SCENE IV.
LEICESTER alone, then MORTIMER.
LEICESTER.
I am detected! All my plot's disclosed!
How has my evil genius tracked my steps!
Alas! if he has proofs, if she should learn
That I have held a secret correspondence
With her worst enemy; how criminal
Shall I appear to her! How false will then
My counsel seem, and all the fatal pains
I took to lure the queen to Fotheringay!
I've shamefully betrayed, I have exposed her
To her detested enemy's revilings!
Oh! never, never can she pardon that.
All will appear as if premeditated.
The bitter turn of this sad interview,
The triumph and the tauntings of her rival;
Yes, e'en the murderous hand which had prepared
A bloody, monstrous, unexpected fate;
All, all will be ascribed to my suggestions!
I see no rescue! nowhere—ha! Who comes?
[MORTIMER enters in the most violent uneasiness,
and looks with apprehension round him.
MORTIMER.
Lord Leicester! Is it you! Are we alone?
LEICESTER.
Ill-fated wretch, away! What seek you here?
MORTIMER.
They are upon our track—upon yours, too;
Be vigilant!
LEICESTER.
Away, away!
MORTIMER.
They know
That private conferences have been held
At Aubespine's——
LEICESTER.
What's that to me?
MORTIMER.
They know, too,
That the assassin——
LEICESTER.
That is your affair—
Audacious wretch! to dare to mix my name
In your detested outrage: go; defend
Your bloody deeds yourself!
MORTIMER.
But only hear me.
LEICESTER (violently enraged).
Down, down to hell! Why cling you at my heels
Like an infernal spirit! I disclaim you;
I know you not; I make no common cause
With murderers!
MORTIMER.
You will not hear me, then!
I came to warn you; you too are detected.
LEICESTER.
How! What?
MORTIMER.
Lord Burleigh went to Fotheringay
Just as the luckless deed had been attempted;
Searched with strict scrutiny the queen's apartments,
And found there——
LEICESTER.
What?
MORTIMER.
A letter which the queen
Had just addressed to you——
LEICESTER.
Unhappy woman!
MORTIMER.
In which she calls on you to keep your word,
Renews the promise of her hand, and mentions
The picture which she sent you.
LEICESTER.
Death and hell!
MORTIMER.
Lord Burleigh has the letter.
LEICESTER.
I am lost!
[During the following speech of MORTIMER, LEICESTER
goes up and down as in despair.
MORTIMER.
Improve the moment; be beforehand with him,
And save yourself—save her! An oath can clear
Your fame; contrive excuses to avert
The worst. I am disarmed, can do no more;
My comrades are dispersed—to pieces fallen
Our whole confederacy. For Scotland I
To rally such new friends as there I may.
'Tis now your turn, my lord; try what your weight,
What bold assurance can effect.
LEICESTER (stops suddenly as if resolved).
I will.
[Goes to the door, opens it, and calls.
Who waits without? Guards! seize this wretched traitor!
[To the officer, who comes in with soldiers.
And guard him closely! A most dreadful plot
Is brought to light—I'll to her majesty.
MORTIMER (stands for a time petrified with wonder; collects himself soon,
and follows LEICESTER with his looks expressive of the most
sovereign contempt).
Infamous wretch! But I deserve it all.
Who told me then to trust this practised villain?
Now o'er my head he strides, and on my fall
He builds the bridge of safety! be it so;
Go, save thyself—my lips are sealed forever;
I will not join even thee in my destruction;
I would not own thee, no, not even in death;
Life is the faithless villain's only good!
[To the officer of the guard, who steps forward to seize him.
What wilt thou, slave of tyranny, with me?
I laugh to scorn thy threatenings; I am free.
[Drawing a dagger.
OFFICER.
He's armed; rush in and wrest his weapon from him.
[They rush upon him, he defends himself.
MORTIMER (raising his voice).
And in this latest moment shall my heart
Expand itself in freedom, and my tongue
Shall break this long constraint. Curse and destruction
Light on you all who have betrayed your faith,
Your God, and your true sovereign! Who, alike
To earthly Mary false as to the heavenly,
Have sold your duties to this bastard queen!
OFFICER.
Hear you these blasphemies? Rush forward—seize him.
MORTIMER.
Beloved queen! I could not set thee free;
Yet take a lesson from me how to die.
Mary, thou holy one, O! pray for me!
And take me to thy heavenly home on high.
[Stabs himself, and falls into the arms of the guard.
SCENE V.
The apartment of the Queen.
ELIZABETH, with a letter in her hand, BURLEIGH.
ELIZABETH.
To lure me thither! trifle with me thus!
The traitor! Thus to lead me, as in triumph,
Into the presence of his paramour!
Oh, Burleigh! ne'er was woman so deceived.
BURLEIGH.
I cannot yet conceive what potent means,
What magic he exerted, to surprise
My queen's accustomed prudence.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I die
For shame! How must he laugh to scorn my weakness!
I thought to humble her, and was myself
The object of her bitter scorn.
BURLEIGH.
By this
You see how faithfully I counselled you.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I am sorely punished, that I turned
My ear from your wise counsels; yet I thought
I might confide in him. Who could suspect
Beneath the vows of faithfullest devotion
A deadly snare? In whom can I confide
When he deceives me? He, whom I have made
The greatest of the great, and ever set
The nearest to my heart, and in this court
Allowed to play the master and the king.
BURLEIGH.
Yet in that very moment he betrayed you,
Betrayed you to this wily Queen of Scots.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, she shall pay me for it with her life!
