University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An antique chamber: the walls tapestried: on one side of the bed, a picture of the Countess Amerigo:— by the light of a lamp standing on a table before a mirror, Demetria seen walking the room with a disordered mien.
Dem.
Married!—To-morrow!—Cosmo and Olivia!
Do not my senses pass some horrid juggle?
Some slight of darkness but to lure my doom?—
Hush!—Shadows seem to flit around me.—Oh!
To-morrow!—my sister's wedding day!—O, where,
Where, where, shall I be?—
(Walks distractedly up and down: at last, stops before her mother's picture, bursting into tears.)
O, mother! mother! why art thou not here?—
In vain are all thy cautions,—vain thy counsels!—
O! had I listened,—had I but believed thee!
Oft hast thou warned, prophetically warned me.—
Thy worst forebodings all have come upon me!—
Why, why, art thou not here?—O, could I pour
My anguish in thy bosom!—Could thy voice
But once more greet me! I'm alone:—I 've none
To comfort me. Now, when my cry ascends,
Thou canst not hear! O, wert thou here,—couldst thou
But clasp me!—

Enter Bianca.
Bian.
Who 's here?—Signora,—my sweet child—
What! is it you that sob so bitterly?
Be comforted: do not weep so.

Dem.
Leave me.

Bian.
Alone, in this dusk chamber? No indeed.
It overcomes me too: it brings to mind
Sorrowful times. When my dear lady died,
Just so it looked,—heart-breaking to us all.
Alack! alack! she, too, poor suffering soul,
Although she smiles so sweet in yonder picture,
Had griefs you little dream of.

Dem.
What mean'st thou?

Bian.
I know what ails thee, though thou speakest not.
I read it all. Thy face has been my book
Too long, sweet child.—My lady, too, was crossed.

Dem.
My mother?

Bian.
Oft at her bed's foot have I spent
The weary watches, while her swelling heart
Discharged its burthen.

Dem.
Heavens!—I never heard—
Tell me, Bianca,—crossed?

Bian.
In love, Signora.
Thou never heard'st it—no, nor any other.
'T was known, indeed, the Marquis broke a love troth,
But I alone was privy to the matter.

Dem.
Tell me, Bianca,—how was this? It seems
Most strange.

Bian.
When just seventeen, she went to Naples,
Where the Marchesa lived, her father's sister.
The Marquis dwelt, you know, at Tivoli,
A Roman born, and stern as Marcus Cato.—
Three months she lingered. Well, soon afterwards
A handsome Gascon chevalier came to us,
Tall, graceful, handsomer by far than Cosmo.
His looks betrayed his business; and her eyes
Spake too intelligibly. One and all
Imagined we must part with our loved mistress,
Not dreaming that her father would oppose her.

Dem.
Did he, Bianca?

Bian.
Don't look so wild, and speak so passionate.—
Next morning they were closeted, and brief work
He made of it. If she took Count Démétrée
(His name), he swore she forfeited for ever
His presence, heart, and dying benediction.

Dem.
O! my poor mother, how must this
Have fallen on thee!

Bian.
Being called in haste,
I found my lady swooned, the Marquis wroth,
The stranger gone.

Dem.
Why was this cruelty?

Bian.
Because the Marquis loathed a Huguenot.

Dem.
Inhuman!

Bian.
All that day, my lady kept
Fainting, and, as it were, 'twixt life and death.
The next night she dismissed me to my rest;
But waking, and afraid she lacked, I softly
Stole to her chamber. Think of my amazement!—
Her bed was empty,—the balcony open!
It jutted o'er the garden, and I heard
Murmurs like plaintive voices. Looking out,
I saw them. Then, indeed, I lent an ear:—
I feared her flight: the slant moon showed it midnight:
The snort and stamp of horses made me think
All things were ready; (so indeed they were;)
But filial duty triumphed. O! their parting!—
At first he urged her, but at last consoled.
In fine, they bade adieu, to meet no more.

Dem.
And did they never?

Bian.
Ere a year,
He fell in Flanders.

Dem.
Luckless, luckless mother!
Whom hadst thou then to comfort thee?

Bian.
No soul. She knew no comfort. Life
Wore on, without complaint, but never gladdened.
At last, I told her what I saw; and then
She gave me all her story.

Dem.
Ah!—
Methinks I hear her!—O, how looked she?—Say,
Bianca,—give to me her very tones.

