Dramas (Baillie)/Romiero/Act 3

by Joanna Baillie

ACT III.

SCENE I.—An outer Room in the Apartments of Zorada, with a wide Door opening in the Bottom of the Stage, which shows a magnificent Bedchamber, where Romiero is discovered walking to and fro in a distracted manner; he then rushes hastily from it to the Front of the Stage, and bends his ear to listen.

ROMIERO.

No footstep yet: all 's still: 't is past endurance.

So late! the first night, too, of my return!

Is it the tardiness of cold aversion?
'T is more than that; some damned conference
Elsewhere detains her. Ay, that airy fool
Wore at the supper-board a conscious look,
Glancing in concert with the half-check'd smile
That moved his quivering cheek, too well betraying
His inward triumph: 't was a cursed smile;
I would have cast my javelin at his throat,
But shame withheld me.—She the while did sit
With pensive fearful eye, that always fell,
Beneath my keen inquiring look, reproved.
Is virtue thus demure, restrain'd, mysterious?
She, too, who was as cheerful as the light,
Courting the notice of my looks! no, no!
Some blasting change is here. What can be done?
For something must be done. (A pause and listening.)Ho there without!
Who walks at this late hour?—A heavy step;
Have they their emissaries on the watch
To give them notice of my movements? Ho!
Ho there without!

Enter Servant.

What dost thou up? Why art thou not abed?

SERVANT.

My Lord, it is not yet our hour of rest.

ROMIERO.

Thou liest! 'Tis late; 'tis past the midnight watch.

SERVANT.

I do believe scarce half an hour has past

Since I did light your Honour from the hall.

ROMIERO.

Peace! thou art fool or knave, I know not which.

I've passed since then two hours as truly told
As sun on dial moves.—Why shrink'st thou back?

SERVANT.

I hear my lady coming.

ROMIERO.

Coming at last! Haste! leave me; go thy ways.

[Exit Servant.
(Putting out a lamp which stands on a side table.)
Out light! The partial gleam from yonder door
Will, as she enters, fall upon her strongly;
I'll stand aside, and mark her face unseen.

Enter Zorada, who stops short to wipe tears from her eyes, &c., as if preparing herself to appear composed; whilst Romiero, in the shade, after eyeing her suspiciously, bursts suddenly upon her.

Have done with all this smoothing of thy features,

And look as sad and rueful as thou wilt.

Thy tardy, slow unwillingness, and all
The strange demeanour of this day, too well
Speak that which ev'n the smiles of Hebe's cheek,
Hadst thou more female art such smiles to copy,
Could not gainsay.—Where hast thou been so long?
Wilt thou not answer me?

ZORADA.

You frighten me, Romiero, as I reckon

'T is little past our usual hour of rest.

ROMIERO.

Thou dost evade the question. Not the time;—

Where hast thou been?

ZORADA.

Have patience—O have patience!

Where I have been I have done thee no wrong:
Let that suffice thee.

ROMIERO.

Ha! thou 'rt quick, methinks,

To apprehend suspicion. Done no wrong!
What call'st thou wrong? Yea, by that sacred band
Which linketh soul to soul in wedded love,
Pure, fervent, and confiding,—every thought,
Fancy, and consciousness, that from thy husband,
Unfitting for his ear, must be withheld,
Is wrong to him, and is disgrace to thee.

ZORADA.

Then woe is me! Since wives must be so perfect,

Why didst thou wed Zorada de Modinez?

ROMIERO.

Dost thou upbraid me for it? Then too well

I see the change.—Yes, I will call it change,
For I must still believe thou lovedst me once.

ZORADA.

Yes, yes! I loved thee once, I love thee now,

And will for ever love thee, dear Romiero,
If thou wilt suffer me.

ROMIERO.

Suffer thee, dear Zorada! It is paradise

To think thou lovest me, hell to doubt of it.

ZORADA.

Then doubt it not. If I am cold and sad,

I have a cause,—I must repeat my words,—
Which does to thee no wrong. Some few days hence
Thou shalt know all, and thou wilt pity me.
Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundest to be untrue?

ROMIERO.

Thou never didst.

ZORADA.

Then why suspect me now?

ROMIERO.

Give me thy clear, dear hand, my own sweet wife!

Yes, I will trust thee, and do thou the while
Think charitably of my stern rebuke.
Love can be stern as well as tender, yet
Be all the while most true and fervent love.
But go to rest, dear child, and I will follow thee;

For it indeed is late. (Stands musing as she retires, then turning suddenly.)

Zorada!

ZORADA (returning)

What, my Lord?

ROMIERO.

Forget not, Love,

That soothing ointment of such efficacy.

ZORADA.

For what, I pray?

ROMIERO.

Didst thou not wrench thy foot?

