University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber.
Agnes and the Lady Maud.
Agnes touches a lute, and lays it down again.
LADY MAUD.
Are the chords false, that thou dost scorn them so,
Or is't thy heart that hath grown out of tune,
And so thy fingers falsify the strings,
Which yet are true, through thine distemperature?
Why, Agnes, did the merry Tichbourne see
These drooping eye-lids, they should almost fright
The spirit of his truth—and that were ill—
For, by my troth, he wears a true light heart.

AGNES.
Too lightly worn to wear well, haply, madam.

LADY MAUD.
Too lightly worn to wear well, haply, madam!
Why, lightliest worn for ever wears the longest.
Now this is the true spirit of misrule.
And so, because thou know'st he loves not grief,
Thou'lt do thy best to fall in love with it.

AGNES.
Nay, madam, you have grown in love with mirth,
And of the sudden—for 'tis all o' late—
And yet I marvel at it, for methinks
Your son is none of those same nimble tongues;
And surely you'd not undervalue him.

LADY MAUD.
No, Agnes, no; a mother's fondness doubled,
If double of a mother's love could be,
Were not too much for him—yet is he grave,
Too grave, methinks, for many ladies' love,
Who cannot find desert, unless it be
Bloom'd o'er with smiles, and wreathed with many mirths,
As if it were the garland made the May.

AGNES.
The eagle, when he soars towards the sun,
Is blind to specks beneath; and, lofty souls,
Whose aspirations rise a higher pitch,
Stoop not to mingle with the petty crowd
That keep the surface, and fret to and fro,
Full of the little business of the world.
Strong minds are ever difficult to move,
And, most of all, to laughter or disport;
Such is the gravity of Babington.

LADY MAUD.
Agnes, thou still wast partial in his praise;
But tell me, think'st thou Babington ambitious?

AGNES.
Pardon me, madam—no.

LADY MAUD.
Nay, blush not, Agnes;
Thou dost mistake me. All my drift was this;
Think'st thou his mind superior to his state?

AGNES.
Methinks his mind is better than his state,
And would be so, whate'er that state might be.

LADY MAUD.
But dost thou think distinction is his aim?

AGNES.
Virtuous distinction, madam; noble toil
Surely he would prefer to recreant case.

LADY MAUD.
In truth, he hath been lofty from a child,
And e'en his boyish pastimes relish'd still
Of a minute and honourable pride:
I have observed it oft.

AGNES.
Oh! doubtless, madam.
I well remember, in our infancy,
When each would have a favourite plant or flower,
He loved the wall-flower most, because it roots
Itself the highest, and can brave the blast,
And climb the rifted rock, or time-worn tower;
And he would praise the holly, for it smiled
Despite the frown of winter, as the bold
Can live and flourish in adversity.

LADY MAUD.
And say, which was my Agnes' favourite flower?

AGNES.
In sooth I know not, madam—or perchance
I have forgotten—'tis so long ago.
Yet do not think but Babington is kind
For all this prattle. I have seen him weep
O'er a wild air, brought from the Scottish hills,—
A simple soothing air, but which they say
Rizzio once sung to falling majesty,
As if his very soul died with the strain
Dissolved in music, as the summer mists
Melt in the first tide of the tender dawn.
It told of purple hills, and forests green,
Embosom'd lakes, and odour-breathing flowers,
And buds just oped, and sunny streams that glitter'd
And danced i'the early ray—now distant far,
And seen, alas! no more. In sooth, 'twas sweet,
And I did weep with him, nor ever knew
How melody spoke till then.
Nay, chide me not,
I could not choose but weep. Good truth, it moved me
As it had waken'd a new pulse of life
That never beat before. Nay, frown not, madam.

LADY MAUD.
I do not frown; but thou givest up thyself
Too much unto these fanciful conceits,
Born of imagination, which hath not
Whereon to diet, and will therefore make
Food for itself. What would'st thou say, dear girl?

AGNES.
What plant is that, which being only touch'd
Or look'd upon with an ungentle gaze,
Doth wither straight, and die?

LADY MAUD.
I know not, child;
Why dost thou ask?

AGNES.
Only because methinks
That plant should ever bloom the best with me.

LADY MAUD.
Why, Agnes, Agnes, this is childishness.

AGNES.
Dear mother!

LADY MAUD.
Sooth, I must be sharp with you.

AGNES.
Be what you please, and say what I must be,
And I am that, dear madam;—only love me,
And be “my mother” still.

