University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber.
Agnes
alone.—(She Sings.)

Enter Ballard, (Aside.)
She sings—not yet—how beautiful she stands,
As if some seraph had come down to see
How heavenly songs become a mortal lute,
And try if that a wire of earthly mould,
Waked by the touch of a celestial hand,
May make the angels listen—at her voice
My nature is transmuted, as the breath
Driven sweetly through the wreath'd barbaric shell
Doth charm the horned snake. I'll speak to her,
And bask in those meek eyes.—Now, oh! my bosom
Teem with deceits rife as the sleepy flowers,
In the dank ooze of Lethe; glide, my words,
Into her ears, like asps, that poison ere
We know that they are there.—
(Aloud.)
Heaven bless thee, lady.

AGNES.
Good even, sir—or rather, Father, now
The place permits me say it.

BALLARD.
No—not Father;
That is a title here that fits me not;
And, haply, never shall.

AGNES.
Now, Heaven forefend!
Father, you seem disturb'd.

BALLARD.
I do, dear lady—
Throughout the whole dark volume of my days,
I have been practised as an intercessor
For other men—or at the Throne of Mercy,
Or at those seats where saints above are seated,
Or at some temporal footstool—Never yet
Stood there a true and zealous advocate
So shorn of eloquence, so dumb, so tongue-tied,
As I do now.

AGNES.
This is a marvel; who
Can need your intercession, and with me?

BALLARD.
Who that durst plead as he would wish, dear lady,
But would need intercession.
Pardon me—
I am like one that venturing in to swim,
Ere he hath reach'd mid-current loseth heart,
And idly chokes i' the waters. There are many
Will think to beg a boon, but at the touch,
Sunk by the weight of their unworthiness,
Wreck their own advocacy. Therefore, lady,
If what I say shall seem importunate,
Arrogant, frontless, or unreasonable,
Let me be held but as the mere attorney
Of other men's appeals; and my commission
Once ended, call myself again your friend.—
It is for Chidiok Tichbourne I would speak.

AGNES.
Why, then, your peroration's thrown away.
It grieves me, Father, thus to break you off;
Ask something, I do pray you, I can grant,
But name not Tichbourne in't, and it shall please me
To run before your wishes.

BALLARD.
Shall't—indeed?

AGNES.
Do not mistake—I can appreciate
The worth and honour of your noble friend,
But on this theme, I pray you, name him not.

BALLARD.
Your wishes, lady, are omnipotent.

AGNES.
Nay, not so grave; think me not proud, nor harsh,
Nor one that doth refuse but to be sued,
Nor one that would be sued but to refuse;
But on this theme, beseech you, pardon me.

BALLARD.
Lady, 'tis I need pardon; why, methinks
I want the breath to make up such a word.
Do I not know 'tis even with our minds
As with our palates; and that our mislikings
Will heed no curb of ours? As 'tis with love,
So with its opposite—'Tis masterless.
What remedy?—Tichbourne, no doubt, is clear
In spirit and in honour; gentle; generous;
As quick and sparkling as the summer stream,
That ever moves in music. What of that?
If you can love him not—I am well answer'd.
Though haply there is one to whom his soul
Is as the myrtle to the monarch oak,
Or as the brook to the majestic stream
That rolls mid Indian climes, o'er golden sands,
Half the world's cycle. Bear with me, I grow
Somewhat too florid. Even so—one whose pleasure
Is only daring; and whose life is danger;
Whose faith thrives best in perilous extremes;
Whose honour lies in honourable deeds;
Who for a nation's good would risk his own.
—On him, perchance, that bosom, though it be
The quintessence of every gentleness,
The bed where love himself dares scarce repose,
Lest he should never leave a couch so soft;
Slave of his own sweet languor, haply might
Be brought to lean.

AGNES.
Father—I know not this.
There is none such.

BALLARD.
Oh! say not so, blest creature.
And were I gifted with all things beside,
That Avarice could devise, or Prodigality
Confer, may yon blest light find me no more,
But I would give them all to be that man.

AGNES.
Father!

BALLARD.
Ay, though I roam'd the globe, a naked outcast,
Whom Fate abhorr'd, and Fortune had forsworn,
So I might count, the while, those eyes the stars
That told my destiny.

AGNES.
What mean you, Father?

BALLARD.
He that hath drunk new wine in Paradise,
And banquetted upon immortal fruits,
And lived upon the breath that angels breathe,
And tasted of the sleep where Death is not;
Couch'd 'mid the fadeless amaranthine flowers;
Not having loved, nor been beloved of thee,
Hath known not what bliss is!