ZORADA.

O, not at all.

ROMIERO.

Didst thou not say thou hadst?

ZORADA.

O that was but a feint to cheat Don Maurice.

ROMIERO.

To cheat him! wherefore cheat him? for what end?

Was it a time for childish freaks like that?
And the deep colour crimsoning thy cheek—
What does it say?—Go to! thou needst not speak.

ZORADA.

Indeed, indeed you err; my heedless words——

ROMIERO.

Were very, very heedless.—Go to bed;

Go, go! my hour of rest is distant still.
Linger not here, I say; retire to rest„
[Exit Zorada into the chamber.
(After musing some time.) I do not think her wicked, but there lurks
Within her fancy vain and dangerous things.
Those striplings,—those light, beardless play-fellows!
The devil himself hath not an imp more subtle
Than one of these.—They laugh, and mock, and mimic,
And cast upon the lovely face of virtue
The gloomy veil of cloister'd melancholy,
Whilst vice is all so gay and deftly trick'd,
That who can choose but range them on her side?
To break down every sacred tie, what is it?
'Tis but a merry trick!——
Ay, she was wary, too, in her expressions:
"Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundest to be untrue."—Equivocation,

A half-corrupted woman's poor device.

(Muses and mutters to himself a few moments longer, and then paces up and down with slow irresolute steps.)

——A half corrupted woman!

If it be come to this, who shall restrain
The hateful progress, which as rapidly——
Restrain it! No! to hell's profoundest pit
Let it conduct her, if she hath so far
Debased her once pure mind, and injured me.
I dare not think on 't, yet I am compell'd;
And at the very thought a raging fire
Burns in my head, my heart, through every vein
Of this distracted frame. I'll to the ramparts,
And meet the chilness of the midnight wind;
I cannot rest beneath this hateful roof. [Exit.

SCENE II.

An old Gothic Gallery, with Doors leading to different Apartments.

Enter Jerome, carrying a light, and followed by Don Maurice.

MAURICE.

I am the first at our appointed place,

Which is beseeming in affairs of love.
I hope, meantime, she is upon the way.
List, dost thou hear a step?

JEROME.

My ears are not so quick.

MAURICE.

Am I again deceived? and hear'st thou nothing?

JEROME.

I hear the swallows stirring in their nests,

Disturbed with sudden light. Such creatures build
In ev'ry crevice of those mouldering arches.

MAURICE.

Did'st thou not tell me these adjoining chambers

Are all untenanted, and no one near us.

JEROME (pointing).

Yes, all are empty but that further room,

In which Don Guzman chooses to abide,
That from its lofty windows he may see
A more extensive prospect.

MAURICE.

Would he were at the utmost verge of all

That may be thence survey'd!—I like it not:
He is a dangerous neighbour.

JEROME.

But he is tired and gone, ere this, to rest:

You need not fear to be disturb'd by him.

MAURICE.

I hear a footstep now: she comes, she comes!

O she is good and punctual to my wish!
Do thou retire, good Jerome.

Enter Beatrice attended, and Jerome with her Female Attendant keep on the background, while Maurice, running eagerly to her, leads her nearer the front.
 
My charming Beatrice! may I indeed
Believe that thou art here? that thou vouchsafest
To come with thoughts of favour for thy slave?

BEATRICE.

Perhaps I do but dream I am so bold.

It is so strange,—my mind is so bewilder'd!

MAURICE.

And why bewilder'd, Love? There's nought to fear.

BEATRICE.

I've heard sounds of alarm, and seen faint forms,

That seem'd to follow me, and yet were nothing.
I thought the very stones of the old walls
Did call my name and know me as I pass'd.

MAURICE.

Fear nothing, Love: this place is unfrequented:

Swallows or bats may whisper of our meeting,
But naught besides.—Oh! how I have desired
To tell thee all my heart; on bended knee
To plead my cause!—My fate is in thy hands;
And since thou hast such pity of my pain
As thus to listen to me, may I hope
Thou wilt be better still?

BEATRICE.

Go not so fast: perhaps I am but come

To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message.

MAURICE.

And if thou dost, I'll bear it all so meekly,

That thou wilt say within thy cunning self,
"This man, in truth, is made to be a husband."

BEATRICE.

It were no cunning but a foolish self

Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant
Would laugh most certainly within himself,
On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion
Joined to the noted name of gay Don Maurice.

MAURICE.

Nay, do not twit me now with all the freaks,

And levities, and gambols charged upon me
By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood.
I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious
As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt,
And all the while as blithe o' heart as he.
I have as many fashions and demeanours,
As mantles in a lady's wardrobe; choose,—
I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return
Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours.

BEATRICE.

I hear a noise.

MAURICE.

Only the wind that moves yon creaking door.

