University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in the Tower.
Babington
alone. He starts from his couch.
Ha! burn the stars not dim?—What is the hour?
Surely, methought, I heard the midnight toll.
Wild fantasies spring in the troubled breast
As meteors from the fen. Did I not dream
I saw my mother married; and she stood
Deck'd for the bridal in her winding sheet?—
—The tapers flicker'd bluely—and, e'en yet,
The choral voices ring within mine ear!
Methought they issued from the vaults below,
And not the holy choir; and, when they ceased,
Died into sounds unearthly—horrible—
That were not music—'Twas a ghastly dream—
I'll walk and watch awhile to calm myself.
This is the time, when round a wretch like me,
Will hover those ill beings, whose bad pastime
Is human ruin—such as crowd, they say,
To new-made graves; or, like a wandering fire,
Flit round the spot where murder hath made feast;
Or shroud them in the cloud, whose smouldering bolt
Hath struck to earth the thunder-blacken'd wretch;
Or, with unnatural fears and fiendish promptings,
Infect the restless sleep of those who wake
To suicide.—
Doth not the lamp was pale? sure morning nears.
Well; let it come. Haply they think to scare me
By bringing death o' the sudden 'fore my face,
As they would fright a child. 'Tis baffled malice.
Had not his visage been familiar to me,
I had not been thus. I am now calm again
As yesternight, when at my grated window
I watch'd the sun go down, lovely as e'er
He did in happier days—ere I knew sorrow,
Yet did not shed one tear. Let them deny
A friendly voice to smooth my waning hours,
And work my death with more of cruelty,
And less of sympathy, than they'd bestow
Upon a thievish cur—I can bear all.
Nor shall a dying eye, 'mid all their tortures,
Ask, “How can ye do this?”
How now?
Enter Gaoler.
I come
To say that one would be admitted to you.

BABINGTON.
One? Who?

GAOLER.
She will not say her name.

BABINGTON.
Her name!
Admit her straight, whoe'er she be; and who
That bears a woman's heart, can seek this den
At such an hour as this?
[Gaoler retires.
Enter Agnes.
Whoe'er thou art,
That in an hour when others would forget,
Dost think of Babington—Welcome; and, lady,
Let me in pity see one face whereon
Sure pity must be writ.
Look down, ye powers,
Sure I do know this hand. Oh speak! unveil!
That I may know what I must yet endure.

AGNES.
(Faintly.)
Babington!

BABINGTON.
Agnes, speak! Alas! she's pale
As death were on her brow. What! have they sent thee
That it might kill thee, and thine innocent breath
Be added to my debt.
Look up, dear saint,
Unless I may die too.

AGNES.
Where am I?—Babington!
I shall be strong anon. 'Tis past; forgive me
If, when I look'd upon this place, my heart
Did die within me—but forgive me, sir,
It was a woman's weakness.

BABINGTON.
Thou art all good—
But who did guard thee here? Why would'st thou come?
This is no place for gentleness like thine.

AGNES.
Ask'st thou who guarded hither, Babington?
Heaven! Wherefore I would come, oh ask me not!—

BABINGTON.
And wherefore not, dear child?

AGNES.
(Solemnly.)
Because that wherefore
Is nothing now either to thee or me.—
No breath hath ever known't, and, therefore, henceforth,
Let it remain unbreathed, till breath goes too—
God grant not long—no matter. Only say
My presence comforts you—say, that to see me,
Or hear my voice, gives but a single ray
Unto the darkness of extremity;—
Then you are answer'd, why I would come here.

BABINGTON.
Comfort me!—yea, I am amazed, blest creature,
Wrapt and uplifted, at the very thought
That excellence like thine should dare these horrors
For my poor—ruin'd sake. O! I do see
A glimpse—a ray, to which I have been blind,
Even like the fool, that gazing at the sun
O'ertrod the precious jewel at his feet.—
Look down, great God! But one half hour ago,
The name of comfort to my loneliness
Were as a very echo, but the shadow
Of that which in itself was scarce a sound.
—Oh! what an hour of contrarieties!
Speak to me, Agnes.

AGNES.
And what should I say?
What contrarieties?

BABINGTON.
Ay, what indeed?
Time is too short, e'en to o'errun them now.
To seek for love, there, where it might not be;
And to o'erpass it, there, where it hath been;
To live long, watching hope which ne'er could bloom;
To die, with hope unlook'd for, yet fulfill'd,—
Is't not an hour of contrariety?
Answer me Agnes, is it not?

AGNES.
Oh! what—
What can I answer?