Is the death-warrant ready?
BURLEIGH.
'Tis prepared
As you commanded.
ELIZABETH.
She shall surely die—
He shall behold her fall, and fall himself!
I've driven him from my heart. No longer love,
Revenge alone is there: and high as once
He stood, so low and shameful be his fall!
A monument of my severity,
As once the proud example of my weakness.
Conduct him to the Tower; let a commission
Of peers be named to try him. He shall feel
In its full weight the rigor of the law.
BURLEIGH.
But he will seek thy presence; he will clear——
ELIZABETH.
How can he clear himself? Does not the letter
Convict him. Oh, his crimes are manifest!
BURLEIGH.
But thou art mild and gracious! His appearance,
His powerful presence——
ELIZABETH.
I will never see him;
No never, never more. Are orders given
Not to admit him should he come?
BURLEIGH.
'Tis done.
PAGE (entering).
The Earl of Leicester!
ELIZABETH.
The presumptuous man!
I will not see him. Tell him that I will not.
PAGE.
I am afraid to bring my lord this message,
Nor would he credit it.
ELIZABETH.
And I have raised him
So high that my own servants tremble more
At him than me!
BURLEIGH (to the PAGE).
The queen forbids his presence.
[The PAGE retires slowly.
ELIZABETH (after a pause).
Yet, if it still were possible? If he
Could clear himself? Might it not be a snare
Laid by the cunning one, to sever me
From my best friends—the ever-treacherous harlot!
She might have writ the letter, but to raise
Poisonous suspicion in my heart, to ruin
The man she hates.
BURLEIGH.
Yet, gracious queen, consider.
SCENE VI.
LEICESTER (bursts open the door with violence,
and enters with an imperious air).
LEICESTER.
Fain would I see the shameless man who dares
Forbid me the apartments of my queen!
ELIZABETH (avoiding his sight).
Audacious slave!
LEICESTER.
To turn me from the door!
If for a Burleigh she be visible,
She must be so to me!
BURLEIGH.
My lord, you are
Too bold, without permission to intrude.
LEICESTER.
My lord, you are too arrogant, to take
The lead in these apartments. What! Permission!
I know of none who stands so high at court
As to permit my doings, or refuse them.
[Humbly approaching ELIZABETH.
'Tis from my sovereign's lips alone that I——
ELIZABETH (without looking at him).
Out of my sight, deceitful, worthless traitor!
LEICESTER.
'Tis not my gracious queen I hear, but Burleigh,
My enemy, in these ungentle words.
To my imperial mistress I appeal;
Thou hast lent him thine ear; I ask the like.
ELIZABETH.
Speak, shameless wretch! Increase your crime—deny it.
LEICESTER.
Dismiss this troublesome intruder first.
Withdraw, my lord; it is not of your office
To play the third man here: between the queen
And me there is no need of witnesses.
Retire——
ELIZABETH (to BURLEIGH).
Remain, my lord; 'tis my command.
LEICESTER.
What has a third to do 'twixt thee and me?
I have to clear myself before my queen,
My worshipped queen; I will maintain the rights
Which thou hast given me; these rights are sacred,
And I insist upon it, that my lord
Retire.
ELIZABETH.
This haughty tone befits you well.
LEICESTER.
It well befits me; am not I the man,
The happy man, to whom thy gracious favor
Has given the highest station? this exalts me
Above this Burleigh, and above them all.
Thy heart imparted me this rank, and what
Thy favor gave, by heavens I will maintain
At my life's hazard. Let him go, it needs
Two moments only to exculpate me.
ELIZABETH.
Think not, with cunning words, to hide the truth.
LEICESTER.
That fear from him, so voluble of speech:
But what I say is to the heart addressed;
And I will justify what I have dared
To do, confiding in thy generous favor,
Before thy heart alone. I recognize
No other jurisdiction.
ELIZABETH.
Base deceiver
'Tis this, e'en this, which above all condemns you.
My lord, produce the letter.
[To BURLEIGH.
BURLEIGH.
Here it is.
LEICESTER (running over the letter without losing his presence of mind).
'Tis Mary Stuart's hand——
ELIZABETH.
Read and be dumb!
LEICESTER (having read it quietly).
Appearance is against me, yet I hope
I shall not by appearances be judged.
ELIZABETH.
Can you deny your secret correspondence
With Mary?—that she sent and you received
Her picture, that you gave her hopes of rescue?
LEICESTER.
It were an easy matter, if I felt
That I were guilty of a crime, to challenge
The testimony of my enemy:
Yet bold is my good conscience. I confess
That she hath said the truth.
ELIZABETH.
Well then, thou wretch!
BURLEIGH.
His own words sentence him——
ELIZABETH.
Out of my sight!
Away! Conduct the traitor to the Tower!
LEICESTER.
I am no traitor; it was wrong, I own,
To make a secret of this step to thee;
Yet pure was my intention, it was done
To search into her plots and to confound them.
ELIZABETH.
Vain subterfuge!
BURLEIGH.
And do you think, my lord——
LEICESTER.
I've played a dangerous game, I know it well,
And none but Leicester dare be bold enough
To risk it at this court. The world must know
How I detest this Stuart, and the rank
Which here I hold; my monarch's confidence,
With which she honors me, must sure suffice
To overturn all doubt of my intentions.
Well may the man thy favor above all
Distinguishes pursue a daring course
To do his duty!
BURLEIGH.
If the course was good,
Wherefore conceal it?
LEICESTER.