LADY MAUD.
I am, dear girl.
Take now thy lute, and breathe some simple air,
May help us to forget this foolish talk.

AGNES.
Madam, I shall. There is a little air
This many a day hath hung about my lute,
As if some spirit had o'erswept the strings,
And tuned them to his fantasy.—'Tis sweet,
But melancholy.—Shall I sing it, madam?

LADY MAUD.
E'en as thou wilt, dear child, so that thou sing'st.

Agnes
Sings.

LADY MAUD.
Why this, methinks, is sadness' very self.

AGNES.
'Tis from the heart, dear mother, and they say
Music, e'en like discourse, should still be child
O' th' heart, or else 'tis nothing.
Plasket, welcome.

Enter Plasket.
LADY MAUD.
Now, Plasket, what's the newest folly stirring?

PLASKET.

None so new, my lady, but that 'tis old enough; and

none so old, but that it comes with a new face, fashion-changed;
e'en like our dames o' quality; of whom the
oldest hath haply the newest complexion!

LADY MAUD.

A riddle! what's this folly that thou talk'st of?

PLASKET.

'Tis a new gift, as easy as fortune-telling, and not quite
so ticklish. Marry, 'tis the faculty of seeing what is not
to be seen, and hearing what is not to be heard. A goodly
accomplishment! and right likely to thrive!

LADY MAUD.

What foolery's this, good Plasket?

PLASKET.

You may say so—Here's a bumpkin, this morning,
will swear you the Baron's chapel, last night, was lighted
up, as for a death solemnity, and that he heard airy voices
chanting the requiem!

AGNES.

What dost thou say? strange music heard i'the night?
—did'st thou hear aught?

PLASKET.

Truly, not I—had it been the music o' the spheres!

Snoring is all my concert till cock-crowing—unless the
wind sing i' the chimney, as it did last night.

AGNES.
This is but fooling.
(Anxiously.)
Didst thou hear nought else?

PLASKET.
Not I, sweet lady.

LADY MAUD.
Wherefore should he, Agnes?
What fancy's this?

AGNES.
No fancy!—I, too, heard it.

LADY MAUD.
What did'st thou hear?

AGNES.
A solemn strain of music,
That mingled with the wind. Methought it floated
And plain'd around the turrets of the house,
Despite the surging air.

LADY MAUD.
This was some dream.

AGNES.
It was no dream.—Your clear and living voices
Are not more palpable.

Enter a Servant, hastily.
PLASKET.
How now? thou sweat'st
As if thou hadst drunk hyssop!

SERVANT.
Honour'd lady,
I come to say, a troop of horsemen spur
Fast up the avenue. Is it your pleasure
The gates be barr'd?

LADY MAUD.
A troop of horsemen say'st thou?
Arm'd?

SERVANT.
Arm'd, my lady.

LADY MAUD.
Let the gates be closed,
If but for ceremony.
[The Servant goes out.
Plasket, go
Up to the turret, and of what thou see'st
Bring back report. No; stay. What needs this stir,
Because an armed troop point at my gate?
What is there we should fear? We are strong enough
To shut out lawless violence; and within
The range of any that the law can sanction,
God knows, we stand not.
(knocking heard.)
They are here already.
Now, Gardevin?

Enter Gardevin.
GARDEVIN.
An armed troop, my lady,
Are at the gate, and in the Queen's name seek
Straightway admittance.

LADY MAUD.
Did'st thou ask their mission?

GARDEVIN.
I did, my lady; but their leader bade me
To ope our gates forthwith, without more parley,
Nor deign'd to speak aught else.

LADY MAUD.
So peremptory!
In the Queen's name? what means this visitation?
No matter.—Let the gates be oped at once;
The guilty fear—not we.
[Gardevin retires.
Why dost thou tremble?
What dost thou fear?

AGNES.
I know not what I fear—
But feel a formless horror creep around me,
That makes me tremble, as the viewless wind
Doth shake the aspen.

LADY MAUD.
This is weakness; fie!

AGNES.
It is—I know it is—pardon me, mother;—
'Tis but a passing shade, and will away—
What have the innocent to dread?
They are here—
Great God!—oh! now be my foreboding false,
For this is fear enough.

Enter Sir Amias Paulet, Gifford, and Soldiers.
SIR AMIAS.
Lady—mine office,
Believe't, I would had not been laid upon me,
For 'tis most painful.

LADY MAUD.
Say, what is it, sir?

SIR AMIAS.
By the Queen's order, through her privy council,
It is commanded me to seize this house,
And all that it contains.

