University of Virginia Library

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.
Rom.
No footstep yet: all's still: 'tis past endurance.
So late! the first night, too, of my return!
Is it the tardiness of cold aversion?
'Tis 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 quiv'ring cheek, too well betraying
His inward triumph: 'twas 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?

Serv.
My lord, it is not yet our hour of rest.

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

Serv.
I do believe scarce half an hour has past
Since I did light your honour from the hall.

Rom.
Peace! thou art fool or knave, I know not which.
I've pass'd since then two hours as truly told
As sun on dial moves.—Why shrinkst thou back?

Serv.
I hear my lady coming.

Rom.
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.
The tardy, slow unwillingness, and all
Thy strange demeanour of this day, too well
Speak that which e'en 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?

Zor.
You frighten me, Romiero, as I reckon
'Tis little past our usual hour of rest.

Rom.
Thou dost evade the question. Not the time;—
Where hast thou been?

Zor.
Have patience—O have patience!
Where I have been I have done thee no wrong:
Let that suffice thee.

Rom.
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.

Zor.
Then woe is me! Since wives must be so perfect,
Why didst thou wed Zorada de Modinez?

Rom.
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.

Zor.
Yes, yes! I loved thee once, I love thee now,
And will for ever love thee, dear Romiero,
If thou wilt suffer me.

Rom.
Suffer thee, dear Zorada! it is paradise
To think thou lovest me, hell to doubt of it.

Zor.
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 foundst to be untrue?

Rom.
Thou never didst.

Zor.
Then why suspect me now?

Rom.
Give me thy dear, 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!

Zor.
(returning).
What, my lord?

Rom.
Forget not, lore,
That soothing ointment of such efficacy.

Zor.
For what, I pray?

Rom.
Didst thou not wrench thy foot?

Zor.
O, not at all.

Rom.
Didst thou not say thou hadst?

Zor.
O that was but a feint to cheat Don Maurice.

Rom.
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.

Zor.
Indeed, indeed you err; my heedless words—

Rom.
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 playfellows
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,
While 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 foundst 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 chillness of the midnight wind;
I cannot rest beneath this hateful roof.

[Exit.