_Mar._ Not happy, thou? Woe for the world! I thought
Love was God’s perfect recipe, to drowse
All mortal stings. Yet sainted marriage hath
One threat—the loss of liberty: is’t that?
It well may fright. To have been a girl with me
So long, and make at last the outrageous stroke,
And live as do our aunts! Were’t not my brother,
I’d kill the man.
_Con._ Margaret!
_Mar._ Well mayst thou sigh:
I can sigh for thee.
_Con._ I should love to hear thee. 400
Thou owest me sighs, for mine were thoughts of thee.
_Mar._ Because I love not? Hast thou forgot already
Life may be tolerable for a woman
Without thy joy?
_Con._ You treat poor Livio
Unkindly, Margaret.
_Mar._ Now, if that’s the grief,
We have threshed it out before.
_Con._ I shall not spare you,
Till you are kinder.
_Mar._ Yet if I were kinder,
And he should build a hope upon that kindness,
Until it proved unkinder than unkindness?
_Con._ He loves you well.
_Mar._ No better than the others;
Than Ventimiglia loves, or Chiaramonte, 411
Good Michael Rosso, or the impudent Blasco,
Or my new courtier Ferdinand.
_Con._ He loves
With all his heart. Life is as tedious to him
As to the dark and dusty wheel, which jerks
Behind the dial-face, until he see you;
When for his joy you give him but disdain.
_Mar._ Thou didst not tell him thou wouldst speak for him?
_Con._ Why not?
_Mar._ Now I, Constance, have something fresh:
A mystery.
_Con._ A mystery?
_Mar._ Yes, a mystery. 420
Guess what it is.
_Con._ How should I guess?
_Mar._ Indeed,
Guessing would never wind it.
_Con._ Then, prithee, tell me.
_Mar._ I died to tell thee ere thou camest, and now
I grudge it sadly. Yet, for the fresh mount
’Twill give thy thoughts, I’ll tell. ’Twas yesternight,
Just on the stroke of one ...
_Con._ ’Tis not a ghost?
_Mar._ If after all ’twere but a ghost!
_Con._ Come, tell me.
_Mar._ Thou wilt not breathe a word?
_Con._ No, not a word.
_Mar._ Thou know’st the casement of my bedroom looks
Across the court. There as I stood last night, 430
Watching the moon awhile, ere I shut out
The sleepless splendour from my dreams, I heard
A heavy step pass down the gallery.
’Tis Manuel, I thought, who goes to lie
In the little chamber at the back,—for Philip
Had his;—but, for some strangeness in the step
Pricked my attention, and to content my thought,
I lent my ear to the sound, until it reached
The door at the end: there, standing by the window
I saw him plain: ’twas he, but in his arms 440
A woman, fainting as I thought, or dead.
Her arms hung loose, and o’er his shoulder thrown
Her head fell back.
_Con._ A woman! art thou sure?
_Mar._ He could not carry a ghost. Besides, this morning
I watched him: he took thither meat and drink,
And locked the door, and strictly bade the servants
They should not enter.
_Con._ Hast thou questioned him?
_Mar._ I have not so much as let him speak with me.
He might forbid me: and, O my curiosity,
I must know more.
_Con._ What dost thou think to learn? 450
_Mar._ I have neither guess nor hope; I lay awake
An hour, and thought of fifty things, not one
Of any likelihood. In all romance
No lady in distress ere came at midnight
To the house of the chief justice. I could wish
This beauteous maiden were a young princess
Fled o’er the seas disguised.
_Con._ Then thou couldst see
What she was like.
_Mar._ Why, no,—how could I see?
I only saw that she was dark.
_Con._ Thou saidst
That she was beautiful.
_Mar._ Of course she is young 460
And beautiful. Why,—you are not jealous, Constance?
_Con._ Not jealous, no.
_Mar._ And the only pity of it
Is that she’ll prove in the end a poor relation
Fall’n to our care, or some more hapless girl
Left on the doorstep dying.
_Con._ In such case,
What were the need of secrecy?
_Mar._ I wish
I had never told thee aught. Why shouldst thou fancy
Impossibilities?
_Con._ What is impossible?
