_Style of ornaments and hangings very simple. Virginia, bending
over her nurse, who is seated in a chair, appears to have just
completed the arrangement of the latter's hair._
_Virg._ Nay, now, let be! 'Tis most becoming so.
What! would'st thou call't presumptious to assume
The style of headdress worn by noble ladies?
Foolish Camilla! Thou art nobler far
Than many score fine dames, however high
They hold their heads or wear their tresses--so!
Oh, 'tis entrancing! Stay, I have not done.
_Camilla_ (_groaning in mock despair_). Alack! was
ever nurse so harried by
A maid as silly and as sweet as thou!
_Virg._ No, never! for I'm sweet because I've kissed
Thy kind old cheek so oft and have imbibed
Therefrom the sweetness only found in thee.
And I am silly--I suppose, because
The gods have made me so. Now, turn about
Thy head. How white thy hair of late hath grown!
_Camilla._ Alack! mine age is on me!
_Virg._ (_passionately caressing her_). Nay, not so!
Or if 'tis so, I love each silver thread.
Kiss me, Camilla--but I must proceed
With this thy toilet. Now is it complete.
Oh, Jupiter! it is a work of art!
Sweet nurse, thou wilt amaze my father when
He catches sight of thee. [_Seizes a mirror._
Come, view thyself.
'Tis not ill-done, for I have marked the style.
Shake not thy head at me, I prithee now.
I only sport with thee. Look not so grave.
_Camilla._ Sweet one, because thou art so gay to-day,
I fear to-morrow thou wilt be in tears.
Excess of spirits bears excess of grief.
Thou'rt young and fair as Hero; but to her
Misfortune came and loss and heavy woe!
_Virg._ Now, thou remindest me of Wisdom's owl--
Croak not so somberly. Thou who art one
Whose heart is ever genial with mirth,
Wrong'st Nature to cast shadows over youth.
_Camilla_ (_drawing Virginia to her tenderly_). My little love,
I would not seem to sigh;
Ever have I despised a sorry face,
A gloomy or foreboding disposition.
Thou hast most aptly said that I to-day
Belie my character. Forgive! Forget!
_Virg._ (_pouting_). Forget, thou croaking raven of despair?
Thou dost expect too much. I may forgive,
But not forget. What ailest thee to-day?
Art thou not ill or weary with thy tasks?
We'll make thy labor lighter, and thy cares
As to the household now shall rest on me.
_Camilla._ Not so, sweet child. There is no need for that.
I am not ill nor weary, nay, nor sad,
But fearful and in dread of hidden woe.
What may the morrow bring to thee, my babe,
Or to thy father, or thy lover? What,
I can not see, but only feel and dread.
_Virg._ Camilla! Something surely ails thee now.
Oh! I am mystified and overcome
By thy prophetic words, thy drear address,
And I would probe thy meaning deeply, lest
A vision should have warned thee of a flood
Of coming tribulation. Gentle nurse,
Hast visited of late the oracle?
Speak! Speak to me! Speak to Virginia! Say!
Tell me, nor torture me upon the rack
Of fear and dread prolonged.
_Camilla_ (_slowly_). If it were aught
That I might put to thee or e'en myself
In syllables, I'd speak. But syllables
Are clumsy things. Words are inanimate,
Dull, helpless weapons, powerless unless
The thoughts are present skillfully to wield
The blades. Then cut and thrust they mightily,
Ready to wound, or e'en with menace kill.
I know not what I fear. I know not why
Nor wherefore. Has the gift of second-sight
Been by the gods this day on me bestowed? [_A pause._
I seem to see great sorrow brought about
By shameless wrong; I seem to see a cloud,
Laden with anguish which may soon descend
In burning drops on Rome, where'er I turn.
Who are the victims I can not discover,
But when I close mine eyes from out the black
That blinds them, lo! a knife like lightning sent
By Jove flashes upon me--and is gone!
_Virg._ (_sobbing_). Alas! My joy is fled and all is gloom.
Sure 'tis some peril scowling o'er my father.
Mayhap e'en now he lieth in the camp,
Struck down by men who envy him his fame!
Oh! horrid thought! most dread, most cruel thought!
_Camilla_ (_arousing herself with effort_). Nay, weep not, my
Virginia; I regret
Those vague emotions which are doubtless false
Deceiving dreams, sent me by Mercury,
Who oft delights in filling mortal minds
With gray forebodings, as thou art aware.
Quick! Kiss me, child, and dry those silly tears.
Lo! now methinks I hear thy father's step.
_Virg._ (_joyously_). Father! mine own dear father!
(_Voice of Virginius without._) Little one!
No welcome at the door?
[_Virginia runs to the curtained doorway, through which her
father enters, and flings her arms in tearful ecstasy around his
neck._
_Virginius._ What! tears, dear heart?
_Virg._ But smiles will clear them soon. I feared for thee--
Most foolishly, yet ne'ertheless, I feared.
_Virginius._ Most foolishly, indeed, my dark-haired Psyche,
Thou pure-embodied soul, my spirit's light.
Look up, dear child, and kiss thy father fond.
He's wearied and he needs his heart's restorer.
[_The two come forward, he in his shining armor, she nestling
birdlike in the shelter of his arm._
My daughter, I have seen Icilius.
_Virg._ Ah! Father!
_Virginius_ (_mockingly_). "Ah! Father!" Ay, I saw him. Me he held
Firmly, besieging me with queries, all
Concerning thee. How had Virginia fared
While he was absent?--the presumptious boy!
Couldst thou fare otherwise than well with me?
And then with eager eyes he questioned as
To thy remarks, thy thoughts concerning him,
Thy attitude to things in general.
Where did Virginia spend her days? In school?
Was she by chance affrighted at the state
Of Rome since he had left her? Like unto
A feverish flame, he reached on every side,
Hungry for news of his Virginia.
_Virg._ (_dreamily_). My Love! My Love! Mine own Icilius!
Oh! gentle gods, my happiness exceeds
My worth. But yet, amen! So let it be. [_Exeunt._