BABINGTON.
What can'st thou, indeed?
Nor would I have thee. Only answer this,
Ere darkness hath made vain the utterance—
—Dost thou not love me?
See how forward, Fate
Can make a reckless wretch.

AGNES.
Let my tears fall—
Believe me they are cold. Yes! I have loved thee;
That is the word,—and will—thy memory.

BABINGTON.
I die content. I will not utter more;
Fate and the hour forbid. I must not take
Those thoughts that should be God's, not even to give them
To thee. So be't. Yet never, therefore, deem
That priceless love hath all been cast away.
Half of my life thou hast preserved, which else,
Alas! perchance had died.—List to me, Agnes,
I do bequeath thee a dear legacy,
A rich one—for my sake, oh! cherish it!
My mother—
Ha! why has thy colour fled?
What spell enchains thine utterance? what is this?
Thou shudderest—as if thine eyes could see
The hell that's here. Agnes, my blood is curdling—
My heart is shrunken up, as by fierce fire,
Even at my horrible imaginings;
Before its strings have snapp'd, speak but one word—
Although its sound shall be too desolate,
Ev'n for the fiends to laugh at. Thou speak'st not,
But turn'st away thy face, and wring'st my hand.
I'll say it for thee then—My mother's dead!
Sign to me; is't not so?—Hold up, my heart;
This is thy latest pang.—My mother—dead?
(Passionately.)
And wherefore should she live? is it not better
That her old eyes are blinded in the dust,
Than left to be put out by sights like this?
Thank God. For her 'tis better, howe'er Heaven
May judge for me. Unto this latest trial,
As unto all gone, or that yet may come,
I bow—'Tis o'er—thank God!
Enter Gaoler.
How now! what would ye?

GAOLER.
The time is over which is meted out
For such a conference.

BABINGTON.
But one half hour more.
And it is ended.

GAOLER.
Sir, it pities me,
For that mine orders are most peremptory.
I cannot dare to do what fain I would.

BABINGTON.
What! would ye tear my heart out ere my time?
I tell thee, fellow, were thy masters here,
Methinks a sight like this might move e'en them,
Not to molest my few, short, ending hours.

GAOLER.
Sir, I shall wait here for a half hour more,
But, trust me, at my peril.

BABINGTON.
I'll not betray thee;
A traitor as I am.
[The Gaoler retires.
Oh! how time flies—
E'en to the wretched, when they'd have him stay.
Agnes, we must be brief. With iron hand
Fate tears our hearts asunder. We must part;
And let me part as doth become a man.
Oh! could I crowd into a few sad minutes,
A smiling summer's day, I might say much—
Much! ah! how much! Let me quit that. I know not,
Why thou hast loved a wretch, whose dazzled sight,
Blind with a fatal passion, hath betray'd
His steps into destruction—I know't not—
Unless that extreme coldness, as they say,
Can burn like fire. It is enough for me,
To feel what thou hast given, and I have lost.
Let it be comfort yet, that thine affection
Is so far happy, that it brings to me
One beautiful recollection, which shall gild
My passage. It shall dwell on thee in dying,
And smile away my pain.
(A distant bell tolls.)
Our hour is come.—
Oh! let us part as those alone should part
With nothing of remorse, and therefore nothing
Of fear. 'Tis fit we should be firm, my Agnes,
Who are unfortunate, but innocent.
Malice may gnaw my name; but thou shalt know
I gave my breath but for my country's weal.
This is the last; and we must say—farewell!

AGNES.
No—not farewell! Say not farewell; we may
Meet ONCE again; thou see'st how firm I am.

BABINGTON.
No! not again—not again!
Beseech thee, do not
Breathe such a thought. Wast thou all angel, yet
Thy ministry ends here. What is to come,
No eye should see, save One above—and THEIRS!—
Hear my last blessings—but before I breathe them,
Gaze for one passing moment in my face.—
Now turn away those eyes. They do awake
Thoughts—oh! too sweet not to be alien
To such an hour as this. Give me thine hand,
And when I say farewell, leave me at once.
Thy hand—not yet—be firm, and tremble not. (He puts a ring on her finger.)

Wear this, dear saint, for Babington's poor sake,
And let it wed thee to his memory.
Live thou to think that, dying, he was thine;
And shall be thine again!
And now to Heaven,
Where, let me humbly hope I shall soon be,
I do commend thine innocence. God keep thee;
God watch o'er thee—support thee—guard thee—save thee;
And, ere my voice is choken, and my tongue
Doth lose its office—oh! farewell! farewell!
Heaven bless thee! oh! Heaven bless thee!
(She runs out.)
The last string
Is crack'd at length, that held me to the world;
And welcome, death and darkness.

