University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—An Apartment in a Palace at Rome, richly decorated.
EVA AND FLORA.
Flora.
How often, gentlest cousin! hast thou said
That thou wouldst trust the history of thy love,—
Now crowned with happiness,—to my true ear!
I pray thee to fulfil that promise now.
Thou knowest apart from thee and thine I lived,
'Mid mine own native hills, in Scotland's clime;
Till hearing of my wan and sickly state,
Thou kindly didst invite me to this clime
Of golden summer's breath, to come with thee.—
Gladly accepted I thine offer; thus
Following thy flowery fortunes!—and behold
I drink in health and strength with every breeze,
That whispers hope, and reassurance, here,
Baffled consumption has ta'en wing and flown
Back to her clouds and vapours—and—I live!

Eva.
How much do I rejoice, mine own sweet friend,
That thus it hath been mine to minister
To thy recovery. When I look on thee
I love my lord's bright Italy the more,
That its sweet airs have medicined thee so well,
And call'd back to thy cheek the banished rose.
And wills't thou, that to thee I should unfold
The story of my love, from its first birth
Until it bloomed in blushing pride full blown?
Thou'rt daring, dearest cousin! for, in sooth,
Love joys to hang on its own history,
And grows full garrulous whene'er it meets
With fostering kind encouragement. Methinks
'Twere best proceed at once upon my tale.
—On mine own happy England's distant shores,
Three years ago, my father's noble friend,
Montgomery's Earl, entreated us to pass
Some months at his most hospitable house.
My father, who had scarcely left his home
Since my lost mother's long-mourned death—and since
A crowd of dark misfortunes clouded o'er
His life's horizon—gave at last consent.
We went there—and there met Montalba:—first,
He loved me—I believed—and I loved him!
Yet though his aspect and his actions showed
Entire devotion—deep attachment's truth—
No formal declaration made he then;
Yet ever and anon, with troubled air,
Breathed vows of everlasting faith and love.—
But to be brief—without imparting aught
That could elucidate his 'haviour strange
To me—unhappiest!—he departed thence,
And sought his sunny Italy once more.
Then passed a year interminably long,
With six most miserable months:—the while
I writhed in all the torments of suspense
Till mine habitual movement grew a start—
And mine habitual breathing seemed a sigh!—
Suffice it, he returned.—Straight sought me, soon
Demanded and received thine Eva's hand.
Since then—a year, how golden and how short!
Flew—lightened by, with pleasures plumed and loves—
And some few months—

Flora.
What means that altered tone?—
That hesitating accent faultering low?—
Nay!—give me all thy soul! I pray thee speak;
Shut not thy lips upon thy half-told tale.
Something unspoken weighs upon thy heart—
These last few months?—have they less golden been,—
Less bright—less happy?—

Eva.
Hush! too loud thou speak'st;
But since—oh! Flora! art thou blind indeed?
Hast not thyself remarked a heavy change
In my beloved Montalba? Hast not seen
How wild, at times, his manner and his speech,
And always struggling as with some deep woe?
Though I have seen—and seen with sharper pain,
A riot of unnatural mirth break out,
E'en on the sudden, from his sterner mood—
The flash of funeral torches o'er the gloom!

Flora.
I own I have observed his altered mien,
And restlessness, and gloomier air of late;
But then—thou know'st I have not dwelt in Rome
For long;—and when I first arrived he seemed
Most variable and strange of mood—to me;—
I knew not he had e'er been otherwise!

Eva.
Ah, yes!—but day by day, I saddening mark
The increase and the inroads of that restlessness!
His noble brow is ploughed with deep'ning lines;
His eye is wild and hollow—evermore
His varying manner doth distract my soul:
Perpetual alternation—hour by hour—
Perplexing inconsistencies appear
To baffle and to mock my pondering thought.

Flora.
And hast thou not indeed the slightest clue
To his disturbing conduct's ravelled maze?
Can'st guess no cause?

Eva
(agitatedly.)
Perchance—yet hardly—yes—
I have some faint suspicions of the source
Whence rise his deep dejection and distress;—
Or ere we met he had affianced been
To a most lovely maid, of noblest birth—
In his own native Florence. It should seem
That love for me, which overtook his soul
With stealthy, soft encroachment, was to her
The unworthiest treason of inconstancy.—
Both being then in the opening bloom of youth,
'Twas deemed advisable the espousals should
Be for brief while delayed—and 'twas arranged
The count should travel in this interval.
Thus did he visit various distant lands—
Then came to our sweet island, as I said,
And there his heart, too, play'd the truant's part!—
When he rejoined her, that first love return'd,
And they were at the altar pledged to meet;
When death, a ghastly rival, forced her hence,
And spun the sackcloth of despair and fate
From the torn tissue of the marriage robes.—
He mourned her heavily—in lonely gloom,
In solitude unbroken—till his health
Slow breaking seemed beneath that sorrow's weight—
Then strenuously advised was change of scene,
Of clime, and air, to soothe him back to life.
He came once more to England—and we met,
As I have told thee, yet once more!—and so—
We parted not again!—

Flora.
But yet—'tis strange.
Why should his grief return upon him thus,
Once calmed and comforted, and won to peace;
Nay more—to happiness? Say what can mean
This flow and overflow of bitterness,
After the apparent ebb—for evermore?
This second harvest of the tares of tears,
And weeds of heaviest, worst—heart-widowhood?

Eva.
Alack! I know not—shall I whisper thee?
'Tis a most fearful surmise! black as fate!
And my soul rose within me when 'twas breathed,
To shake it off as some envenomed snake;—
That thought lies fathomlessly deep in tears!—
The worst, the unshed ones!—for I dare not weep;—
I must not give it way, like grief indulged!—

Flo.
Speak on! What mean'st thou?—Say! what canst thou mean?

Eva.
It hath been whispered in my shrinking ear—
That whisper, like the Archangel's trump, appear'd
To shake this solid steadfast globe for me:—
That that most dreadful curse which can crush down
Immortal man to the worm's level, e'en
Insanity—is in Montalba's blood!

Flo.
Horror of horrors!—still not rashly judge.
Who did suggest to thee this hideous clue?

Eva.
That fair Venetian countess whom thou know'st—
Giacinta—long my husband's trusted friend.

Flo.
Giacinta!—Was she long thy husband's friend?
It may appear unjust—ungenerous, but—
I do mislike her strangely!—there is that
In the fierce flash of her resplendent eye,
Which doth betoken—what, I know not well;
But something that seems cloaked in careful wiles,
And specious studied cunning.—

Eva.
Oh! not so;
Thou art indeed unjust, ungenerous now—
Accuse her of aught else! I well believe
That lies not in her power; whate'er her will—
She could not e'en deceive us if she would,
Her brow is such an index to her soul!
Ofttimes I think I see and know her thoughts
Ere she herself may know them; they do rush
In such deep crimsoning currents, full and free,
O'er her clear aspect, that concealment seems
Of all things most impossible for her!
So swiftly, too, the emotions come and go,
She scarce hath time to cool them—or to school.

Flo.
It may be so—but howsoe'er it be,
Let not a loose conjecture warp thy mind,
Or influence thy judgment.

Eva.
Oh, no! no!—
Think'st thou I could believe this and yet breathe!
Think'st thou I could support this thought and smile!—
I do not give it credence!

Flo.
Have a care—
Methought but now I heard Montalba's voice;
And, lo!—his step:—'twere best I left thee now.
Seek him, and probe his hidden wound of woe.—

Eva.
If I could gain but courage so to do!

[Exeunt different ways.