AGNES.
What course is this?
Your practice, holy sir, should not be false,
Nor yet your words be true—I am unused
To such a tone—much less from such a tongue.

BALLARD.
Hark thee: I'll tell a tale.—Nay, shrink not from me;
As if or distance had the power to blunt
Th' impressure of thine eyes, or time to heal
The gazer's hurt.—There sometime was a maid,
Named Katharine—ay, De Boria was her name—
Nursed in the German fields, by Wittemberg,
And she did spring the wonder of all eyes,
Till, in her womanhood, her estate of beauty
Might bought the rubied hills of Samarcand,
Ay, or the golden bosom of Peru;
Rifest of sweets, since our first mother, Eve;
Save, haply, one: but she, as thou, was humble;
And all these charms did dedicate to God.
—But not the sanctity of holy walls;
Nor the heaven-melting breath of choral praise;
No; nor the awful shadow of the Cross,
Could drown her accents in one eager ear,
Nor blind the gaze of an unhallow'd eye.
Ay; for the sake of those rare lineaments,
The sight of which had palsied Phidias' hand,
And hue, at which the roses might outblush
Themselves for envy, God's eternal Faith,
Which heretofore had bound the world, almost
In one unbroken bond of joy and love;
Even as the silken cincture round that bosom;
Was torn and trampled on, and made the pandar
Of the fierce passion of that aweless monk,
Who drank his phrenzy from her eyes—his name?
What was't?—come tell thou me.

AGNES.
I know not, Father.
What mean you?

BALLARD.
Thou dost know—His name was Luther!
(He pauses.)
What follows upon this? If 'twas permitted—
For evil is permitted, even as good—
If 'twas permitted that one fatal face
Should be the cause why sacrilegious hands
Have broken the communion of the Faith,
And bent the very word of God himself,
Unto the impious glosses of bold men,
Who dare cross-question the Redeemer's self,
And make his laws a peg, whereon to hang
Blasphemous cavils—If 'twas so permitted?
What glory shall be hers who brings the balm
To heal the wound again? Who would not pledge
Her soul, however priceless, for the hope
Of such a ransom?—Thou do'st answer not—
Deem that the fate of millions may be set
Upon that brow—thine eyes two constellations
That tell of change and herald destiny.—
Oh! but methinks that I could foot the waves,
Or pass unscathed into the furnace jaws;
Yea, live where all created being else
Die ere they can breathe twice—so that this hand
Did point me to the way—Nay, scorn me not,
Nor play the prude with Fate—by Heaven, I'll have't!
—I am not that I seem—

AGNES.
Thou'rt not, indeed!
Unhand me—monstrous and unhallow'd villain—
Methinks the sight of thee e'en doth pollute
The eye that sees.—O! what a film hath lain
Upon our sight—Hence! ere that Babington
Hath found that Treach'ry and Ingratitude
Are nestling at his very hearth, to sting him.
—Begone—or ere I breathe what thing thou art—
That mercy I afford thee.

(She is going out.)
BALLARD.
Yea—So high?
Why then, I must let fly another falcon.
In faith 'tis time! I hardly thought that woman
Had been so hard to deal with.
(He seizes her arm, and leads her back.)
Soft you, lady,
A word or two or ere ye go, and in
Another key, since this doth please you not.
—Sit there—nay, sit, I say—I will be plain,
Since Flattery's out of fashion—Do not tremble— (He seats himself at a little distance.)

Now—what d'ye think me, lady?

AGNES.
Insolent,
As well as reckless!—of created things,
But tell me which is worst, and thou art worse
Than that—what means this awless violence?

BALLARD.

Violence!—you wrong me, sweet madam: but he who
rhymes not must prose; who doth not sing must say!—
A word in your ear, ere you leave me. Thou wilt tell