[The scene closes.

SCENE II.

A Street in London.
Enter Ballard and Gifford, meeting.
BALLARD.
Why do I meet thee here?

GIFFORD.
I did not know
That 'twas my cue to have avoided thee.

BALLARD.
Not so. Thou dost mistake; I sought thee rather.
Why should I walk here but in quest of thee?
Think'st thou I come to look at fools, who make
Blood pastime, but not gain? What is thy news?
What hast thou done? where hast thou been? thou'rt pale.
Say quickly.

GIFFORD.
I have been where Babington
Gave up his life.

BALLARD.
Art thou a connoisseur
In death, e'en like the rest? would'st thou enact
The lurcher wholly, and lap up the blood
Thou helpest to betray?—Fool! and for this
Darest thou neglect what I have given in charge?
If that thou hast—

GIFFORD.
I have not. She is traced,
At least I think it.

BALLARD.
Traced?—whither, and how?

GIFFORD.
Thither where I have been. List to me, sir;
If I am pale, 'tis that I've seen a sight
Which drove the blood back to my very heart,
That almost bled for pity. Why I went
Where Babington and his unhappy mates
Shook gory hands with death, needs not to tell.

BALLARD.
I ask'd thee not—nor do I ask thee now—
For tedious pity, however new to thee.
What did'st thou see?

GIFFORD.
I saw the noble Babington
Stand on the scaffold with his dying friends.
No man attended them. No pitying voice
Did bid, “God help them.” There they stood, alone,
With serene countenances, as't had been
Some solemn festival; until the wretches
Whose callous hands were to wring forth their breaths,
Laid bare their patient necks. They stood together
And silently join'd hands.
When Babington
Saw the young, gallant Tichbourne, his dear friend,
Submit him to the cord—for on him first
The villain hangman laid his horrid hand,—
His manly visage changed, and on his knees
He dropped aside to pray, the piteous tears
Chasing the while down his averted face,
When suddenly was kneeling by his side—
Whence she did come I know not, nor what power
Had oped her perilous road—one that might seem
A vision from the skies; so pure her beauty,
And so unseen her coming.

BALLARD.
Who was this?
Villain—who could come there?

GIFFORD.
'Twas Agnes.

BALLARD.
Caitiff,
Thou liest!

GIFFORD.
Why, then, her pure and beautiful spirit
Had left its form of clay to wander thither.
By Heaven, they were her living lineaments.

BALLARD,
(in a suppressed tone.)
Go on.

GIFFORD.
That vision seemed to strike around
A visible awe. It was most pitiful.
No sound broke in upon their parting prayer;
The very ruffians that did do him dead,
They seem'd to wait his time. He came to them.
Yea, when his friends had pass'd, he calmly rose
And bent him to the executioner,
Whilst she remained still praying on her knees,
Fair as the alabaster; and as fix'd
As is the marble—statue-like, all, save
Her lips, which faintly moved.

BALLARD.
Why dost thou pause?

GIFFORD.
Because my voice is choked even with the thought
Thou bid'st me to give words to.

BALLARD.
Fool! go on.

GIFFORD.
When they had snatch'd him from the fatal beam,
Still stirring with warm life—even at the noise
She turn'd her head, and faintly moved her hand;
And they did lay the dying Babington down,
His head upon her lap.
I saw no more!—

BALLARD.
What would'st thou say, then?

GIFFORD.
When the crowd recoil'd
In horror from the scene that then was closed,
I heard one saying through his tears, that thus
He lay; and, seeming more like death than e'en
The dying, she did look into his eyes,
And whisper'd comfort to his fading senses,
And wiped the cold damps from his dying brows,
And held the crucifix before his gaze,
E'en till the speechless orbs were glazed in death;
And the last savage mandates were fulfill'd.

BALLARD.
I'll hear no more of this. Where is she now?

GIFFORD.
I know not. But Maltravers, whom you join'd
With me in this pursuit, sign'd with his hand
At distance 'mid the press. I well believe,
That wheresoe'er she be, he follows her.

BALLARD.
Go, out of hand, and strive to join him then—
Away. No, hark! That man, that meddling jester,
Through whose contrivance she escaped away,—
Know'st thou what hath become of him? I dread
Some mischief from that fool's officiousness.
Would he were hamstrung. Thou art twice a bungler
To let him 'scape thee thus.

GIFFORD.
Remember, sir,
I have but two eyes, nor but one pair of hands.