You are used, my lord,
To prate before you act; the very chime
Of your own deeds. This is your manner, lord;
But mine is first to act, and then to speak.
BURLEIGH.
Yes, now you speak because you must.
LEICESTER (measuring him proudly and disdainfully with his eyes).
And you
Boast of a wonderful, a mighty action,
That you have saved the queen, have snatched away
The mask from treachery; all is known to you;
You think, forsooth, that nothing can escape
Your penetrating eyes. Poor, idle boaster!
In spite of all your cunning, Mary Stuart
Was free to-day, had I not hindered it.
BURLEIGH.
How? You?
LEICESTER.
Yes, I, my lord; the queen confided
In Mortimer; she opened to the youth
Her inmost soul! Yes, she went further still;
She gave him, too, a secret, bloody charge,
Which Paulet had before refused with horror.
Say, is it so, or not?
[The QUEEN and BURLEIGH look at one another with astonishment.
BURLEIGH.
Whence know ye this?
LEICESTER.
Nay, is it not a fact? Now answer me.
And where, my lord, where were your thousand eyes,
Not to discover Mortimer was false?
That he, the Guise's tool, and Mary's creature,
A raging papist, daring fanatic,
Was come to free the Stuart, and to murder
The Queen of England!
ELIZABETH (with the utmost astonishment).
How! This Mortimer!
LEICESTER.
'Twas he through whom our correspondence passed.
This plot it was which introduced me to him.
This very day she was to have been torn
From her confinement; he, this very moment,
Disclosed his plan to me: I took him prisoner,
And gave him to the guard, when in despair
To see his work o'erturned, himself unmasked,
He slew himself!
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I indeed have been
Deceived beyond example, Mortimer!
BURLEIGH.
This happened then but now? Since last we parted?
LEICESTER.
For my own sake, I must lament the deed;
That he was thus cut off. His testimony,
Were he alive, had fully cleared my fame,
And freed me from suspicion; 'twas for this
That I surrendered him to open justice.
I thought to choose the most impartial course
To verify and fix my innocence
Before the world.
BURLEIGH.
He killed himself, you say
Is't so? Or did you kill him?
LEICESTER.
Vile suspicion!
Hear but the guard who seized him.
[He goes to the door, and calls.
Ho! who waits?
[Enter the officer of the guard.
Sir, tell the queen how Mortimer expired.
OFFICER.
I was on duty in the palace porch,
When suddenly my lord threw wide the door,
And ordered me to take the knight in charge,
Denouncing him a traitor: upon this
He grew enraged, and with most bitter curses
Against our sovereign and our holy faith,
He drew a dagger, and before the guards
Could hinder his intention, plunged the steel
Into his heart, and fell a lifeless corpse.
LEICESTER.
'Tis well; you may withdraw. Her majesty
Has heard enough.
[The officer withdraws.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, what a deep abyss
Of monstrous deeds?
LEICESTER.
Who was it, then, my queen,
Who saved you? Was it Burleigh? Did he know
The dangers which surrounded you? Did he
Avert them from your head? Your faithful Leicester
Was your good angel.
BURLEIGH.
This same Mortimer
Died most conveniently for you, my lord.
ELIZABETH.
What I should say I know not. I believe you,
And I believe you not. I think you guilty,
And yet I think you not. A curse on her
Who caused me all this anguish.
LEICESTER.
She must die;
I now myself consent unto her death.
I formerly advised you to suspend
The sentence, till some arm should rise anew
On her behalf; the case has happened now,
And I demand her instant execution.
BURLEIGH.
You give this counsel? You?
LEICESTER.
Howe'er it wound
My feelings to be forced to this extreme,
Yet now I see most clearly, now I feel
That the queen's welfare asks this bloody victim.
'Tis my proposal, therefore, that the writ
Be drawn at once to fix the execution.
BURLEIGH (to the QUEEN).
Since, then, his lordship shows such earnest zeal,
Such loyalty, 'twere well were he appointed
To see the execution of the sentence.
LEICESTER.
Who? I?
BURLEIGH.
Yes, you; you surely ne'er could find
A better means to shake off the suspicion
Which rests upon you still, than to command
Her, whom 'tis said you love, to be beheaded.
ELIZABETH (looking steadfastly at LEICESTER).
My lord advises well. So be it, then.
LEICESTER.
It were but fit that my exalted rank
Should free me from so mournful a commission,
Which would indeed, in every sense, become
A Burleigh better than the Earl of Leicester.
The man who stands so near the royal person
Should have no knowledge of such fatal scenes:
But yet to prove my zeal, to satisfy
My queen, I waive my charge's privilege,
And take upon myself this hateful duty.
ELIZABETH.
Lord Burleigh shall partake this duty with you.
[To BURLEIGH.
So be the warrant instantly prepared.
[BURLEIGH withdraws; a tumult heard without.
SCENE VII.
The QUEEN, the EARL OF KENT.
ELIZABETH.
How now, my Lord of Kent? What uproar's this
I hear without?
KENT.
My queen, it is thy people,
Who, round the palace ranged, impatiently
Demand to see their sovereign.
ELIZABETH.
What's their wish?
KENT.
A panic terror has already spread
Through London, that thy life has been attempted;
That murderers commissioned from the pope
Beset thee; that the Catholics have sworn
To rescue from her prison Mary Stuart,
And to proclaim her queen. Thy loyal people
Believe it, and are mad; her head alone
Can quiet them; this day must be her last.
ELIZABETH.
How! Will they force me, then?
KENT.
