_A Chamber in Ridolfi's House._
_HERMIONE, sitting at a Table._
HERMIONE.
Two years agone--this self-same chamber--
Just as 'twas wont;--that ebony casket--still
Yon little crucifix hung o'er the mirror,--
That plaited riband, on its flower-carved pillars,
I wore in sport for love's fair guerdon;
Its chequer'd noose I vow'd to cast on him
Who caught me first in some wild reckless game
Of wanton mirth; but none, as I remember,
The adventure gain'd,--it hangs unclaimed still.
But why this heaviness?--as if some secret,
Some long-forgotten grief, waked from its slumber,
Roused at the voice of these loud recollections.
Ah! dread dissembler! once I thought thee dead,
And thou but slept! Away! haunt not my spirit!
Is it thy form, fell demon? Hence!--thy strength
Is nurtured but with present loneliness,
And on the wings of some reviving thought
Admittance hast thou gain'd to mock me.
[_Knocking without._
Who knocks?--
BLANCH.
'Tis time, lady, you adorn for the guests. The Duke sends word he will
attend, and with it his gracious love to Hermione. This billet greets
you with his welcome.
HERMIONE.
A billet!--Welcome!--Stay.
Thou shalt attire me in some simple garb,
Some unassuming robe; its modest hue
Unnoticed, I can there observe
The humours of this feast.
BLANCH.
Your crimson bodice, lady, becomes you best, and your lilac kerchief
with the blue purfle----or do you choose your orange tiffany dress, and
your coif and farthingale?
HERMIONE.
Neither, good Blanch. Where is mine old spotted robe, with the silk
sleeves and violet-flowered stomacher?
BLANCH.
Lady, what unlucky accident should bethink you of the garment? I fear
your memory is but indifferently served. Once, my kind mistress, you
gave it to me: and I remember well I said the dress was too gay, when
straight you replied, with a sigh (and I do always grieve to hear you
sigh, lady), "Take it, good Blanch; I wear it not again:" which I the
more marvelled at, being, as you remember, made up for your last visit
to Mantua, nor did you inquire for it, after you left this gay city; but
methinks none other serves you so well for this same soft-air'd clime. I
will away for it speedily, right glad, I trow, the roguish pedler hath
not fetched it, who gathers the cast-off dresses from your house. I have
not worn the apparel, lady.
HERMIONE.
Thou art a kind-hearted gossip. Choose thee the best suit from my
clothes-press, and take it for the exchange.--Nay, good Blanch, I allow
not thy gainsay:--it will, peradventure, help thee to a husband.
BLANCH.
I will but keep it then, my sweet mistress, to answer at your bidding;
mayhap, you will fancy it on your wedding-day.
HERMIONE.
I shall need no garment then, but the one thy grandmother wore when she
scared thy father in the forest.
BLANCH.
Save you, my lady! mean you her winding-sheet?
HERMIONE.
I mean mine own, Blanch; hers being worn out, belike, ere now, with much
travel.
BLANCH.
Oh, mercy!--but you are ever at a jest.
HERMIONE.
Nay, girl, my spirits are too heavy.
BLANCH.
What mean you, fair mistress? I do fear me a few hours of this Mantuan
air have wrought untowardly with you. Are you ill, lady?
HERMIONE.
No, girl.
BLANCH.
It is a secret that disturbs you?
HERMIONE.
Thou canst sing, Blanch?--
BLANCH.
Ay, sweet lady, that can I,--and your favourite carol too. List.
[_Sings._
"The miller was blithe in the red, red morn.
And he sung ere the lark left her nest;
His heart was bright as the gold, gold light
That comes o'er the dappled east."
HERMIONE.
Nay, that sorts not with my humour, Blanch.
BLANCH.
Shall I try the merry troll you were always right glad to hear, which
the old steward taught us?
"Roundabout, roundabout, laugh and glee
So merry, so merry--"
HERMIONE.
Stay:--not now:--some other song, and we'll in to the toilet: let it be
brief--I know not why,--save that I think thy singing hath not now such
a jocund and mirthful spirit in it.
BLANCH.
Ah, lady!--but strange purposes are i' the wind when the mirth-giving
Hermione becometh a lover of lamentable ditties!--Stay, shall it be of
love?--a sleepy tale of love, as you were wont to call it?--I know a
ballad of this hue.
HERMIONE.
I care not: another, it may be, would have chimed better. Yet, I'll hear
thee as a babbler of strange stories.
BLANCH (_sings_).
"Up with the light,
My maiden bright,
The thrush twitters on the tree;
Each merry, merry bird to his mate doth call,
And the bridal waits for thee!
"The sunbeams pass On the dew-spread grass, And gold gleams are in the
sky; The morn's balmy breeze to thy casement hies, And thy bridegoom is
waiting for thee."
The lover spake, "Fair maid, awake," Yet the maiden still she slept!
"Why tarries she from me?--thy bonny face I'll see," And lightly to her
window he leapt.
One cry he gave, Then still as the grave In dim horror he fix'd his dark
eye; For there his lady bright slept her long, long changeless night,
And a blood-sprinkled corpse welter'd nigh!
BLANCH.
How like you the song?
HERMIONE.
Indifferent well;--methinks it were too sad. But sadness and I must have
closer fellowship ere long, or I mistake the note of her approach. Away,
Blanch; we must not delay the honours of the feast. [_Exeunt._