Step farther this way. (Leading her to the opposite side of the Stage, near the door of Guzman's chamber.)

The time is precious, my most charming mistress!

Let me speak plainly in few words. Thou know'st
How much I fear Romiero's apt suspicion.
Delay were dangerous: therefore by the dawn,
In the dark grove of pines, meet me, prepared
To quit with me the castle, and for life
To share my lot. Deny me not: time presses;
O let me urge thee!—As for life I plead.

BEATRICE (after a pause).

What can I say?—I feel I should not say it.

And yet I feel thou dost not plead in vain.

MAURICE.

Thou 'lt meet me then,—do not retract thy words.

There is no time for slow deliberation.
Thou 'lt meet me by the dawn?

BEATRICE.

Yes; I will meet thee in the grove of pines.

Enter at the bottom of the Stage a Servant, who whispers to Jerome, and then retires, upon which Jerome advances hastily to Maurice.

MAURICE.

What is the matter?

JEROME.

Romiero is not yet in bed. A spy

Who stood on watch without has given me notice.
He wanders through the house like one possess'd,
And may at last invade your privacy.

MAURICE.

He is not yet so near us. We shall hear him

Ere he approach.

JEROME.

His motions oft are sudden.

BEATRICE.

Retire, retire! I'll meet thee by the dawn;

So, till that time, adieu.[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Don Guzman's Chamber, who is discovered sleeping in his Chair.

Enter Romiero.

ROMIERO.

Not yet abed! Ay, but he is asleep.

Happy unwedded! Thou canst soundly sleep;
Nor woman's fickleness, nor woman's guilt,
Can bring disgrace or agony to thee.

I'll not disturb him. (After remaining for a while on the front of the Stage musing and muttering to himself, he speaks, but in a low voice.)

The heart, the heart! What prize we but the heart! (Mutters again, then breaks out in loud and vehement utterance.)

No; though his lips had never touch'd her hand,

If that be lost, I'm wretched!

GUZMAN (waking).

What sound is that? Who's there? Ha! thou, my friend!

ROMIERO.

What has so startled thee?

GUZMAN.

The voice that woke me.

Thou must have heard it; 't was a human voice.

ROMIERO.

It was mine own, Don Guzman.

GUZMAN.

What has befallen? Why wert thou so alarmed?

Or was it some sharp pang of bodily pain?

ROMIERO.

No, no! it was not that; and I am here

Only to share thy chamber for the night.

GUZMAN.

And why? I am amazed.

ROMIERO.

I've paced o'er ramparts, halls, and galleries,

Till I have need of rest.

GUZMAN.

And thou would'st find it here? What strange caprice

Debars thee from the fair Zorada's chamber;
That place which gives the rest of paradise?

ROMIERO.

Ah! so it did to me. It was a pleasure

Where every lovely—every sweetest thing
In seeming shelter, bloom'd i' th' early sun,
Till the first sultry breath of southern winds
Blasted its freshness, leaving naught behind
But tainted fragrance—sered and faded flowers.
It was the magic palace of a dream,
Changed in an instant to some dismal den:
It was a bower of healthful innocence,
Changed to a lazar's vile and loathly ward:
It was———Oh, oh! I know not what I say,
Thinking of what I was and what I am.

GUZMAN.

Nay; give thy ruffled thoughts a little pause;

Be well assured things are not as thou fear'st.
She did appear so good.

ROMIERO.

Alas! she did.

If I but droop'd or looked a little pale,
The stroke of her soft hand, her kindly words,
Her sweet breath on my cheek,—O! it did turn
The hour of pain to bliss!—And all this happiness
Was but delusion—but a hov'ring vapour
That covers for a while the fenny pool.

GUZMAN.

No, say not so! Is it not far more likely

That the delusion rests with thee, my friend?

ROMIERO (After musing, and without heeding what Guzman has said).

Ay, if I did but droop, her look of sympathy

Went to my soul. Or if I parted from her,
Though only for a week—a day——

GUZMAN.

Cease, cease!

Be well assured it is not as thou fear'st.
Try to compose thyself: what are thy proofs
That she has been unfaithful?

ROMIERO.

No; what a worldly judge would deem unfaithful

I trust she has not been; but what avails it?
He whom her fancy follows, he who pleases
Her secret thoughts and wishes, is her Lord,
Let who will, by the power of legal right,
Her body hold in thraldom.—Not unfaithful!
If I have lost her heart, I've suffer'd all.

No further outrage can enhance my wretchedness. (Turning quickly and taking hold of him.)

But thou believest that, ev'n in this, my fears

Are mere extravagance. (Pausing and looking earnestly in his face.)

Dost thou not think so? Dost thou not, Don Guzman?

GUZMAN.

I hope they are.