They are resolved——
SCENE VIII.
Enter BURLEIGH and DAVISON, with a paper.
ELIZABETH.
Well, Davison?
DAVISON (approaches earnestly).
Your orders are obeyed,
My queen——
ELIZABETH.
What orders, sir?
[As she is about to take the paper, she shudders, and starts back.
Oh, God!
BURLEIGH.
Obey
Thy people's voice; it is the voice of God.
ELIZABETH (irresolute, as if in contest with herself)
Oh, my good lord, who will assure me now
That what I hear is my whole people's voice,
The voice of all the world! Ah! much I fear,
That, if I now should listen to the wish
Of the wild multitude, a different voice
Might soon be heard;—and that the very men,
Who now by force oblige me to this step,
May, when 'tis taken, heavily condemn me!
SCENE IX.
Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY (who enters with great emotion).
SHREWSBURY.
Hold fast, my queen, they wish to hurry thee;
[Seeing DAVISON with the paper.
Be firm—or is it then decided?—is it
Indeed decided? I behold a paper
Of ominous appearance in his hand;
Let it not at this moment meet thy eyes,
My queen!——
ELIZABETH.
Good Shrewsbury! I am constrained——
SHREWSBURY.
Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England,
Here must thy majesty assert its rights:
Command those savage voices to be silent,
Who take upon themselves to put constraint
Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment.
Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people;
Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath
Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal,
And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.
BURLEIGH.
Judgment has long been past. It is not now
The time to speak but execute the sentence.
KENT (who upon SHREWSBURY'S entry had retired, comes back).
The tumult gains apace; there are no means
To moderate the people.
ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY).
See, my lord,
How they press on.
SHREWSBURY.
I only ask a respite;
A single word traced by thy hand decides
The peace, the happiness of all thy life!
Thou hast for years considered, let not then
A moment ruled by passion hurry thee—
But a short respite—recollect thyself!
Wait for a moment of tranquillity.
BURLEIGH (violently).
Wait for it—pause—delay—till flames of fire
Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt
Of murder be successful! God, indeed,
Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape
Was marvellous, and to expect again
A miracle would be to tempt thy God!
SHREWSBURY.
That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee,
Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength
To overcome the madman:—he deserves
Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice
Of justice now, for now is not the time;
Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion.
Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now
Before this living Mary—tremble rather
Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary.
She will arise, and quit her grave, will range
A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost,
Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts
From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons
Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely
Will they avenge her when she is no more.
They will no more behold the enemy
Of their belief, they will but see in her
The much-lamented issue of their kings
A sacrifice to jealousy and hate.
Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change
When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go
Through London, seek thy people, which till now
Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see
Another England, and another people;
For then no more the godlike dignity
Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts,
Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally
Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee,
And make a wilderness in every street—
The last, extremest crime thou hast committed.
What head is safe, if the anointed fall?
ELIZABETH.
Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned
The murderous steel aside; why let you not
The dagger take its course? then all these broils
Would have been ended; then, released from doubt,
And free from blame, I should be now at rest
In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth
I'm weary of my life, and of my crown.
If Heaven decree that one of us two queens
Must perish, to secure the other's life—
And sure it must be so—why should not I
Be she who yields? My people must decide;
I give them back the sovereignty they gave.
God is my witness that I have not lived
For my own sake, but for my people's welfare.
If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart,
The younger sovereign, more happy days,
I will descend with pleasure from the throne,
Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers,
Where once I spent my unambitious youth;
Where far removed from all the vanities
Of earthly power, I found within myself
True majesty. I am not made to rule—
A ruler should be made of sterner stuff:
My heart is soft and tender. I have governed
These many years this kingdom happily,
But then I only needed to make happy:
Now, comes my first important regal duty,
And now I feel how weak a thing I am.
BURLEIGH.
Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen,
My royal liege, speak such unroyal words,
I should betray my office, should betray
My country, were I longer to be silent.
You say you love your people 'bove yourself,
Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart,
And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord.
Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen
The ancient superstition be renewed?
The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate
In pomp march hither; lock our churches up,
Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you
The souls of all your subjects—as you now
Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost!
Here is no time for mercy;—to promote
Your people's welfare is your highest duty.
If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I
Will save both you and England—that is more!
ELIZABETH.
I would be left alone. No consolation,
No counsel can be drawn from human aid
In this conjecture:—I will lay my doubts
Before the Judge of all:—I am resolved
To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.
[To DAVISON, who lays the paper on the table.
You, sir, remain in waiting—close at hand.
[The lords withdraw, SHREWSBURY alone stands for a few moments before the QUEEN, regards her significantly, then withdraws slowly, and with an expression of the deepest anguish.
SCENE X.
ELIZABETH alone.
Oh! servitude of popularity!
Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I
Of flattering this idol, which my soul
Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when
Shall I once more be free upon this throne?
I must respect the people's voice, and strive
To win the favor of the multitude,
And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught
But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him
A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he
Alone, who in his actions does not heed
The fickle approbation of mankind.
Have I then practised justice, all my life
Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this
Only to bind my hands against this first,
This necessary act of violence?
My own example now condemns myself!
Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister,
My predecessor, I could fearless then
Have shed this royal blood:—but am I now
Just by my own free choice? No—I was forced
By stern necessity to use this virtue;
Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills.
Surrounded by my foes, my people's love
Alone supports me on my envied throne.
