University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—An Inn near Florence.
Enter Inez.
Inez.
Not for much longer shall concealment mask
My hopes, my fate,—the end draws near at length,
And my high vengeance shall be crowned and finished!—
At times I fear I have carried it too far,—
Beyond the prudence that should guide our course,
But yet methinks it can but end in good—
A generous vengeance—and a guiltless triumph—
Needs must I watch what passeth, anxiously—
Philippa doth inform me that her Son
(Who came in secret yesternight to see her,)
Assures her day by day Alphonzo seems
More utterly absorbed in this deep love
For fair Costanza—'tis as I would have it—
She is a being, faultless e'en as far
As mortal can be in this dubious world—
A rose of beauty—and a star of honour!—
Stay!—did not good Philippa something hint
Of strange discovery she had lately made?—
I scarce know why my heart—of late so buoyant—
My winged heart sunk—down—down ev'n while she spake,
Till I avoided questioning her more closely;—
Yet I will do so!—What! who waits?—Philippa!—
Enter Philippa.
Thou spak'st, Philippa, of discovery strange,
Which thou by chance hadst made! what was't, good nurse?—

Phi.
No less than this—and I could stake my soul
That I am not mistaken—not at fault—
Thou know'st, dear Mistress, that my son Rodriquez
Came late yestre'en to see me;—I returned
With him to Florence, lengthening thus the time
Of our glad meeting—'tis a dear good boy!
Now, when we neared the town, we met o' the sudden,
Two mounted, mettled, fair-garbed Cavalieri—
And never credit me again, nor think
Mine old head yet contains two likely eyes,
If one was not the young Count Alessandro—
The noble heir of Andrea Lambertazzi!—

Inez.
Thou dream'st!—so many years have wheeledand vanished
On their swift rounds since thou beheld'st the boy—
He must be now so changed—

Phi.
Aye! Mistress!—true!—
But like all children lost or stolen methinks,
Had Providence ta'en care to place a mark—
A most conspicuous one upon his person.
On his right cheek a dark peculiar mole—
Forth jutting—of a crescent shape is seen—
So oft have I remarked it in past days,
Its shape, position, prominence, and colouring,
That I feel sure my shrewd conjecture's right!—

Inez.
To none disclose—I pray you—your discovery—
Let none of these suspicions be imparted!—
For ever buried in your breast retain
This secret I implore you!—

Phi.
Troth! I will—
By St. Iago!—I can see no reason
For publishing such secrets to the world!—
My Son informed me that the youth was rich—

Inez.
Thou didst not tell thy Son?—

Phi.
Not I—i' faith!—
Why should I?—well! the youth hath got a name—
A house and noble fortune for his own—
And wherefore should he change himself and be
Another man?—no! no!—let well alone!—

Inez.
Right—right, good nurse!— (Aside.)
'Tis so beyond a doubt!—
I did suspect it!—now 'tis clear as day—
All circumstance corroborative confirms it!—
All proof conclusive stamps it down for truth!—
The Sforza in repentance for his crime—
(Yet kept by shame and long-enduring hate
From doing ample justice to the sufferer)—
Left all his wealth unto the kidnapped victim!—
(Aloud.)
Philippa! find the worthy Priest, and send him
Straight to my presence—I would ask his counsel!—
[Exit Philippa.
'Tis so!—'tis so!—and I must do this wrong—
Even for the sake of one supremely dear,
And shroud this secret in my silent bosom!

Enter Jeronymo.
Jero.
Thou sendedst for me, my Daughter,—I am here!—

Inez.
Aye! Father!—still for thee—for thee I send
When aught perplexes,—aught disturbs my peace—
And well I may! thou Friend of Friends!—

Jero.
Disclose
What now disturbs thee.

Inez.
(Aside.)
Shall I tell him? no!—
At once would he undoubting point my path—
The path of duty and the righteous course—
And I dare make not now the sacrifice—
Heaven pardon me!— (Aloud.)
I fear, oh! reverend Father!
Lest Andrea's rightful heir should yet be found—
My mind misgives me,—think you that Count Sforza,
When he restored my Son—(made known to him
By good Philippa!)—sent the other child
To distant lands, or kept him near his person?—

Jero.
In truth, I nothing can divine of this;—
But, noble Lady—why should this disturb thee?—
Thou shouldst not grieve if that poor youth was found—
But rather far, rejoice that Heaven should thus
Make manifest its power and gracious will,
In rendering to the oppressed one, back, his rights,
And taking part with the Innocent and the Injured!—
Let no weak fancied interests bar from this—
From this strict feeling of straightforward duty—
No narrow hopes built up on dubious grounds!—
Too much we strive to stand alone—and singly
Would reap that Happiness—a thing to share—
A thing for fellowship—or nothing!—Think—
As well on thy sole shoulders to support
The general work and business of the World—
Unaided by the means and minds of others,—
As wear thy Happiness within thy Soul,
In unassociated close singleness!—
Or ev'n i' the narrowness of nearest ties—
Some few receiving, and excluding myriads!—
Large liberal thoughts must make us, what we are,
But live not up to—and scarce seem to be—
A part of All, that breathes!—Be sure—most sure,
That Happiness is like some mighty Feast!—
Partake with others—or thy Feast is failure!—
It is a Public Banquet—Heaven-ordained!—

