our sacred records,
The ancient patriarch of the chosen race,
Called to destroy the son in whom alone
That race could be continued.

LADY AGNES.
Such a sacrifice
Had never been demanded from a mother.
The sire may proudly, fondly love his son;
(Full well I know it by the bitter case
Of my own gallant, broken-hearted Seaton;)
But, to the tenderness of manlier natures,
The mother adds, moreover, new affections,
Whose height and depth no being but herself
And Him who gave them to her comprehendeth.

FRIAR.
Lady, I doubt it not.

LADY AGNES.
Then, think that I
Am called to speak the doom of—do I live
To think it, even?—not of one alone,
But both my precious boys; my duteous ones;
That I, their mother—for it falls on me,
Since Seaton's mind, torn with conflicting claims,
Station, paternity, and patriotism,
(The rent sail, shiv'ring in the shifting blast,)
Turns to my own to speak the words of fate.
Mother, forsooth! Ha, am I such, good father?
A fitting task for such!

FRIAR.
I pray thee, talk not
So very terribly. (Not since the burial
Of Bruce's royal heart in Palestine
Knew I as dark an hour.)

LADY AGNES.
I've heard the learned
Tell of that Colchis woman—one Medea—
Who killed!—dost shudder, father?—killed her children.
Wouldst thou believe it? If men doubt the fact,
Let them look here, and gain the fell conviction.

FRIAR.
O, think not for an instant, noble Agnes,
To liken thee with her. She was a sorceress;
Fair incarnation of a fiend most foul;
Who, to the guilty flame that fired her spirit,
Shamed not to sacrifice her sons; whilst thou
But yieldest thine to meet the sacred cry
Thy country sends to thee. 'Twas hers to loose
The vilest passions—thine, to bind the best.

LADY AGNES.
But men will note the sameness of the fact,
The direful fact, nor stay to scan the motive.
All are not calm, like such as we, good father,
To make the due distinction. But, thou saidst
(Or my dull sense deceived) somewhat of country.
I've said the same within my conscious soul;
But then the tempter cometh, to remonstrate,
“What doth a woman with her country's weal,
Whose world is her own home, her fireside group,
Kindred and friends?” And then he whispereth, “Pride,
Belike, unseemly and unsexly pride,
Misleading by the name of heroism,
Hurls me and mine to this abyss.” Is't so?
O, tell me, father! prove it be but pride,
And I will bless thy name forevermore!

FRIAR.
Resist the arch one, lady. These dark hours
He ever seizes for his own; to conflicts
Of flesh and blood still superadding those
Of wrestling with bad spirits; thus to crush
The overburdened mortal. But for thee,
Noble and virtuous dame, I have petitioned,
And hope for better things. The pride thus called
Were heathen! nay, were hellish! like his own;
Unlike the gentle and benignant bearing
That, from the innocence of infancy
To thy devout and gracious womanhood,
Hath still characterized thee.

LADY AGNES.
So I trusted,
Till the misgivings of this evil time.
Surely, the lure of Fame could not have led me;
Her note, they say, is gladdening to the sense;
Not like that stern and solemn voice of duty
That called me—calls me still. 'Tis near the moment
When I must meet my husband. I but asked,
For orison at this our Lady's shrine,
And to commune with you, my reverend father,
An hour's delay. One fearful interview
With him is past—the next—and all is over.
But will it e'er be over? Never, never!

FRIAR.
St. Andrew's blessing go along with thee,
And guard thy high resolve!

[Clock strikes.
LADY AGNES.
Hark 'tis the hour! (Starts up.)

These tremblings now? (sits.)
Yet, yet I may not linger,
Though life or reason reel. I must not leave
My lord in his extremity—but who
Will be with them in theirs? O, horror! horror!

[Clasps her hands, and rushes out.
FRIAR.
(alone.)
That task shall be my care. I would not hazard
The fresh emotion to her o'erwrought feelings
Of telling mine intention, but hereafter,
The conflict past, 'twill prove to her a solace
To know I shrived them for their last account;
My sacred function will protect my person;
If not, my life is vowed unto my Master;
To lose it in his cause, the cause of charity,
Would be to gain the crown of martyrdom.

[Exit.

Scene 2.

A room in the Governor's house, (with folding-doors back of the scene.) Seaton discovered, to whom enters Lady Agnes.
LADY AGNES.
My honored lord hath said, in other times,
My presence brought him comfort; now, alas!
Agnes hath none to offer.

SEATON.
Say not so;
Community is comfort, even in wretchedness.
But of thy mind—what of thy mind, my wife?
My own 's unstable as the ebbs and flows
Of Solway's current.

LADY AGNES.
Thou wilt hate me, Seaton,
When I disclose it.

SEATON.
Ha! sets the stream that way?
Woman! canst thou?

LADY AGNES.
Nay, hearken to me first,
And then, canst thou?

SEATON.
Go on!

LADY AGNES.
I bore those bairns, giving them life, thou know'st,
With half the loss of mine. (Had it but been—
Would it had been—the whole!) Parts of myself,
And nourished by myself—within mine arms,
Or at my bosom ever, day and night,
In health or ailment—thou canst witness for me,
No weariness or watching e'er o'erpowered
My ministering vigils.

SEATON.
'Tis most true,
My tried and faithful Agnes! Oft I chid
Thy ceaseless carefulness.

LADY AGNES.
Their opening forms
To my rapt gaze seemed infant deities,
And their first lispings fell upon my ear
Sweeter than angel voices. (Hold, my heart!
These memories will melt me! When I need
The hardness of the rock, am I become
Like water?)