BALLARD.
Had'st thou but used them as thou should'st have done,
We had made sure of him one way or other.
No help, this is but prattle—get thee gone,
And use thy wits, if thou would'st have my gold.
We must be quick; and, what is more, resolved;
Whilst she is here, some intervention still
May snatch her from my grasp. I've paid for her,
Ay, sold myself i'th' bargain, and, in spite
Of men or fiends, I will enjoy her—
Beast!
Why dost thou linger here?

GIFFORD.
I stay to know
Your course.

BALLARD.
That's true. I go to wait her coming,
Nor will I stir from thence. Begone, and prosper.
I, spider-like, lurk close within my web,
Until the prey be snared.

[They retire different ways.

SCENE III.

—An Apartment.
Ballard
alone. (He walks anxiously about.)
There are some men, when they have dared an act
At which earth shudders, and the pallid sun
Grows sick to look upon, will haply feel
Keen inward gnawings, and the tooth o' the conscience
Eat out their sum of gain. Such men are fools.
Is't not extremes that temper the hard steel?
E'en so, methinks, in actions such as this,
And for such prize as mine, the soul should own
Itself wax stronger, knowing it hath pass'd
Through both the ordeals of danger and of bliss.
Night strides apace, and yet she doth not come.
Methinks the gloom hath hasten'd, as if Phœbus
Had hurried from the sky, and the coy stars
Were half afraid to twinkle. Let them be so.
Her beauty shall be light enough for me.
A footstep—no! Yes, by my hopes, 'tis she.

Enter Agnes, with a disordered step. She looks wildly round.
Here, here, at last—let me return due thanks
Or ere my wilder'd brain hath quite forgot
Mercy as well as suffering—for, methinks,
Forgetfulness were best of mercy now.
(She kneels.)
Accept, oh God! my thanks, that thou hast born me
Through the hot furnace of this agony.
Do with me further as thou see'st best;
And grant me,—though e'er to know pleasure more
Is not to be my lot, yet that I may—
If that to me is not impossible—
Have thine assistance to forget past woe,
Yet still, as suffering ought to be forgot;
And if this greatest pang be not the last,
Still through my trials keep me innocent.
Temper the malice of mine enemies;
Forgive their hatred; and oh! shield the friends,
The few—few friends those enemies have left,
Nor let the legacy of love be pain.

BALLARD
(coming forward.)
Amen, amen.

AGNES.
Ha! shield me, ye sweet Powers!

BALLARD.
Why start'st thou, lady—'twas a gentle pray'r.

AGNES.
Wretch, wretch! oh! never had I breathed that pray'r,
Had I once thought that ever eye of mine
Should rest on thee again.

BALLARD.
And wherefore so?
I am thy friend.

AGNES.
Thou!

BALLARD.
I—nay, never task
That lip to frown, for it becomes thee not,—
And I would fain prove that my words are sooth,
Yea, therefore came I hither.

AGNES.
Frontless villain!
What drove thee here, I know not; but if hate
And loathing, more than for the foulest thing
That poisons eye, can drive thee hence—begone!
Shame is ashamed of thee, else would'st thou never
Dare meet the gaze that knows thee.

BALLARD.
Pretty anger!
Fain would I, thou would'st know me for thy friend.

AGNES.
Friend! and can such a word dwell on thy lips?
Know'st thou not that I know thee—perjured wretch!
Cold-blooded traitor, sacrilegious wretch!—
Hence, thou incarnate treach'ry; thou foul toad
Cased up in marble!—

BALLARD.
Call me what thou wilt,
Sweet railer; words and looks cannot blot out
My written right; I am thy guardian:
Know'st thou that character? (Shews a scroll.)

Nay, never turn
Thine eyes away! With all their power to change
That which they look on, there's no danger here.

AGNES.
'Tis Babington's!—oh! how am I entoil'd?

BALLARD
(exultingly.)
Thus art thou written mine, and Fate hath set
A seal unto the bond. Mine thou must be,
Or else an outcast—for what tongue shall greet,
What hand shall clasp, what bosom shelter in't,
Aught that's derived of a regicide,
Or owns the hated strain of Babington?

AGNES.
Iron-tongued man, as well as iron-hearted—
And can'st thou breathe that name?

BALLARD.
And wherefore not?
He knew the game at which he chose to stake:
He knew the penalty, and he hath paid it.
What was't to me, an if he loved a meteor
That singed the poor moth's wings.

AGNES.
Monster!

BALLARD.
Angel!

AGNES.
(Aside.)
Shelter me, Heavens, shipwreck'd and cast alone
Thus among villains.
Oh, sir! if your heart
Have left one drop of ruth, pity a being
Almost distract with misery already.
Why, why pursue a wretch whose abjectness
Can only move compassion; whose sad eyes
Are blind and dim with tears; whose shatter'd heart
Sorrow hath crush'd and kill'd? List to me, sir;
Indeed I am not worth the torturing.