ROMIERO.

That hope implies a doubt;

Ay, and a doubt which, when I saw thee last,
Did not exist. Speak, speak! If thou mistrust her,
It is on no slight grounds.

GUZMAN.

Be more composed, and I will tell thee all.

ROMIERO.

There's something then to tell; some damned thing.

GUZMAN.

Nay, think not so; for, when I've told thee all,

'Twill make no certain proof against Zorada.
And since thou think'st her love for thee is changed,
Caring but for her love, thou may'st the better
Endure to learn the worst, if such should follow.

ROMIERO (in a faint voice).

I understand thee.

GUZMAN.

Two hours since, perhaps,—

I've been asleep, and cannot say how long——
But pause we now. Thy quiv'ring lips are white,
Thine eyes are fix'd: lean upon me, my friend.

ROMIERO.

A sickly faintness passes o'er my heart.

GUZMAN (supporting him to the chair).

Lean here a while; thou canst not hear me yet.

ROMIERO.

I'm better now.

GUZMAN.

But we will pause a while.

ROMIERO.

Proceed, proceed! I'll listen, though thy words

Were each the spiked tooth of a martyr's wheel.
Proceed:—Some two hours since———

GUZMAN.

Some two hours since, as, not disposed to sleep,

I was perusing that old book of stories,
I heard, and, as I judged, close to the door,
Two persons speaking in the gallery.
The voice of Maurice I could recognise,
The other was a woman's.

ROMIERO (starting from the chair).

And Zorada's.

GUZMAN.

Use not such frantic gestures of despair;

I say not it was her's: perhaps it was not;
Perhaps 't was Donna Beatrice.

ROMIERO.

No, no!

It was Zorada. Absent from her chamber

I found her at that time. When she returned,
At a late hour, we had some wrangling words,
Glozed o'er, but poorly glozed, with female fraud,
Which soon betray'd itself, and then I left her.

GUZMAN.

'Tis very strange; and what I heard them say——

ROMIERO.

Ay, ay! proceed with that; and make no pause

Till thou hast told the whole, though it should make me
A very fiend of agony and shame.

GUZMAN.

Thou graspest my throat so hard, I cannot speak.

ROMIERO.

Well, well, then! Out with all their damned words,

Till they have proved the blackest tint of guilt,
And then will come the fatal end of all;
The sabre clutch' d in strength; the stroke of vengeance;
The horrible joy, that lasteth for a moment!
Let all this be; let horror be unstinted!
Let every misery light upon the head
Of that most wanton——No, the word would choke me;
I will not utter it.

GUZMAN.

Thou art beside thy wits; thou canst not hear me.

The words they spoke, prove against her nor no one
An act of guilt, but only the intent.

ROMIERO.

Intent! O monstrous! foul deliberation!

If life blood warm his heart another day,
I am bereft, debased, and brutified.
Unmeet to wear the outward form of manhood.

GUZMAN.

Wilt thou not hear my story?

ROMIERO.

I have heard it,

Knowing the cursed purport; ne'ertheless.
Tell it all, as minutely as thou wilt,
I'll listen to the end.

GUZMAN.

I drew close to the door, and heard these words

Distinctly spoken in Don Maurice's voice:—
"Thou knowest I fear Romiero's apt suspicion;
"Delay were dang'rous; therefore, by the dawn,
"Meet me beneath the grove of pines, prepared
"To quit the castle. We will fly together:"—
Or words to this effect, which indistinctly
Fell into softer whispers, till, alarm'd,
As I suppose, they left the gallery.
'T was my intent to give thee early notice;

Therefore I shunn'd that tempting couch, and sought
Here, in my chair, to snatch a little sleep,
And be in readiness ere break of day.

ROMIERO.

Thou hast done well. (After a pause.)

Come to this pitch of secret profligacy,
Who was so modest and so timid once!
Was I a tyrant, that she is so ready
To doff the virtuous and respected wife—
For the base mistress of that minion too?
Some spell, some devilish witchery, hath subdued her,
Ere it could come to this.

GUZMAN.

Ay, so I think, if that in verity

It be Zorada.

ROMIERO.

O 't is she! 't is she!

Think'st thou I am a fool to be deceived
By such affected doubts, in pity utter'd?
Speak truly, plainly, treat me as a man.
Call them—yea call that woman, an' thou wilt,—

GUZMAN.

Fy, fy! Zorada is not yet a——

ROMIERO (putting his hand on the lips of Guzman).

Hold!

Speak not the word; I'm weaker than I thought.
Is it not near the dawn?

GUZMAN.

I think 'tis distant still.

ROMIERO.

Surely it is not.

We'll to the eastern turret, and look forth:
Should they escape!—My brain burns at the thought.
[Exeunt.

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