Babington, wilt thou, lady? deem'st thou I had thrust
mine head within the danger of his reproof, if I had him
not in the toil? What dost thou think me? thou answer'st
not; I will replicate for thee—a Jesuit! whether that
be bad, I wot not; but that it is potent—ay, potent, to
the very top of potentiality, I know. Now, mark me.
Whisper one tittle of these passages between thee and me
to human being, and a breath of mine shall make this house
a habitation for foxes; and its master food for kites. They
shall have a quarter of him for the four points o' the
compass. I know the slipperiness of your sex well enough!
Beware! One whisper—and—and a swifter and a sadder
doom falls upon this house, than was rained on the city
Lot pray'd for. I tell thee, there is but a single wag of
thy tongue betwixt Babington's neck and the hangman's
axe. Remember that—and bite thou thy tongue out, rather
than let it ope the door to this secret.—Fare thee well.
(He returns.)
One word more. Look, as thou art wont,
on Babington, on his mother, on me, on all. No sighings,
nor droopings; no brows of insinuation, nor tricks o' th
eyelash. I tell thee, wherever thou hast motion, I have
eyes; wherever thou hast voice, I have ears; whisper me
like Midas' wife but to the reeds, and thou shalt rouse a
snake! And now, fare thee well; answer me not; but—
remember,—I say again—remember.

[Ballard goes out.
AGNES
(looking round fearfully.)
Yes; he is gone—Where am I? Is this so;
Or hath some swift distemper seized my brain,
And driven it into phrenzy? I do quiver
Like one just starting from some horrid dream,
Whose fear still deems it real. There are those
They say, in gay but earthquake-shaken climes,
Who in the midst of joy and smilingness
Have seen a sudden gulph yawn at their feet,
Whence darkness seem'd to issue. Such a horror
Is now before me. Merciful powers! what course—
What way of flight—what method of avoidance
Can save me from th' abyss? No stay!—no counsel!—
I am as one upon whose sleep a snake
Hath coil'd itself! I see mine enemy,
But dare not stir to shun him, lest that danger
Be trebled by retreat. What's to be done?
—Oh! Babington, in what most perilous mystery
Hath thy high soul embark'd thee? Let me rally
My scatter'd senses ere I act in this;
Then, were my life the guerdon of thy safety,
It should be freely render'd. The mean while,
No womanish weakness shall bewray thy secret,
Though, of all griefs, there is no pang comes nigh
The being grieved—and yet forbid to sigh.

[She retires.

SCENE II.

—A Gallery.
Enter Plasket and Gardevin, meeting.
PLASKET.

Whither so fast, Master Gardevin?

GARDEVIN.

Why, to seek thee and thy betters.

PLASKET.

Thou hast seized the forelock of thine errand.—The
latter, peradventure, will be further to seek.—Good journey
to thee.

GARDEVIN.

Thou art a mad wag, Master Plasket. Hast thou seen
aught of the Lady Agnes?

PLASKET.

I cross'd her even now, i' the Corridor. Seek'st thou
her, too?

GARDEVIN.

Marry do I; she is to go forthwith to her Lady Mother,
as she calls her. Sweet young spriglet!—Know'st
thou my lord sets forth to-night?

PLASKET.

What, Babington?

GARDEVIN.

Ay, and the rest. But I must to my young lady, and
then go and brew the stirrup-cup—of all cups, the cup I
like the worst, Master Plasket, and yet 'tis good, too.

PLASKET.

When thou brew'st it!—As how? Thou makest it so
strong, the guest getteth not away at all! Goes Master
Boone in their company?

GARDEVIN.

Ay, marry, doth he.

PLASKET.

Then, hark thee, Master Gardevin; thou mayest shew
the top of thy craft in cup-making. This were the very
nick for thee.

GARDEVIN.

Ay, say'st thou?—as how, Master Plasket?

PLASKET.

Why, make Master Boone's just potent enough to break
his neck by the way.

GARDEVIN.

Aha! thou art a wicked wag.—Well, Heaven mend
thee, ere thou break'st thine own neck. I must away to
my young lady.

PLASKET.

And I to mine old lady.—God be wi' ye.

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—A Chamber.
Enter Babington and Agnes.
BABINGTON.
Come, gentle Agnes, ere we take to horse,
A careful courier asks for his dispatches.
Tell me what female mission I can carry,
And put to th' executive? What fashion-monger
Or sempstress, at the top o' the town favour,
Have I credentials to? Methought you look'd
As you would speak with me. What, silent still?
Pray Heaven, a letter for the pretty Edith,
Sir Jeffrey's daughter!—Tell me now, in short,
What 'tis that I must do.

AGNES.
Sooth, nothing sir—
Unless it be—not to forget us in
Your absence—nor to make that absence long.

BABINGTON.
Nay, but there's something else.—Come, say it out
Or ere I go.—Time presses.

AGNES.
There is nothing—
Or if there is, I know not how to speak't;
And, were it spoken—'twere but thrown away.