LADY MAUD.
To seize this house!
On what pretence?

SIR AMIAS.
Upon a sworn charge, lady,
And no pretence, although I would 'twere not so—
For that it harbours traitors.

LADY MAUD.
Traitors! whom?
What traitors?—Surely ye do know our name,
That come thus banded to despoil our house,—
And when lodged treason with a Babington?

GIFFORD.

When, say ye? marry, an't please your ladyship, within
these ten hours!—Hark ye, captain; parley no further;
'tis lost breath. Let your myrmidons ransack the house.
'Tis worth your while; and for treason—in this very
room will I shew ye, i'the nonce, the very faces of the
traitors, and these, too, of their own limning. You stare.

There's a device here, my masters, ye wot not of. Mark
ye, now—ay; here 'tis. Mark ye, now! so; there: Back
pannel, and behold.— (He touches a spring, the pannel

slides back, and discovers a painting of the conspirators.)

Welcome, gentlemen, from behind your wooden veil.
Faith! ye shew rarely—a precious parterre for the liquorish
eyes of Bothwell's Mary!—“Quorsum hæc
alio properantibus?”—A goodly motto for men going
post-haste to the gibbet! Know ye any here, sweet ladies?

AGNES.
(Rushes to the picture and screams.)
Ah! Babington!

LADY MAUD.
Where, where?—mine eyes are dim—
What do ye point at?—traitor? sir; no, no.
There is some likeness e'en 'twixt Heav'n and Hell!
It is some gin of wicked treachery—
I say, it is not he—it is not Babington—
No son—no child—of mine—

[She faints.
AGNES.
Oh! ye have kill'd her.

SIR AMIAS.
Support her, there, poor lady. Let us mingle
Pity with duty. Go, search every chamber
Throughout the house.—
Stay—doth this ashen hue,
Argue the life burnt out? or the weak spirits,
Ta'en with a sudden fear at this dire news,
Shrink back to their recesses—doth she not breathe?
Your arm—here—harden'd monk! Gently, good fellow,
There—bear her gently up.

[As they raise her, the scene closes.

SCENE II.

—A mean Apartment in a House in London.
AGNES
alone.
Darkness draws on—Hath not the ruthful day
Sunk faster than his wont from out the sky,
Because he would not look upon our tears?
—Yet am I calm—Methinks, these gentle elves,
(If, as they tell, such are our guardians,)
That love the ripple of the moonlight sea;
Or silver bosom of the sleeping lake;
Or stilly grot that shades some sacred spring,
Or rest mid myrtle groves, where no leaf stirs,
On woven beds of languid odour'd flowers,
Have left their haunts, thus to o'ersway my senses.
—Whence comes this calmness else?
Oh! Babington,
Have I not drank from thy beloved eyes
Some of their high resolve mix'd with their softness?
Methinks I am with thee still, and still shall be,
And therefore do I sink not—There's a shore
Beyond this troublous sea, where we shall rest;—
So sorrow loves to dream.—Is it not so?
I have heard that men, deep bowell'd in the earth,
Can see the stars at mid-day—even so grief,
When we are deepest plunged in the abyss,
Points to the world beyond, and heavy eyes
See clearest through their tears.
What was that noise?
A footstep sure—It is—He comes, and all
Is over, ere 'tis spoken.
Enter Plasket.
Thou hang'st back,
As if a freight of grief did clog thy steps.—
Whate'er thou say'st say quickly—out! alack!
Methinks thy speech is figured in thine eye;
And both are full of death.

PLASKET.
Compose yourself,
Beseech you, dearest lady.

AGNES.
Is there none—
No hope? no stay? no way of refuge left?
Their youth—their early time—the subtle poison
Wherewith that fiendish traitor blinded them,
Might plead to let them live; but only breathe;
No matter how, or where.

PLASKET.
I pray you, madam,
Call up your fortitude to bear what must be.
Alas! too sure, there is no hope.

AGNES.
Oh God!
How is it that presentiments of blessing
So oft are vain, and presages of horror
Be ever more fulfilled?

PLASKET.
Madam, be calm,
Beseech you—

AGNES.
I am calm—I have been calm—
Yet who can choose but shrink whom the red brand
Hath dazzled almost blind? 'Tis over now—
Speak to me—tell me what hath pass'd—fear not.
Now I am calm enough. Do ye not see?
Look on my hand—methinks it trembles not. (She holds out a miniature.)

Mark ye—Thou know'st that brow? 'Tis Babington's.
In the fell shock and agony of his fate,
Did he look aught like this?