BALLARD.
Thou talk'st in vain. Did'st thou beseech less well,
Had thy soft eyes less of persuasion in them,
Thy delicate lips less honied eloquence,
Thy silvery-falling tones less meltingness,
Thou might'st have better sped!
I love thee, lady,
And thou art mine. No tongue in all this world
Now will, or dare gainsay it. Mine thou art,
Past fate and fortune; therefore, teach thy lips
A better office than to plead against me;
I clasp thee for mine own, and Fate hath given thee.
—Nay, struggle not—Were every tear a pearl,
They should not buy thee from my arms.

AGNES.
Keep off;
Keep off, wretch—if but for thine own vile sake;
Heaven is above us still. Beware, I say;
Despair is dangerous, and, to the mad,
Weakness itself is strength.

BALLARD.
I am mad, too.
Be that at once my arms and my excuse;
Thou must with me, and therefore strive no more.

AGNES.
Say'st thou so? Then this outrage and its cure
Be on thy head.
[She draws a dagger and suddenly stabs him. He falls.]
He was a heart-stabber,
And laugh'd at blood! Ay, gasp thy life away!
Hast thou not lied enough, and glozed enough?
Still blood—more blood!—
And say there be, what then?
If murder be the key, I have but play'd
The popular tune, and where's the coil!
He's dead.
Now let their myrmidons come. If that my life
Shall pay the forfeit for this baffled villain,
'Twill well wind up this skein of ravell'd sorrow.
And now, what is there left me but to die?
They say those sore tormented sometimes sleep
Between their tortures, and I long for rest.
When have I rested now? 'Tis long, long past;
At least to me it seems so.
(Laying down the dagger.)
Lie thou there;
This is my deed, and I will mother it.
(She sits down by the body.)
So quiet, sweetheart?—Not a word! i'faith
Thou almost shalt begin to creep in favour.
Methinks mine eyes wax heavy, as if sleep
Would steal on them. Yet this were a wild pillow!
Methinks my head feels light—though mine eyes droop—
No wonder one should sleep, that hath not wink'd
These four days!
(She leans her head on her hands.)

(Starting up wildly.)
Hark! hark! Music!—'Tis ceased
now—'twas the same I heard i'th' east turret;—but there
the screech-owl spoil'd all! How cold I grow—my teeth
chatter—This neighbour lump of ice hath frozen me—
They come—ay—the executioners!—the executioners!

Enter Plasket, followed by Walsingham, Sir Amias Paulet, and Attendants.
PLASKET.
Thank Heaven, she's here. Woe and alas! more death!
What sight is this?—Dear lady—Agnes—speak.
Her eyes are fixed—alack! my lord, to what
A ruin have I brought you!

WALSINGHAM.
How pale she looks!
Oh! who that saw this statue animate,
Could e'er have wrong'd her

PLASKET.
Pity her, Heaven—alas!
Reason the guest hath fled, and the poor fabric
Totters to dissolution. Do you know me, lady?

AGNES.
Well!
Thou art the headsman—stay; not yet—not yet!
Tear not my heart out yet—'twill break anon.
Let me be buried with him—out, alack!
He hath no grave!—mine eyes darken—one breath more—
Babington!—Babington!

(She dies.)
WALSINGHAM.
She faints—her eyes close.

PLASKET.
My lord, her heart broke first; and these sad signs
Tell but that death's within.

WALSINGHAM.
Assistance there;
Remove that carrion hence—and thou, good fellow,
Say what thou art, that renderest in this kind
These last sad offices?

PLASKET.
My noble lord,
A humble servitor of Babington.

WALSINGHAM.
In what capacity?

PLASKET.
My lord, a jester's.

WALSINGHAM.
A jester's?

PLASKET.
Even so, my lord.

WALSINGHAM.
Such is the world;
So vanity doth end. Thou shalt serve me,
Though not i'the self-same way; for now, methinks,
Thy trade is out of tune. Is it not so?
But be thou of my house—and, whensoe'er
I would give Pride a purge; and lesson me
How fickle Fortune is, and Power how vain,
Goodness how helpless, and Humanity
How frail—how sinful—and how full of tears—
Be thou the minister—and relate to me
All the sad turns of this sad history.
Now look to thy dead mistress—cover her face—
Mine eyes fill even like thine.
Take up the body.
She shall have fitting funeral and all duty.

(Curtain drops.)