All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me;
The pope's inveterate decree declares me
Accursed and excommunicated. France
Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares
At sea a fierce exterminating war;
Thus stand I, in contention with the world,
A poor defenceless woman: I must seek
To veil the spot in my imperial birth,
By which my father cast disgrace upon me:
In vain with princely virtues would I hide it;
The envious hatred of my enemies
Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart,
A threatening fiend, before me evermore!
[Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.
Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall!
I will have peace. She is the very fury
Of my existence; a tormenting demon,
Which destiny has fastened on my soul.
Wherever I had planted me a comfort,
A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed
By this infernal viper! She has torn
My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me.
The hated name of every ill I feel
Is Mary Stuart—were but she no more
On earth I should be free as mountain air.
[Standing still.
With what disdain did she look down on me,
As if her eye should blast me like the lightning!
Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms,
Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.
[Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.
I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch,
I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st.
Thy death will make my birth legitimate.
The moment I destroy thee is the doubt
Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right.
As soon as England has no other choice,
My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!
[She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall, and steps back with an expression of terror. After a pause she rings.
SCENE XI.
ELIZABETH, DAVISON.
ELIZABETH.
Where are their lordships?
DAVISON.
They are gone to quell
The tumult of the people. The alarm
Was instantly appeased when they beheld
The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed
A hundred voices—that's the man—he saved
The queen; hear him—the bravest man in England!
And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed
In gentle words the people's violence,
And used such strong, persuasive eloquence,
That all were pacified, and silently
They slunk away.
ELIZABETH.
The fickle multitude!
Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he
Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William;
You may retire again——
[As he is going towards the door.
And, sir, this paper,
Receive it back; I place it in your hands.
DAVISON (casts a look upon the paper, and starts back).
My gracious queen—thy name! 'tis then decided.
ELIZABETH.
I had but to subscribe it—I have done so—
A paper sure cannot decide—a name
Kills not.
DAVISON.
Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper
Is most decisive—kills—'tis like the lightning,
Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll
Commands the sheriff and commissioners
To take departure straight for Fotheringay,
And to the Queen of Scots announce her death,
Which must at dawn be put in execution.
There is no respite, no discretion here.
As soon as I have parted with this writ
Her race is run.
ELIZABETH.
Yes, sir, the Lord has placed
This weighty business in your feeble hands;
Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom;
I go—and leave you, sir, to do your duty.
[Going.
DAVISON.
No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard
Your will. The only wisdom that I need
Is, word for word, to follow your commands.
Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands
To see that it be speedily enforced?
ELIZABETH.
That you must do as your own prudence dictates.
DAVISON (interrupting her quickly, and alarmed).
Not mine—oh, God forbid! Obedience is
My only prudence here. No point must now
Be left to be decided by your servant.
A small mistake would here be regicide,
A monstrous crime, from which my soul recoils.
Permit me, in this weighty act, to be
Your passive instrument, without a will:—
Tell me in plain, undoubted terms your pleasure,
What with the bloody mandate I should do.
ELIZABETH.
Its name declares its meaning.
DAVISON.
Do you, then,
My liege, command its instant execution?
ELIZABETH.
I said not that; I tremble but to think it.
DAVISON.
Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?
ELIZABETH.
At your own risk; you answer the event.
DAVISON.
I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!
ELIZABETH.
My pleasure is that this unhappy business
Be no more mentioned to me; that at last
I may be freed from it, and that forever.
DAVISON.
It costs you but a word—determine then
What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?
ELIZABETH.
I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.
DAVISON.
You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen,
You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress,
But to remember——
ELIZABETH (stamps on the ground).
Insupportable!
DAVISON.
Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered
Unwittingly, not many months ago,
Upon this office; I know not the language
Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared
In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man.
Be patient with me; nor deny your servant
A light to lead him clearly to his duty.
[He approaches her in a supplicating posture,
she turns her back on him; he stands in despair;
then speaks with a tone of resolution.
Take, take again this paper—take it back!
Within my hands it is a glowing fire.
Select not me, my queen; select not me
To serve you in this terrible conjecture.
ELIZABETH.
Go, sir;—fulfil the duty of your office.
[Exit.
SCENE XII.
DAVISON, then BURLEIGH.
DAVISON.
She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed
With this dread paper! How to act I know not;
Should I retain it, should I forward it?
[To BURLEIGH, who enters.
Oh! I am glad that you are come, my lord,
'Tis you who have preferred me to this charge;
Now free me from it, for I undertook it,
Unknowing how responsible it made me.
Let me then seek again the obscurity
In which you found me; this is not my place.
BURLEIGH.
How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant?
The queen was with you.
DAVISON.
She has quitted me
In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me,
Save me from this fell agony of doubt!
My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!
BURLEIGH.
Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!
DAVISON.
I may not.
BURLEIGH.
How!
DAVISON.
She has not yet explained her final will.
BURLEIGH.
Explained! She has subscribed it;—give it to me.
DAVISON.
I am to execute it, and I am not.
Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!
BURLEIGH (urging more violently).
It must be now, this moment, executed.
The warrant, sir. You're lost if you delay.
DAVISON.
So am I also if I act too rashly.
BURLEIGH.
What strange infatuation. Give it me.
[Snatches the paper from him, and exit with it.
DAVISON.
What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The Scene the same as in the First Act.
HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY, also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants, who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings, and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants silently retire.
MELVIL enters.
KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him).
Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?
MELVIL.
Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.
KENNEDY.
After this long, long, painful separation!
MELVIL.
A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!
KENNEDY.
You come——
MELVIL.
To take an everlasting leave
Of my dear queen—to bid a last farewell!
KENNEDY.
