Untitled

SCENE changes to the court before the Castle of VELEZ.

MARIA and her FOSTER-MOTHER.

Maria. And when I heard that you desired to see me, I thought your business was to tell me of him.

Foster-Mother. I never saw the Moor, whom you describe.

Maria. 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly As mine and Albert's common foster-mother.

Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet lady, As often as I think of those dear times When you two little ones would stand at eve, On each side of my chair, and make me learn All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you, 'Tis more like heaven to come, that what has been!

Maria. O my dear mother! this strange man has left me Wilder'd with wilder fancies than yon moon Breeds in the love-sick maid--who gazes at it Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye She gazes idly! But that entrance, mother!

Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Maria. No one.

Foster-Mother. My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni. Angels rest his soul! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost. And so the babe grew up a pretty boy. A pretty boy, but most unteachable-- And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself. And all the autumn 'twas his only play To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water on the stumps of trees. A friar who gather'd simples in the wood, A grey-hair'd man--he loved this little boy, The boy loved him--and, when the friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen; and from that time Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle. So he became a very learned youth. But O! poor wretch--he read, and read, and read, Till his brain turn'd--and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things. And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place. But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him, And once as by the north side of the chapel They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse, The earth heav'd under them with such a groan, That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fall'n Right on their heads. My lord was sorely frighten'd; A fever seiz'd him; and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd And cast into that hole. My husband's father Sobb'd like a child--it almost broke his heart. And once as he was working in the cellar, He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, Who sung a doleful song about green fields, How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah To hunt for food, and be a naked man, And wander up and down at liberty. He always doted on the youth, and now His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I described: And the young man escaped.

Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a list'ning child to sleep, His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears. And what became of him?

Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard With those bold voyagers, who made discovery Of golden lands; Leoni's younger brother Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain, He told Leoni that the poor mad youth, Soon after they arrived in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat, And all alone set sail by silent moonlight, Up a great river, great as any sea, And ne'er was heard of more; but 'tis supposed He liv'd and died among the savage men.

Enter VELEZ.

Velez. Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you.

Maria. O Christ! the tortures that hang o'er his head, If ye betray him to these holy brethren!

Velez (with a kind of sneer). A portly man, and eloquent, and tender! In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim.

Maria. The horror of their ghastly punishments Doth so o'ertop the height of sympathy, That I should feel too little for mine enemy-- Ah! far too little--if 'twere possible, I could feel more, even tho' my child or husband Were doom'd to suffer them! That such things are----

Velez. Hush! thoughtless woman!

Maria. Nay--it wakes within me More than a woman's spirit.

Velez (angrily). No more of this-- I can endure no more.

Foster-Mother. My honour'd master! Lord Albert used to talk so.

Maria. Yes! my mother! These are my Albert's lessons, and I con them With more delight than, in my fondest hour, I bend me o'er his portrait.

Velez (to the Foster-Mother). My good woman, You may retire. [Exit the FOSTER-MOTHER.

Velez. We have mourn'd for Albert. Have I no living son?

Maria. Speak not of him! That low imposture--my heart sickens at it, If it be madness, must I wed a madman? And if not madness, there is mystery, And guilt doth lurk behind it!

Valdez. Is this well?

Maria. Yes! it is truth. Saw you his countenance? How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear, Displac'd each other with swift interchanges? If this were all assumed, as you believe, He must needs be a most consummate actor; And hath so vast a power to deceive me, I never could be safe. And why assume The semblance of such execrable feelings?

Velez. Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle An old man's passion! Was it not enough That thou hast made my son a restless man, Banish'd his health and half-unhinged his reason, But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion, And toil to blast his honour? I am old-- A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay Beneath my roof!

[FRANCESCO enters and stands listening.

Velez. Repent and marry him-- Or to the convent.

Francesco (muttering). Good! good! very good!

Maria. Nay, grant me some small pittance of my fortune, And I will live a solitary woman, Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons May be my household.

Francesco (advancing). I abhor a listener; But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you. I pray, my lord! will you embolden me To ask you why this lady doth prefer To live in lonely sort, without a friend Or fit companion?

Velez. Bid her answer you.

Maria. Nature will be my friend and fit companion.

[Turns off from them.

O Albert! Albert! that they could return, Those blessed days, that imitated heaven! When we two wont to walk at evening-tide; When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard The voice of that Almighty One, who lov'd us, In every gale that breath'd, and wave that murmur'd! O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief, And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.

Francesco. But in the convent, lady, you would have Such aids as might preserve you from perdition. There you might dwell.

Maria. With tame and credulous faith, Mad melancholy, antic merriment, Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs! O God! it is a horrid thing to know That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads Had once a mind, which might have given her wings Such as the angels wear!

Francesco (stifling his rage). Where is your son, my lord?

Velez. I have not seen him, father, since he left you.

Francesco. His lordship's generous nature hath deceiv'd him! That Ferdinand (or if not he his wife) I have fresh evidence--are infidels. We are not safe until they are rooted out.

Maria. Thou man, who call'st thyself the minister Of Him whose law was love unutterable! Why is thy soul so parch'd with cruelty, That still thou thirstest for thy brother's blood?

Velez (rapidly). Father! I have long suspected it--her brain-- Heed it not, father!

Francesco. Nay--but I must heed it.

Maria. Thou miserable man! I fear thee not, Nor prize a life which soon may weary me. Bear witness, Heav'n! I neither scorn nor hate him-- But O! 'tis wearisome to mourn for evils, Still mourn, and have no power to remedy! [Exit MARIA.

Francesco. My lord! I shall presume to wait on you To-morrow early.

Velez. Be it so, good father! [Exit FRANCESCO.

Velez (alone). I do want solace, but not such as thine! The moon is high in heaven, and my eyes ache, But not with sleep. Well--it is ever so. A child, a child is born! and the fond heart Dances! and yet the childless are most happy.