PLASKET.
Madam, he did.
Nor did his cheek blench colour. When his judges
Did tell him he must die, he answer'd calmly,
“He did not fear to die. Had he fear'd that,
He had not then stood there.”

AGNES.
Thank God!—Thank God!
And how beseem'd the rest?

PLASKET.
Even as he did.
Little they said, all save the gallant Tichbourne,
Who, being ask'd, why he did join himself
To such companionship? with brow and eyes
Where indignation lighten'd, scornfully
Replied—“For company!”
What heard you, madam?

AGNES.
What noise was that?

PLASKET.
Madam, I did hear none.

AGNES.
Again!—'Tis nearer now.—Heard'st thou not that?
They drag them to their death-cells through the streets!
Sweet Heav'ns, support me now.
(Shouts drawing nearer.)
If that thou canst,
Look forth, I pray, and tell me what thou see'st.
My limbs are powerless!—I am dead already—
If that we can die all but our despair.
Great God! 'tis Babington.—Support him, Heavens,
And let me not faint yet—not yet—not yet!
(Shouts.)
And yet my heart, that even dies within me,
Only to think of what I dare not look on,
Doth almost burst its worthless tenement,
As that, perforce, it would be out of doors,
Despite its coward mistress.
(A very loud shout. Agnes screams.)
Plasket, speak!—
Why dost thou hide thine eyes thus with thy hands?
It is the savage throng have murder'd him!
Speak—speak—for mercy's sake!

PLASKET.
It is past now;—
I could not bear to see the cruel herd
Heap contumelies on his dying head,
And mock the patience of his gentleness.
Stir not, dear lady. Oh! beseech ye, stir not,
It is a needless pang, and there's enough
Of cruelty already. I beseech ye,
Be patient now.

AGNES.
Yes I am calm.—'Tis past.
Thou see'st that I am firm; and, were I not,
How should I bear that which is yet to come?
I would not die before him, if I might.
There is yet much to do—Oh! much.—How much?
And in how brief a time?—What agonies,
Tearings of heart-strings, mortal throbs o' the bosom,
Must make the business of a few short hours?
I must act now—whatever pangs await,
They must not kill me in the thinking of;
Beyond, I care not.
Plasket, if thou lovest me,
And for his sake, whilom who was thy master,
Wait on my bidding through these lonely minutes,
And find thy guerdon in his memory—
A sad but sweet one.

PLASKET.
Can'st thou doubt me, lady?

AGNES.
Why, then, attend me—whither I would go.

PLASKET.
And whither would'st thou go, sweet lady? Where
Can'st thou find aught that will not ope those wounds
Which bleed too fresh already?

AGNES.
I would go—
Where Babington is chain'd—attend me there.

PLASKET.
Alack! alack!—This is delirium;
Believe't it is, dear lady. It would kill thee
Only to look upon't.

AGNES.
(Firmly.)
Thou know'st me not.
Thou art most ignorant of a woman's strength
When she doth struggle but with sufferance.
I tell thee it shall float me through these sorrows,
Meek as the wounded sea-bird on the waters.—
But only let me look on Babington.

PLASKET.
Lady, where'er thou goest, I will attend thee
To my last breath. God strengthen thee, and guide thee.

AGNES.
Then tarry here one moment, and we go.

[She goes out.
PLASKET.
Poor broken heart. This is the desperate strength
That madmen wot of, and which dying men
Oft make the prelude of their agony.
Thus, out of very weakness cometh power—
As sorrow often is the child of joy;
And those who seem the most unlike the rest,
Are levell'd still by contrarieties
Down to the common measure of our breath.
For what is life? Is't not to be deceived?
To struggle still for what we never gain,
And when we think we gain it, lose it most.
To pine—alike in splendour or in gloom—
To find the ore of virtue can but buy
Ingratitude—or else to sell our souls,
And give the jewel for some tinsell'd cheat—
Or being happy to be still betray'd,
Until content shall wane into distrust,
And mortal bliss shew like a hollow pageant,
Splendid as autumn, and as full of death.
I, that have still o'erburthen'd my poor wit
To fasten scorns upon this coil of ours,
Begin to see at last my labour lost.
I too have been at fault—e'en like the rest—
And find, in truth, life is a bitter jest,
Which needed not my botching—
Agnes enters veiled.
Save you, lady;
I wait upon your leisure—Whither you would,
Thither I follow you.

AGNES.
Then let us go;
Fate beckons, and Despair shall not say no.

[They go out.