SEATON.
None can like myself avouch
What thou hast ever been and done, my love;
But is not this an argument to spare
The purchase of such pangs?

LADY AGNES.
I did not mean
An idle vaunt thus to bespeak thy praise,
However precious. That which then was done
Now seems too little. They deserved it all,
The darlings—pshaw! this childishness again?
What I had meant to say, before this theme
Bewitched me with its fond remembrances,
Was, that if I, a mother, (and, thou own'st,
A kindly one,) give up my being's right
In theirs, 'tis surely no impeachment, then,
Of thy paternal tenderness, that thou
Should set the seal upon the sacrifice.

SEATON.
The sacrifice! and dost thou know its worst?
Not death alone; but such a death, my Agnes!
The place, the mode—the gibbet and the cord!
The felon's fate! Agnes, 'twere double death
To die thus vilely.

LADY AGNES.
The like fate attended
Our peerless Wallace. What he bore unblemished
Can ne'er disparage those who after him
Tread the same path to heaven.

SEATON.
Alas! alas!

LADY AGNES.
Thou needs not put it to thy loyalty.
Thou hast a king, though young, and far away,
Son of the Bruce, (and destined, as we trust,
To prove his lineage by his future deeds,)
For whom his faithful subjects all are bound
To keep his royal heritage unspoiled;
Nor yet to urge upon thy patriot heart
The sacred claim of country to be held
Back from th' invader's grasp; still less to cite
(All which thou know'st far better than myself)
What I have gathered from the wise discoursing—
Of those, that chronicles of old attest,
To aid the fortunes of the failing state
Gave up themselves and theirs. Our later days
Showed as good samples, where a single household
Sufficed to turn the adverse tide of war.

SEATON.
No, I forget them not. Thou mean'st the Hayes.

LADY AGNES.
Yes, those three men—of humble station, then,
Though since assigned, as meed for their exploit,
Rank with the highest—those three husbandmen,
Father and sons, who, laboring on the glebe,
Rushed with their rustic implements of toil,
The spade, the harrow, whatso'er they held,
To stop the flight of their retreating countrymen—
Driving them back upon the enemy,
Thence to return as conquerors!

SEATON.
They deserved
The fame that followed them, and I will own
Such fame were dear; yet are my sons far dearer.

LADY AGNES.
Think not the loss of that alone I heed,
Though that were much; the burning brand of infamy
Might yet be quenched, by others or ourselves;
Not so the inward, inextinguished fire,
Still scorching, ne'er consuming. Voice of man,
Without us, may capriciously award
Its censure or acclaim, and we contemn it;
But of man's Maker, in us, who shall scorn?

SEATON.
I own its hallowed sanction to thy pleadings.

LADY AGNES.
Besides, if thou desert thy trust, and thus
Betray the sons of all the sires in Scotland
To save thine own, blotting the fair escutcheon
Worn by thine ancestry unsoiled till now;—
Bethink thee, after all, if thou be sure
To gain the guerdon? to deliver those
For whom all else were forfeited? Not so!
For if, in mockery of the faith of treaties,
Of his own covenant, the tyrant now
Has broke his oath—who knows but then he fail
To spare the captives, and thou sow'st the wind
Only to reap the whirlwind!

SEATON.
Hold, in mercy!

LADY AGNES.
Think, too, my Seaton, we have other children.

SEATON.
None other half so dear.

LADY AGNES.
None dearer, sure. The absent and the dead
Are ever most delighted in—and justly.
The heart must seek to compensate itself,
When past the power to pour it forth in act,
By hoarding larger measures of affection.
So let it be with them!

SEATON.
Thy solemn words
Fall like a requiem! Hast thou more to move me?

LADY AGNES.
Nought of my own; but, could I summon others,
There are, whose words to second my appeal,
Were more prevailing.

SEATON.
Who could be thus gifted?
Say, who?

LADY AGNES.
The lads themselves!
Start not! 'tis true! Stood they before us now,
Themselves to hold the balance, and their doom
The weight depending, confident I am
Allan and Duncan are no sons of ours
But they would beg thee not to spare their lives
At peril of their honor; would prefer
To die, the offspring of an honest man,
Than live a traitor's heirs! And dost thou shrink
At the mere name? Think of the thing, my Seaton!
And let it nerve thee to the only course
By which thou canst avoid it.

SEATON.
Thou hast won me;
Hast conquered, Agnes! Thou hast gained thy husband,
But lost thy sons!
[Falls on her neck, when, suddenly catching a glance at the side scene, she screams and sinks back.
What means that fearful shriek?

LADY AGNES.
A sudden pang. Within. (pointing to the folding-doors.)

Send Margaret hither.
I shall be better soon, and come to thee.

[Seaton goes into the inner room.
(Enter Margaret.)
[Lady Agnes, starting up, snatches the hand of Margaret, and points with it to the view through the side scene.
LADY AGNES.
'Tis there, already. Look! the fatal tree!
Beneath our walls—within our very sight!
I sped my husband hence, ere he beheld
What might have blunted all his resolution.
Barbarian Edward! could thy savage heart
Contrive this aggravation? Curses on thee!
On thee and thine. Take, ruthless spoiler, take
A mother's malison. O, may it reach thee!
Follow through life and haunt thee at thy death!
And let it cleave the tomb, and pierce beneath,
Keen as a falchion, till it find the hell
To which thy crimes shall sink thee, and dire Heaven
Deaf to thy cries, as thou wert deaf to mine!

[Falls exhausted into the arms of Margaret. Curtain drops.