University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Room in the House of Rondinelli, who enters.
Rondinelli.
Five blessed days, and not a soul but we
Knows what this house in its rich bosom holds.
The man whom dear Diana bribed to secrecy
For our sakes, is now secret for his own;
And here, our guest is taken for a kinswoman,
Fled from a wealthy but a hated suitor,
Out of no hatred, haply, to myself;
For which, as well as for her own sweet sake,
The servants love her, and will keep her close.
She holds my mother's hand, and loves her eyes;—
And yester evening she twice spake my name,
Meaning another's. Hence am I most proud,
Hence potent; hence, such bliss it is to love
With smallest thought of being loved again,
That though I know not how this heav'n on earth
Can change to one still heavenlier, nor less holy,
I am caught up, like saints in ecstacies,
Above the ground;—tread air;—see not the streets
Through which I pass, for swiftness of delight,
And hugging to my secret heart one bosom.
I live, as though the earth held but two faces,
And mine perpetually look'd on hers.
Enter Giulio.
How now, sweet Giulio? why so hush'd? our visitor
No longer sleeps by day.
(Giulio kisses his hand.)
And why this style
Of pretty reverence and zeal, as though
You came betwixt myself and some new trouble?

Giulio.
Nay, sir.

Rondinelli.
You smile, to reassure me. Well;
Yet you breathe hard, and have been flying hither,
Your pretty plumage beaten with the wind,
And look as haggard pale, as when you brought
The daybreak to us from that cage, and found
Safe-housed our bird of paradise. What is it?

Giulio.
I came, that Marco might not come. I thought,
Dear lord and master, Giulio's lips had best
Bring news of one whose face the servants know not,
Now in the hall, asking to speak with you.

Rondineli.
What face?—Who is it?

Giulio.
He saw me, and started;
And yet not angrily.

Rondinelli.
Who saw? No kinsman
Of my dear mother's guest?

Giulio.
No, sir; no kinsman.

Rondinelli.
No officer from the court, or clergy?

Giulio.
Neither.

Rondinelli.
Our mutual friends are all, this instant, with us,
Here, in the house. They, if they saw this man—
Say—would they know him?

Giulio.
Surely, sir; none better,
Or with less willingness;—though five short days
Have bow'd him down, as with a score of years;
His eye that was so proud, now seems but stretch'd
With secret haste and sore anxiety;
And what he speaks, he seems yet not to think of.

Rondinelli.
Come, let us speak his name, lest a mad chance
That 'tis not he, make me repent the cowardice.
'Tis he? the man?

Giulio.
The Signor Agolanti.

Rondinelli
(aside).
Life is struck black. Yet not so, sweetest face,
Not so. He shall not hurt a hair of thy head,
While the earth holds us.—Guess you what he knows?

Giulio.
All.

Rondinelli.
How?

Giulio.
I saw, coming from out his door,
The sexton's boy, his lowering front in smiles
For some triumphant craft; and not long afterwards
Came he, half staggering, shrouding with his cap
His haggard eyes. He bent his steps this way,
And I took wings before him, to give Marco
Speech for him should he come, and be his harbinger,
Sir, with yourself.

Rondinelli.
Best boy! my friend, and brother!
But, Giulio, say you not a word elsewhere.
You understand me?

Giulio.
Oh sir,—yes.

Rondinelli.
Bid Marco
Conduct him hither.

Giulio.
Geri and myself
May remain then? Not within hearing, sir,
But within call?

Rondinelli.
Good lad! but there's no need.
See you, that not another eye in the house
Behold him coming.—Let him be shown up.

[Exit Giulio; and after a while, enter Agolanti, looking round the room. They pause a little, and regard one another.
Agolanti.
You know why I am here?

Rondinelli.
I do.

Agolanti.
Five days—
(Aside)
Rouse thee, Agolanti. Never shook'st thou yet
At living face:—what quail'd thee, coming hither?
(To Rondinelli.)
Five days, and nothing told a husband?

Rondinelli.
Nothing!