_Mar._ I fear now that the sight of thy old love,
Philip the false, hath turned thy happier trust. 470
Thou’rt changed.
_Con._ Nay, nay: I am not: and yet ’tis true
His coming is my trouble. [_Weeps._
_Mar._ Forgive me, sweetest.
_Con._ Margaret, you know I have none at all but you
To unfold my heart to: only you can tell
What I must feel at his return: you know
How far I loved, how much I was deceived.
His oaths of faith you heard from me, and shared
The joy of my delusion: and at last,
When he deserted me, you made your heart
The prison of my sorrows: you exhorted,— 480
O, you advised me well,—Be sure, you said,
Love that so breaks cannot be trusted more.
You bade me cast it off like an ill dream.
You found what life he led: how he profaned
His honourable passion in the play
Of errant gallantries. All that sad time
I leaned on you, and ’twas your friendship gave
The occasions whence my love with Manuel sprung.
You led me still, you gave me confidence;
Your comfort turned to joy, Manuel was mine. 490
When suddenly on some mysterious cause
He holds aloof: my joy is bid await.
O, Margaret, if you understood love’s joy,
How closely ’tis inwoven with fear to lose,
You would not wonder that I tremble, seeing
This shadow blot my sunshine, that my fear
Discolours every circumstance. To me
The common course of things on which men count
Is the only miracle, all chances else
As they are feared are likely. O, do not blame me.
Philip is like an evil spirit beside me 501
That stands to smile on what I dread to think.
_Mar._ Philip being false can give no cause to doubt
Of Manuel’s faith.
_Con._ I doubt him not: and yet
If I speak of my brother you only laugh,
But if you speak of yours ...
_Mar._ Round, round again.
Betwixt our brothers grant some difference.
Thy Livio is a boy of slender parts,
Led by his passions. Manuel is a man
Austere and stern; he is above suspicion. 510
_Con._ I do not doubt his truth, but find such sternness
Unkind to love. My brother’s love for you
Is simple: Manuel’s love hath some reserve;
A veil, behind which, since I have never seen,
I have dreamed or feared a terror lay: ofttimes
When I have been with him, a pleasant hour
Has ended suddenly, as if his spirit
Was angered, and withdrew: then in his eyes
Is nothing left but barren contemplation,
To which I am an object as another; 520
Until he sighs, as conscious of the change.
The disappointment of our marriage brings
Scarce a regret to him: I heard him speak
Late to my father of it, as ’twere a thing
He held indifferently. There is some secret
Which I would know: maybe this is a clue.
_Mar._ What is the clue?
_Con._ This lady.
_Mar._ O, thou’rt sick.
But I can cure thee, wilt thou do my bidding.
_Con._ What would you bid?
_Mar._ Give rein to jealousy,
Ay, spur it on to falling. Fear the worst, 530
Believe the worst. Thou shalt suspect my brother;
He trifles, loves this lady: choose your tale:
Thou wilt not doubt again.
_Con._ I do not doubt him.
Nay, I will bid him tell me all.
_Mar._ And so
Betray thy doubt to him. Be wiser, madam!
Look to thy cure: indulge thy jealousy:
To which end I encourage it. Indeed,
I am come to think there’s cause, and thy suspicion
Hath much enhanced my mystery. Go thou home:
There make thyself unhappy. I meanwhile 540
Will root this out, and since I am housekeeper
I can go where I will.
_Con._ I pray thee, Margaret ...
_Mar._ I must be jealous where my brother is wronged.
Thou art the accuser, and the evidence
Tells now for thee: ’tis my part to acquit us.
Hinder me not.
_Con._ When wilt thou know?
_Mar._ Maybe
’Tis as thou fearest.
_Con._ Wilt thou mock me so?
_Mar._ I bid thee go. Be sure I’ll come to thee,
Or send thee word.
_Con._ But when?
_Mar._ I make no promise.
I cannot pity thee, and till thou goest 550
I can do nothing.
_Con._ Promise me to send.
_Mar._ I have promised that. Farewell!
_Con._ To-day?
_Mar._ To-day.
Trust me, I go at once. [_Exeunt._