BABINGTON.
And wherefore thrown away? Why, dearest Agnes,
This hath not been your wont. Although your guardian,
I am your friend no less. Come, say your wish
Or ere I go, for go I must—and soon.

AGNES.
Then my request were better left untold—
For, would you bid me ask of you a boon,
'Twere—that you would not go.

BABINGTON,
(much struck.)
Not go!—
And wherefore?
What superstition's this? Wherefore, dear trembler,
Should I not go?—Why, what should harm me, Agnes?

AGNES.
Nay, that I know not—do not ask me that;
But do not go—oh! not, at least, to-day!

BABINGTON.
At least to-day? and why to-day? is it
My Ides of March?—why, what is in to-day
More than to morrow, or the next, to that,
Or any other in the calendar,
That I should tarry?—what is there to fear?
Why, Agnes, sure I am an honest man,
And what should harm me, then, on any day,
Or what are days to me?

AGNES.
They should not be.
But in bad times the best are most unsafe,
And Treachery lurks where Innocence doth walk—
Indeed it doth—and, therefore, do not go.

BABINGTON.
Tears, too!—Ah! soft dissembler, I have found it.
These are for Tichbourne.—Have I hit you now?
Nay, there's no need to blush.

AGNES.
Ah! no—no, no!—
If Babington but stay, let Tichbourne go—
I know not what I say—forgive me, sir,
And think me not immodest.—Help me, Heaven,
In this extremity.— (Aside.)
He's here, great God!
And all is lost!
Enter Ballard, hastily.
Ha!—hand in hand! Well found,
The loadstone's here. (He walks up quickly, and says, markedly,)

Remember, lady, what
I told you, not long since. Nay, let me not
Make you look serious—but you know they say
“Long leave-takings make longest absences,
And lightliest parted with comes soonest home.”
(Aside.)
Tears in her eyes! By Heaven, I like it not,
Yet Babington looks calm and cheerfully.
(Aloud.)
So goes the proverb, lady. Honour'd sir,
I came to tell you that our horses wait
E'en now i' the court-yard, and our day wears late.
If't please you now to mount, 'tis two o'clock.

BABINGTON.
I am ready all. Here comes my mother, too.
(Aside.)
What meant her tears and most unused alarm?
Whate'er they meant—no matter—'tis too late,
And yet 'twas strange.
Enter the Lady Maud, Tichbourne, Charnock, Plasket, &c.
Mother, your hand, if't please you.

(Babington, Agnes, and the Lady Maud talk apart.)
BALLARD.
(Aside.)
I'll watch ye well until ye separate.
Methought the secret trembled on her lips.
On what a precious footing doth he stand,
'Twixt whom and ruin all the barrier is
A woman's constancy! No more o' your glances;
They might beseech a saint, or thaw the ice
Of froz'n philosophy. By Heaven, he alters!

BABINGTON,
(coming forward.)
(Aside.)
This parting is the hardest task of all!
How fain my heart would be upon my lips.
Down, down, I say—where is my resolution?
(Aloud.)
Madam, or ere I go, it is but fit
I crave your blessing; and, next after that,
Your best commands and motherly direction.

LADY MAUD.
Thou hast it, son. And, for advice of mine,
My sole direction is thy nurture. As
Thou hast been educate, so wilt thou act,
And that was after goodness still, and honour,
And all that may become a Babington.—
Thou hast not told me when thou shalt return.

BALLARD.

(Aside.)
Never. I'll wager six to one on't! He changes
again. Keep your Basilisk eyes off him, madam, you had
best!

BABINGTON.
In some few days, perhaps—or, at the least,
Such is my purpose.

LADY MAUD.
Nay, nay; look not grave:
Far be it from me to limit your sojourn.
My son shall make return e'en when he can;
I ask no more.

BALLARD.

(Aside.)
You had better not, seeing the business we
have in hand. Still watching him! By St Loyola, I'll
spoil this ogling!

BABINGTON.
Madam, I bid farewell:
And farewell all. (To Agnes.)

You shall be merrier
When we return.

TICHBOURNE.
I hope sir, and she shall.

BALLARD.
(Aside.)
Oh! well put in, Master Malapert!

TICHBOURNE.
Lady, an if I thought your sadness were
Because I went, in sooth I were less sad:
And so, farewell.

BABINGTON.
Come, Tichbourne, come at once;
Farewell to all.

BALLARD.
Farewell, mine honoured lady.

[Babington, Tichbourne, Charnock, and Ballard, go.
AGNES,
(rushing hastily out.)
He's gone, and I shall hear that voice no more.