Agolanti.
Nothing that he deem'd mortal.—But with whom
Am I thus speaking? With one honourable?
One who though lawless in his wish, was held
Scrupulous in action? of nice thought for others?

Rondinelli.
The angel who came hither, is angel still.

Agolanti.
Signor Rondinelli, respect this grief.
It respects thee, if thou art still the man
I thought thee once. A graver faith than most,
And love most loving, if its truth were known,
Did, from excess of both—But what is past,
Is past;—a gentleman is before me;—his foe,
Or one he deem'd such, at a disadvantage;
Illness, on all sides, gone;—I am here; am ready
To beg her pardon for that sore mistake,
Which for its very madness, friends, methinks,
Might haste to pardon;—and so take her home.

Rondinelli.
Your words are gentle, Signor Agolanti:—
I thank you; and would to Heav'n, what must be borne,
Were always borne so well. The thing you speak of,
Seems easy, but in truth is not so.

Agolanti.
How?

Rondinelli.
A bar has risen.

Agolanti.
A bar!

Rondinelli.
Which, to speak briefly,
Has render'd it not possible.

Agolanti.
Not possible!
(Aside.)
He said that she was “angel still.”— (To Rondinelli.)
She still
Is living?

Rondinelli.
Yes.

Agolanti.
And here?

Rondinelli.
She is so.

Agolanti.
Able
To move? recover'd?

Rondinelli.
She is still but weak,
Yet hourly gaining strength.

Agolanti.
What hinders then—
You do not speak. Tell me, what strange prevention,
What inconceivable “bar,” I think, you call'd it—

Rondinelli.
Signor Francesco, I shall distress you greatly;
And, for all sakes, as you will see too well,
Would to God any other man on earth
Had to make this disclosure.

Agolanti.
In God's name then,
What is it?

Rondinelli.
Her own consent would be required.

Agolanti.
Well?

Rondinelli.
And 'twould not be given.—She'll not return.

Agolanti.
Will not return!—How “not return?” She's well?
She's better—perhaps would wait some days—yes, yes—
Well, sir—when will she? I'll see her instantly,
And then we'll settle when. But you can tell me
At once.—Be pleased to say, sir, when you think
She'll come.

Rondinelli.
'Tis her own terrible word I speak, sir,
The night when she stood houseless at my door,
Dead to the past, alive to virtue only,
And honourable grief. She will return
Never.

Agolanti.
Never return! Ginevra Agolanti
Never return? not come to her own house?
Impossible!—Witchcraft has been here! Seduction!
Where is she? Let me see her—instantly, sir!
Would you part man and wife?

Rondinelli.
Alas! she holds them
Parted already, not by me.

Agolanti.
A wife
Has but one home, sir.

Rondinelli.
Sir, she thought so.

Agolanti.
Sir, fever and delirium would not have made
A friend unpardonable in my eyes
For having mis-beheld me.

Rondinelli.
Surely, sir:—
Yet I conceive there is a difference.
But I am not the judge.

Agolanti.
You are, sir;—I fear
You are;—I fear you have made yourself the judge, sir,
The criminal—the detainer. Why say nothing
Of her being here? Why let me find it out
From a gross boy, who has quarrell'd with his master,
And makes my shame his profit? Housed with thee too!

Rondinelli.
Nay, in the melancholy convent housed,
Soon as its doors, now hung with flowers for Rome,
Be open to admit the appeals of sorrow!

Agolanti.
Appeals of lies and crimes.—And so my wounds
Must be torn open afresh! hidden from none!
All eyes must stare upon me! I demand
To see my wife;—the lady Agolanti:—
She is detain'd here. Horrible light begins
To dawn; there has been dreadful mockery—
Conspiracy! Worse! You have dishonour'd her.

Rondinelli.
'Tis false.—Be calm. Let both be calm, nor startle
Feminine ears with words. Wait in this room,
Here, on the left, awhile;—I'll bring herself
To look upon thy speech, if it so please her;
If not, my mother, sir,—you have heard of her,—
From whom, so help me God, I never yet
Beheld her separate.

Agolanti.
I demand—

Rondinelli.
This way.

[Exeunt.