University of Virginia Library

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.