And now at length, now on the fatal morn
Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady
The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir,
I will not question you, how you have fared,
Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured,
Since you were torn away from us: alas!
There will be time enough for that hereafter.
O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate
To see the dawn of this unhappy day?
MELVIL.
Let us not melt each other with our grief.
Throughout my whole remaining life, as long
As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep;
A smile shall never more light up these cheeks,
Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside,
But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning.
Yet on this last sad day I will be firm;
Pledge me your word to moderate your grief;
And when the rest of comfort all bereft,
Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we
Will lead her with heroic resolution,
And be her staff upon the road to death!
KENNEDY.
Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose
The queen has need of our support to meet
Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend,
Who will exhibit the undaunted heart.
Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire
As best becomes a heroine and queen!
MELVIL.
Received she firmly, then, the sad decree
Of death?—'tis said that she was not prepared.
KENNEDY.
She was not; yet they were far other terrors
Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death,
But her deliverer, which made her tremble.
Freedom was promised us; this very night
Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence:
And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear,
And doubting still if she should trust her honor
And royal person to the adventurous youth,
Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden
We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle;
Our ears are startled by repeated blows
Of many hammers, and we think we hear
The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us,
And suddenly and unresisted wakes
The sweet desire of life. And now at once
The portals are thrown open—it is Paulet,
Who comes to tell us—that—the carpenters
Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!
[She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.
MELVIL.
O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore
The queen this terrible vicissitude?
KENNEDY (after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself).
Not by degrees can we relinquish life;
Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye,
The separation must be made, the change
From temporal to eternal life; and God
Imparted to our mistress at this moment
His grace, to cast away each earthly hope,
And firm and full of faith to mount the skies.
No sign of pallid fear dishonored her;
No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings
Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate
Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed
Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish
Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last,
His only hope; till then she shed no tear—
'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not
Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.
MELVIL.
Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?
KENNEDY.
She spent the last remainder of the night
In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took
Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote
Her will [1] with her own hand. She now enjoys
A moment of repose, the latest slumber
Refreshes her weak spirits.
MELVIL.
Who attends her?
KENNEDY.
None but her women and physician Burgoyn:
You seem to look around you with surprise;
Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean
This show of splendor in the house of death.
Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want;
But at our death plenty returns to us.
SCENE II.
Enter MARGARET CURL.
KENNEDY.
How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?
CURL (drying her tears).
She is already dressed—she asks for you.
KENNEDY.
I go:—
[To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her.
But follow not until the queen
Has been prepared to see you.
[Exit.
CURL.
Melvil, sure,
The ancient steward?
MELVIL.
Yes, the same.
CURL.
Oh, sir,
This is a house which needs no steward now!
Melvil, you come from London; can you give
No tidings of my husband?
MELVIL.
It is said
He will be set at liberty as soon——
CURL.
As soon as our dear queen shall be no more.
Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor!
He is our lady's murderer—'tis said
It was his testimony which condemned him.
MELVIL.
'Tis true.
CURL.
Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul
Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.
MELVIL.
Think, madam, what you say.
CURL.
I will maintain it
With every sacred oath before the court,
I will repeat it in his very face;
The world shall hear of nothing else. I say
That she dies innocent!
MELVIL..
God grant it true!
[1] The document is now in the British Museum.
SCENE III.
Enter HANNAH KENNEDY.
KENNEDY (to CURL).
Go, madam, and require a cup of wine—
'Tis for our lady.
MELVIL.
Is the queen then sick?
KENNEDY.
She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived
By her heroic courage; she believes
She has no need of nourishment; yet still
A hard and painful task's allotted her.
Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph;
They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks
When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.
MELVIL.
May I approach her?
KENNEDY.
She will come herself.
SCENE IV.
Enter BURGOYN; two women of the chamber follow him,
weeping, and in deep mourning.
BURGOYN.
Oh, Melvil!
MELVIL.
Oh, Burgoyn!
[They embrace silently.
FIRST WOMAN (to the NURSE).
She chose to be
Alone: she wishes, at this awful moment,
For the last time, to commune with her God.
SCENE V.
Enter MARGARET CURL, bearing a golden cup of wine; she places it hastily upon the table, and leans, pale and trembling, against a chair.
MELVIL.
How, madam! What has frightened you?
KENNEDY.
Oh God!
BURGOYN.
Speak, madam!
CURL.
What, alas! have I beheld!
MELVIL.
Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!
CURL.
As I went down the staircase which conducts
To the great hall below, a door stood open;
I looked into the chamber, and I saw—
Oh heaven!
MELVIL.
What saw you?
CURL.
All the walls were hung
With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread
With sable cloth, was raised above the floor,
And in the middle of the scaffold stood
A dreadful sable block! upon it lay
A naked, polished axe:—the hall was full
Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold
Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood,
Seemed waiting for the victim!
THE WOMEN.
Gracious heaven,
Protect our queen!
MELVIL.
Be calm; the queen approaches.
SCENE VI.
Enter MARY in white and sumptuously arrayed, as for a festival: she wears hanging from her neck, on a row of small beads, an Agnus Dei; a rosary hangs from her girdle; she bears a crucifix in her hand, and a diadem of precious stones binds her hair; her large black veil is thrown back. On her entrance all present fall back on both sides with the most violent expressions of anguish. MELVIL falls involuntarily upon his knees.
MARY (with quiet majesty, looking round the whole circle).
Why these complaints? Why weep ye? Ye should rather
Rejoice with me, that now at length the end
Of my long woe approaches; that my shackles
Fall off, my prison opens, and my soul
Delighted mounts on seraph's wings, and seeks
The land of everlasting liberty.