LADY MAUD.
Why, Agnes, whither would'st thou?

AGNES,
(much agitated.)
Pardon me.—
To the south turret, madam. I would fain—
See them—take horse.

[She goes out.
LADY MAUD.
Hark, Plasket; when thou hast
Seen thy lord mount, bring Agnes to my chamber;
And pr'ythee, try devise some means of mirth.
Of late, poor thing, I've mark'd her melancholy,
And her tongue's music sadly hath declined
To a most speaking silence. She must have
Some change of mirth and converse. What it is
I know not—but there's somewhat preys upon her.
Pr'ythee, be gone.

PLASKET.
I shall obey you, madam.
At least, I'll do my best.
(Aside.)
Hard task to smile,
When the eye droops, and the heart bleeds the while.

[They go out.

SCENE IV.

—An Apartment.
Enter Walsingham and Gifford, hastily.
WALSINGHAM.
Mark me, I say. This issue is the last.
If 'tis thine errand to equivocate,
To shuffle, and put forth mysterious riddles,
Thy time's gone by. Speak out, knave, at thy peril!

GIFFORD.
My lord—my lord!—

WALSINGHAM.
Thou sayest there is a foul conspiracy,
And that thou sayest sooth, I well believe.
Name the conspirators—or be content
To pass for one thyself. I will just give thee
Five minutes, for confession, or the rack.

GIFFORD.
My lord, they shall be named, though not by me.

WALSINGHAM.
By whom, then?

GIFFORD.
By my master.

WALSINGHAM.
Who is he?

GIFFORD.
I know not.

WALSINGHAM.
Where is he?

GIFFORD.
I know not.—But
I know where he shall be within six hours.

WALSINGHAM.
Where?

GIFFORD.
Here!

WALSINGHAM.
This subterfuge shall not avail thee.
This is a train to ope thy passage out:
It shall not help thee. If that thou canst sink
E'en like a spirit, through the impassable stone,
Or make the bolts and bars leap at thy bidding,
Then thou shalt go. If not, thou may'st remain.
—Within, there!

GIFFORD.

Hush! my lord. Hush! Will you mar all for a minute's
impatience? Bolts! keep your fangs upon me, and
welcome. Set me i' the stocks an you will, only grant
that which I ask. It is my last request, my lord—save
one—and that, I trow, ye'll grant without the asking, if
a saved throat may ensure gratitude.

WALSINGHAM.
Then, sirrah! should'st thou grateful be, indeed,
That I have saved thee thus far from the gallows.
But now thine hour is come. Speak out, or—hang!

GIFFORD.

Sir, I will be plain with you. 'Tis my cue. I wish not
to escape your custody. Give me the escort of a troop of
horse. Let them take me whither I choose to go. 'Tis
but a ten hours' journey; and if ye be not satisfied ere I
return, let one of your men-at-arms unlace me like a coney,
with his toledan for a carving-knife.

WALSINGHAM.

Whither would'st thou go?

GIFFORD.

To the vipers' nest. In ten hours will I bring ye what
they have been these ten months a hatching; and, ere I
return, ye shall have every head of them on Temple-Bar,
if ye like. Read that, sir. (Giving a paper.)

WALSINGHAM.

A sealed packet!—What is it?

GIFFORD.

It shall tell you what my master is, though I know it
not myself. Now, will ye let me begone?

WALSINGHAM.
I am satisfied.—Within there, Sir Amias.
Enter Sir Amias Paulet.
Saddle a squadron of your chiefest horse,
And take the guidance of this gentleman;
But, ere ye go, send orders to Lord Pembroke,
Between this and to-morrow, to post troops
Upon the road to Fotheringay. Instruct him
To be alert; the time is full of peril.
Begone—Come back—Give orders to the sentinels,
Whoever asks admittance at the hour
Writ on this paper, bring him to me straight,
And ask no questions.

SIR AMIAS.
I shall do't, my lord.

[Sir Amias and Gifford go.
WALSINGHAM.
Even as a man that wields a two-edged sword
Will oft-times wound himself; were treason not
A traitor to himself, what state could stand
The shot of his fell malice? Yet, what's treason?
A game by passion and by envy play'd
Against the winner, losing which, he doubles
The odds, then plays again.
Mistaken men!
As for this coil in hand, their culverin,
So cunningly though levell'd, e'en shall burst
With th' venom of its loading, and so mar
The hand that pointed. I must in to council.
It must be look'd to.

[He retires.