Inez.
(aside.)
My Conscience prompts me, but my heart forbids!—
(Aloud.)
Father! thy late long watchings—self-denial—
Thy zealous offices by death-bed sides,
Have much reduced and weakened thee—thou art changed—
I pray thee take more leisure for repose!—

Jero.
Nay! Daughter!—Duty's labours are delight—
I need no rest!—

Inez.
Thine altered mien reminds me
Of that eventful time, when I was called
To thy sick couch—thy deathbed, as 'twas thought!—
To hear the secret then divulged to me!—

Jero.
And I well think, my Daughter! from that hour—
I gradually amended—throwing off
The leprous burthen that oppressed my Soul,
And seemed to rack my frame as well,—as though
Immedicable its sharp sickness were,
While yet that spirit-malady remained!—
Thank Heaven!—the whole extent of that black crime
Was spared my shuddering conscience—what was done—
Enough distracted it, and agonized!—

Inez.
Thou wert the Father made of my new Life!—
Oh! ne'er shall I forget the o'erwhelming joy
Which rose e'en like a Sun, from Misery's midnight!—
I felt created o'er again that moment!—
Shame, like a poisoned garment, had clung round me—
The festering infamy had wrung my feelings—
And maddening self-reproach and self-abhorrence,
Had shut my Life in, on one hideous thought!—
Oh! never Prisoner from his gyves released—
(Though years had bedded these, and driven them deep
Into his curdling flesh,) led forth to gaze
Once more on Heaven and earth, and all their pomps—
Their mysteries of great beauty, and their triumphs—
(Profusion of enchantments!—and to him
Then seeming miracles of that Hour's making!)—
So gloryingly took gladness to his Soul—
As I—that heard thy tidings with such depth—
Such awe of happiness—as changed my nature!—
From that deep hour, I was another being!—
(The happiness indeed was of that kind
Which brings a solemn mood, and not a mirthful.)
I had been ever, both in joy and sorrow—
A child of impulse—an elastic being—
Ruled by the unfixed complexion of the moment!—
But after that great shock of solemn gladness—
My thoughts took shapes at once, when they arose,
Within my mind, which they retained for ever,
As though Life's roots had deepened, and its shoots
Had hardened—strengthened—from that sovereign hour!—
Thenceforward!—Oh!—thenceforward all appeared
Of moment—all of meaning to my Soul!—
No more with shifting hues the hours past by—
Nor shifting shadows—nor scarce-'stablished forms—
All was as though it was for everlasting!—
Oh! Father!—thou wert, as it were, the Parent
Of this—my Soul's new life!—

Jero.
And thou, dear Daughter!—
The kind Preserver of my Mortal One—
From that same hour thou ne'er relaxed'st thine efforts—
Ne'er paused in thy kind offices of help—
The gentlest nurse that ever sufferer had—
The enfeebled spark of life by thy mild breath
Was blown—and blown, once more into a flame,
And still it shall be consecrate to thee,
And thy best weal for evermore!—Now say!—
Hast guarded well, with care that they require,
Those papers I committed to thy hands?—
Detailing all the circumstance attending
That dark conspiracy 'gainst trusting Virtue—
And how, when entering on the eleventh hour,
Compunctious tremblings spoke the awakening conscience—
And checked performance of the deed designed—
(Though still pretended to be carried through)—
Hast guarded well the scroll?—

Inez.
With strictest care
The papers are preserved, like life-dear treasure!—
No more!—I must be gone!—I must to Florence!—
Wilt wend, kind Father! thitherwards with me?

Jero.
Right willingly, if such may be thy wish!—

Enter Philippa with a letter.
Phi.
For you, these sealed communications, Madam.
[Exit Philippa.

Inez.
(reads; starts.)
While I possess myself of the contents
Of this brief letter, prithee wait awhile,
But some short minutes, in th' adjoining room,
Where, Father, I will join thee speedily.
[Exit Jeronymo.
The scheme is good—myself will countenance it!—
I like this scheme!—a private marriage!—aye!—
Then will I break the seal of secrecy—
Present the united children to their sire—
Reveal the wild and wonderous secrets all—
(All, all, save one,) and wake o'erwhelming marvel—
Till all lies hushed in utter Happiness!—

[Exit.