When I was offered up to the oppression
Of my proud enemy, was forced to suffer
Ignoble taunts, and insults most unfitting
A free and sovereign queen, then was the time
To weep for me; but as an earnest friend,
Beneficent and healing death approaches.
All the indignities which I have suffered
On earth are covered by his sable wings.
The most degraded criminal's ennobled
By his last sufferings, by his final exit;
I feel again the crown upon my brows.
And dignity possess my swelling soul!
[Advancing a few steps.
How! Melvil here! My worthy sir, not so;
Arise; you rather come in time to see
The triumph of your mistress than her death.
One comfort, which I never had expected,
Is granted me, that after death my name
Will not be quite abandoned to my foes;
One friend at least, one partner of my faith,
Will be my witness in the hour of death.
Say, honest Melvil, how you fared the while
In this inhospitable, hostile land?
For since the time they tore you from my side
My fears for you have oft depressed my soul.
MELVIL.
No other evil galled me but my grief
For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.
MARY.
How fares my chamberlain, old Didier?
But sure the faithful servant long has slept
The sleep of death, for he was full of years.
MELVIL.
God hath not granted him as yet this grace;
He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.
MARY.
Oh! could I but have felt before my death,
The happiness of pressing one descendant
Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom.
But I must suffer in a foreign land,
None but my servants to bewail my fate!
Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit
My latest wishes. Bear then, sir, my blessing
To the most Christian king, my royal brother,
And the whole royal family of France.
I bless the cardinal, my honored uncle,
And also Henry Guise, my noble cousin.
I bless the holy father, the vicegerent
Of Christ on earth, who will, I trust, bless me.
I bless the King of Spain, who nobly offered
Himself as my deliverer, my avenger.
They are remembered in my will: I hope
That they will not despise, how poor soe'er
They be, the presents of a heart which loves them.
[Turning to her servants.
I have bequeathed you to my royal brother
Of France; he will protect you, he will give you
Another country, and a better home;
And if my last desire have any weight,
Stay not in England; let no haughty Briton
Glut his proud heart with your calamities,
Nor see those in the dust who once were mine.
Swear by this image of our suffering Lord
To leave this fatal land when I'm no more.
MELVIL (touching the crucifix).
I swear obedience in the name of all.
MARY.
What I, though poor and plundered, still possess,
Of which I am allowed to make disposal,
Shall be amongst you shared; for I have hope
In this at least my will may be fulfilled.
And what I wear upon my way to death
Is yours—nor envy me on this occasion
The pomp of earth upon the road to heaven.
[To the ladies of her chamber.
To you, my Alice, Gertrude, Rosamund,
I leave my pearls, my garments: you are young,
And ornament may still delight your hearts.
You, Margaret, possess the nearest claims,
To you I should be generous: for I leave you
The most unhappy woman of them all.
That I have not avenged your husband's fault
On you I hope my legacy will prove.
The worth of gold, my Hannah, charms not thee;
Nor the magnificence of precious stones:
My memory, I know, will be to thee
The dearest jewel; take this handkerchief,
I worked it for thee, in the hours of sorrow,
With my own hands, and my hot, scalding tears
Are woven in the texture:—you will bind
My eyes with this, when it is time: this last
Sad service I would wish but from my Hannah.
KENNEDY.
O Melvil! I cannot support it.
MARY.
Come,
Come all and now receive my last farewell.
[She stretches forth her hands; the WOMEN
violently weeping, fall successively at her feet,
and kiss her outstretched hand.
Margaret, farewell—my Alice, fare thee well;
Thanks, Burgoyn, for thy honest, faithful service—
Thy lips are hot, my Gertrude:—I have been
Much hated, yet have been as much beloved.
May a deserving husband bless my Gertrude,
For this warm, glowing heart is formed for love.
Bertha, thy choice is better, thou hadst rather
Become the chaste and pious bride of heaven;
Oh! haste thee to fulfil thy vows; the goods
Of earth are all deceitful; thou may'st learn
This lesson from thy queen. No more; farewell,
Farewell, farewell, my friends, farewell for ever.
[She turns suddenly from them; all but MELVIL
retire at different sides.
SCENE VII.
MARY, MELVIL.
MARY (after the others are all gone).
I have arranged all temporal concerns,
And hope to leave the world in debt to none;
Melvil, one thought alone there is which binds
My troubled soul, nor suffers it to fly
Delighted and at liberty to heaven.
MELVIL.
Disclose it to me; ease your bosom, trust
Your doubts, your sorrows, to your faithful friend.
MARY.
I see eternity's abyss before me;
Soon must I stand before the highest Judge,
And have not yet appeased the Holy One.
A priest of my religion is denied me,
And I disdain to take the sacrament,
The holy, heavenly nourishment, from priests
Of a false faith; I die in the belief
Of my own church, for that alone can save.
MELVIL.
Compose your heart; the fervent, pious wish
Is prized in heaven as high as the performance.
The might of tyrants can but bind the hands,
The heart's devotion rises free to God,
The word is dead—'tis faith which brings to life.
MARY.
The heart is not sufficient of itself;
Our faith must have some earthly pledge to ground
Its claim to the high bliss of heaven. For this
Our God became incarnate, and enclosed
Mysteriously his unseen heavenly grace
Within an outward figure of a body.
