University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A retired part of the wood: Barbadeca and Jacquelina.
Jacq.
It helps us either way:—best, if they wed;
For then Demetria's hope lies desolate,
And she becomes more ductile to your will.
If not, the tale deceives them; when she 's seized,
It seems elopement, and averts our peril.

Barb.
How does she bear it?

Jacq.
Why, as martyrs, fire.—
Speed, speed, or truth will out. Her swollen eye
And ashy cheek cannot be long unnoticed.
He, too, will melt: this angry gust o'erblown,
The natural current of his soul will set,
And sweep our schemes to nothing. Love of this sort
Is not a hasty flame lighted by fancy,
That blazes and expires. It grew with him
From early days; hope wore its hues; its tints
Are over all his retrospect; it lives
Essential with the spark of life, and death
May fail to quench it.

Barb.
When, and where,
Can we best take her?

Jacq.
Close upon the river,
Just where it turns the point of Belvederé,
Stands a pavilion, like a summer-house,
Crowned with a little spiral pinnacle—

Barb.
I know the place.

Jacq.
That is the surest, safest.—
It was their haunt, when, in their love's first bloom,
They used to steal away together. When he
Betook him to the wars, I 've heard them say
She almost made it her abode; seemed ever
Happiest when planting round it flowers; and there,
When the untroubled moon was in the Arno,
And all was dew and fragrance, oft retired,
In tender reverie, or with her lute
Recalling favorite airs of Cosmo.—Ah!
To sever hearts so knit seems heinous. Signor,
I'm taking that upon me for your sake—

Barb.
Does she frequent there still?

Jacq.
O, constantly:—
You may descry her from the farther bank.
Station your horsemen there, and dart across,
With one or two staunch followers, in a skiff.

Barb.
What hour were surest?

Jacq.
Woods have echoes, mind.—
Loup-garou may be prowling:—you best know
The peril 's in his fang.

Barb.
No more of that.
He feels me in his vitals now, and shall
In his best blood, if Fate again confront us.—
But will his jealous frenzy drive the fool
To wedlock?

Jacq.
Not if he take time to cool.
But while the transport lasts, if he address
Olivia or his uncle, he 's committed.
Then pride will force him on, consistent pride,
The stumbling-stone of honorable asses.

Barb.
Hell catch him, if he fall.

Jacq.
And keep him!—
Or, some day, you and I may rue these pranks.
No matter:—let future ills physic themselves.—
And so, my lord,—more to the present purpose,—
I think I 've been herein your humble handmaid.

Barb.
My plotter, executor, head, hand, all!
Think not thy zeal misprized, my pretty witch,
Got by the Devil, or else by Machiavelli.
There 's for thee.

(Gives her a purse.)
Jacq.
Thanks, my lord Marquis, thanks.—'T is now a year
And some odd months, since I, at your entreaty,
Left Florence, and a wealthy service.—Is it not?

Barb.
Why, thereabouts.

Jacq.
I fastened on this house, and here have toiled
For your advancement. Have I not?

Barb.
Thou look'st
Like a green widow, screwing up thy mouth
Less than a purse-ring.

Jacq.
In my zeal to serve you,
I 've wronged my conscience, taken grievous things
To my account. I scarcely dare look back.

Barb.
What! cant!—Thou? thou?

Jacq.
You smile. But I 've a soul,—
A precious soul,—and, well thou know'st, deep guilt
To be assoiled.

Barb.
Spare your preamble, holy lady Abbess,
And to the point.

Jacq.
Well then, my gracious lord,
You may remember, on a certain day,
You being downcast with your hopeless suit,
I cheered you;—counselled so and so; revived
Your spirits,—smoothed your difficulties,—
Till hope and resolution chased despair.
You took a solemn oath upon you then,
An oath most binding, if through me you ever
Attained the mastery of that froward beauty,
You would endow me with a seat you owned,
With some small lands about it, on the Ombrone.

Barb.
Ha! ha! I thought the circuit would end land-wise.
So, being conscience-laden, you 'd forswear
This wicked, wicked world, and in your snug
House on the Ombrone negotiate with Heaven?

Jacq.
If it be not too late.

Barb.
Well, when she 's won.

Jacq.
(producing a paper and an ink-horn.)
Just say that much herein.

Barb.
Thou faithless jade!

Jacq.
'T is but to sign.—You know the proverb, Signor.

Barb.
(looks over the paper, signs, and returns it.)
Art satisfied?—Now say—at what fixed hour
Shall we attempt her?

Jacq.
If the sky be fair,
Just as the ruddy evening streaks are fading,
The place I 've named is her accustomed seat:
Night, and the moon, will favor after. Now,
My lord, if all be answered, and if all
Be understood, we best had separate.

Barb.
Farewell, my girl. All 's settled, as I think.

Jacq.
How long before you venture her in Florence?

Barb.
When all her scruples vanish; when she smiles,
And treats me as a husband, and will swear
Not to betray me.

Jacq.
Bind her strongly there.—
Farewell! be watchful, and be resolute.

Barb.
When do you quit them?

Jacq.
O, I cannot tell:
Not till the tumult 's over. So, adieu!
(Exit Barbadeca.)
Not till our compact 's sure.—If Cosmo wed her
I have her—sealed; and by the vengeful gods
I pin her to the bond, or that divulge,
Shall sink her lower than her eyes dare look.
All hail the day, invoked, deferred so long!
Freed from the abject lot imposed upon me
By faithless, perjured man,—enriched,—revenged,—
I'll shrive, do penance,—peradventure deck
Some shrine, and feed the holy candlesticks,
Till virgin wax hath cancelled virgin shame.

(Exit.)