Bian.
Meek, patient; striving still to cheer the Marquis;
Who fell, at last, into a melancholy.

Dem.
Now, now, I know why clouds came over thee
As often as we questioned of thy youth.
Well mightst thou warn me,—feelingly couldst thou
Enlarge on such a theme.

Bian.
Time blunted sorrow;
But never was my lady what she had been
In her May morning.

Dem.
Yet a seraph smile
Plays yonder round her lip.

Bian.
Yourself, Signora,
A tiny, blue-eyed thing lay in my arms,
Brimful of glee, reaching your little hands
As if to tempt her. 'T is at you she smiles.

Dem.
(going towards the picture.)
Was it on me?—did I draw forth that smile?—
Ah! why not told ere this?—That I had known
Thy story, too! Couldst thou so sweetly smile?
Couldst thou seem happy, and shall I complain?
Just Heaven, forgive my wild designs. I'll suffer:—
I'll bear it all:—though sorrows overwhelm me,
I'll never murmur for her angel sake.

Bian.
(Falling on her knees, and clasping Demetria's feet.)
O, now I'm happy,—blest and happy,—
Ah! my sweet child, I heard thy bitter wail;
I heard thy dreadful menaces. Praise Jesu!
Thou hast abandoned them. Though judgments fall
With weight upon thee, threat not life. My child,
Self-murder is a sin unpardonable:
No rite, mass, sacrament, nothing can reach it!
Think! Should she stretch from bliss in vain to save
A suicidal outcast—

Dem.
Stop! stop!—O, speak not thus!—'T is dreadful!—Heaven
Forgive the impious thought!—I'll bear it.—Rise.
But O! I hope the trial will not last!
When, when, may I lie down in peace?

Bian.
Be cheered,
Sweet lady; strength will be vouchsafed ye.

Dem.
No,—
But is it settled? Will it be to-morrow?

Bian.
I fear.

Dem.
What says she? Has she asked to see me?

Bian.
No, Signora.

Dem.
Cruel, cruel sister!
I would not so have marred thy peace, to gain
A world.

Bian.
Kin are not kind, in this we live in—
One would imagine.—But they 're both a tiptoe.—
Malicious serpent!—Mark my words—that slut
Hath scorpions at her conscience. Late last night
Crossing the upper corridor, there came
A moan as from her chamber; stopping by it,
I heard her muttering in her sleep a jargon—
The horridest jumble ever put together—about
Some funeral, or marriage ceremony.
O, yes, I'm certain something damning weighs
Upon her. “Quick,” she cried, “the nuptial pall!
Call in the music!—screw the lid!—Foh! foh!”
She named that Barbadeca twice, and whispered,
“Be secret, secret, secret,—but no blood.”
And then she 'd groan. I could not make her drift;
But am resolved to watch again to-night.
Pernicious viper! now she 's with Olivia
Fingering the bridal ornaments—

Dem.
Bianca! Oh! Bianca!—

Bian.
Take heart, Signora.

Dem.
Would I were in my grave.

Bian.
Something is wrong.—
Look at him, if his woe-gone face be lit
With nuptial smiles. He locks himself apart,
Or roams about, as restless as a ghost;
Trust me, he loves thee still, and some vile wretch
(That imp—who knows?) has some how slandered thee.

Dem.
It cannot be.

Bian.
I 'd risk my life 't is so.
What else can so have changed him?

Dem.
No—O no.
Whom have I injured? What could she say of me?

Bian.
Thou fanciest every breast as pure as thine.
Let me expostulate with him, and know
If some false tale—

Dem.
(vehemently.)
I charge thee, no—no, as thou lovest me.—What!
Degrade myself to that?—Sue for his pity?—
Seek to reclaim a fickle lover?—Never!
I charge thee as my peace—my life is dear,
Never to do it. Promise—swear to me.

Bian.
Be calm, be calm, Signora; I'll obey thee.

Dem.
If he can harbour slanderous tales against me,
He ne'er shall know his error, till too late.
But when my aching heart 's at rest for ever—
Then,—if he finds he wronged me,—let him come
And weep his hard suspicions where I lie.

Bian.
(taking the lamp and Demetria's arm.)
Come, lady, let us leave this gloomy chamber:—
Yon grisly heathen in the tapestry
Scowl on us;—verily they daunt me:—come.

(Leads her out.)