The church it is, the holy one, the high one,
Which rears for us the ladder up to heaven:—
'Tis called the Catholic Apostolic church,—
For 'tis but general faith can strengthen faith;
Where thousands worship and adore the heat
Breaks out in flame, and, borne on eagle wings,
The soul mounts upwards to the heaven of heavens.
Ah! happy they, who for the glad communion
Of pious prayer meet in the house of God!
The altar is adorned, the tapers blaze,
The bell invites, the incense soars on high;
The bishop stands enrobed, he takes the cup,
And blessing it declares the solemn mystery,
The transformation of the elements;
And the believing people fall delighted
To worship and adore the present Godhead.
Alas! I only am debarred from this;
The heavenly benediction pierces not
My prison walls: its comfort is denied me.
MELVIL.
Yes! it can pierce them—put thy trust in Him
Who is almighty—in the hand of faith,
The withered staff can send forth verdant branches
And he who from the rock called living water,
He can prepare an altar in this prison,
Can change——
[Seizing the cup, which stands upon the table.
The earthly contents of this cup
Into a substance of celestial grace.
MARY.
Melvil! Oh, yes, I understand you, Melvil!
Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament;
But the Redeemer says, "When two or three
Are in my name assembled, I am with them,"
What consecrates the priest? Say, what ordains him
To be the Lord's interpreter? a heart
Devoid of guile, and a reproachless conduct.
Well, then, though unordained, be you my priest;
To you will I confide my last confession,
And take my absolution from your lips.
MELVIL.
If then thy heart be with such zeal inflamed,
I tell thee that for thine especial comfort,
The Lord may work a miracle. Thou say'st
Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament—
Thou err'st—here is a priest—here is a God;
A God descends to thee in real presence.
[At these words he uncovers his head,
and shows a host in a golden vessel.
I am a priest—to hear thy last confession,
And to announce to thee the peace of God
Upon thy way to death. I have received
Upon my head the seven consecrations.
I bring thee, from his Holiness, this host,
Which, for thy use, himself has deigned to bless.
MARY.
Is then a heavenly happiness prepared
To cheer me on the very verge of death?
As an immortal one on golden clouds
Descends, as once the angel from on high,
Delivered the apostle from his fetters:—
He scorns all bars, he scorns the soldier's sword,
He steps undaunted through the bolted portals,
And fills the dungeon with his native glory;
Thus here the messenger of heaven appears
When every earthly champion had deceived me.
And you, my servant once, are now the servant
Of the Most High, and his immortal Word!
As before me your knees were wont to bend,
Before you humbled, now I kiss the dust.
[She sinks before him on her knees.
MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross).
Hear, Mary, Queen of Scotland:—in the name
Of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Hast thou examined carefully thy heart,
Swearest thou, art thou prepared in thy confession
To speak the truth before the God of truth?
MARY.
Before my God and thee, my heart lies open.
MELVIL.
What calls thee to the presence of the Highest?
MARY.
I humbly do acknowledge to have erred
Most grievously, I tremble to approach,
Sullied with sin, the God of purity.
MELVIL.
Declare the sin which weighs so heavily
Upon thy conscience since thy last confession.
MARY.
My heart was filled with thoughts of envious hate,
And vengeance took possession of my bosom.
I hope forgiveness of my sins from God,
Yet could I not forgive my enemy.
MELVIL.
Repentest thou of the sin? Art thou, in sooth,
Resolved to leave this world at peace with all?
MARY.
As surely as I wish the joys of heaven.
MELVIL.
What other sin hath armed thy heart against thee?
MARY.
Ah! not alone through hate; through lawless love
Have I still more abused the sovereign good.
My heart was vainly turned towards the man
Who left me in misfortune, who deceived me.
MELVIL.
Repentest thou of the sin? And hast thou turned
Thy heart, from this idolatry, to God?
MARY.
It was the hardest trial I have passed;
This last of earthly bonds is torn asunder.
MELVIL.
What other sin disturbs thy guilty conscience?
MARY.
A bloody crime, indeed of ancient date,
And long ago confessed; yet with new terrors.
It now attacks me, black and grisly steps
Across my path, and shuts the gates of heaven:
By my connivance fell the king, my husband—
I gave my hand and heart to a seducer—
By rigid penance I have made atonement;
Yet in my soul the worm is gnawing still.
MELVIL.
Has then thy heart no other accusation,
Which hath not been confessed and washed away?
MARY.
All you have heard with which my heart is charged.
MELVIL.
Think on the presence of Omniscience;
Think on the punishments with which the church
Threatens imperfect and reserved confessions
This is the sin to everlasting death,
For this is sinning 'gainst his Holy Spirit.
MARY.
So may eternal grace with victory
Crown my last contest, as I wittingly
Have nothing hid——
MELVIL.
How? Wilt thou then conceal
The crime from God for which thou art condemned?
Thou tell'st me nothing of the share thou hadst
In Babington and Parry's bloody treason:
Thou diest for this a temporal death; for this
Wilt thou, too, die the everlasting death?
MARY.
I am prepared to meet eternity;
Within the narrow limits of an hour
I shall appear before my Judge's throne.
But, I repeat it, my confession's ended.
MELVIL.
Consider well—the heart is a deceiver.
Thou hast, perhaps, with sly equivocation,
The word avoided, which would make thee guilty
Although thy will was party to the crime.
Remember, that no juggler's tricks can blind
The eye of fire which darts through every breast.
MARY.
'Tis true that I have called upon all princes
To free me from unworthy chains; yet 'tis
As true that, neither by intent or deed,
Have I attempted my oppressor's life.