University of Virginia Library

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.