# Dramas (Baillie)/Romiero/Act 3

ACT III.
SCENE I.—An outer Room in the Apartments of Zorada, with a wide Door opening in the Bottom of the Stage, which shows a magnificent Bedchamber, where Romiero is discovered walking to and fro in a distracted manner; he then rushes hastily from it to the Front of the Stage, and bends his ear to listen.
ROMIERO.
So late! the first night, too, of my return!
Is it the tardiness of cold aversion?
'T is more than that; some damned conference
Elsewhere detains her. Ay, that airy fool
Wore at the supper-board a conscious look,
Glancing in concert with the half-check'd smile
That moved his quivering cheek, too well betraying
His inward triumph: 't was a cursed smile;
I would have cast my javelin at his throat,
But shame withheld me.—She the while did sit
With pensive fearful eye, that always fell,
Beneath my keen inquiring look, reproved.
Is virtue thus demure, restrain'd, mysterious?
She, too, who was as cheerful as the light,
Courting the notice of my looks! no, no!
Some blasting change is here. What can be done?
For something must be done. (A pause and listening.)Ho there without!
Who walks at this late hour?—A heavy step;
Have they their emissaries on the watch
To give them notice of my movements? Ho!
Ho there without!
Enter Servant.
SERVANT.
ROMIERO.
SERVANT.
Since I did light your Honour from the hall.
ROMIERO.
I've passed since then two hours as truly told
As sun on dial moves.—Why shrink'st thou back?
SERVANT.
ROMIERO.
[Exit Servant.
(Putting out a lamp which stands on a side table.)
Out light! The partial gleam from yonder door
Will, as she enters, fall upon her strongly;
I'll stand aside, and mark her face unseen.
Enter Zorada, who stops short to wipe tears from her eyes, &c., as if preparing herself to appear composed; whilst Romiero, in the shade, after eyeing her suspiciously, bursts suddenly upon her.
And look as sad and rueful as thou wilt.
Thy tardy, slow unwillingness, and all
The strange demeanour of this day, too well
Speak that which ev'n the smiles of Hebe's cheek,
Hadst thou more female art such smiles to copy,
Could not gainsay.—Where hast thou been so long?
Wilt thou not answer me?
ZORADA.
'T is little past our usual hour of rest.
ROMIERO.
Where hast thou been?
ZORADA.
Where I have been I have done thee no wrong:
Let that suffice thee.
ROMIERO.
To apprehend suspicion. Done no wrong!
What call'st thou wrong? Yea, by that sacred band
Which linketh soul to soul in wedded love,
Pure, fervent, and confiding,—every thought,
Fancy, and consciousness, that from thy husband,
Unfitting for his ear, must be withheld,
Is wrong to him, and is disgrace to thee.
ZORADA.
Why didst thou wed Zorada de Modinez?
ROMIERO.
I see the change.—Yes, I will call it change,
For I must still believe thou lovedst me once.
ZORADA.
And will for ever love thee, dear Romiero,
If thou wilt suffer me.
ROMIERO.
To think thou lovest me, hell to doubt of it.
ZORADA.
I have a cause,—I must repeat my words,—
Which does to thee no wrong. Some few days hence
Thou shalt know all, and thou wilt pity me.
Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundest to be untrue?
ROMIERO.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
Yes, I will trust thee, and do thou the while
Think charitably of my stern rebuke.
Love can be stern as well as tender, yet
Be all the while most true and fervent love.
But go to rest, dear child, and I will follow thee;
For it indeed is late. (Stands musing as she retires, then turning suddenly.)
ZORADA (returning)
ROMIERO.
That soothing ointment of such efficacy.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
Was it a time for childish freaks like that?
And the deep colour crimsoning thy cheek—
What does it say?—Go to! thou needst not speak.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
Go, go! my hour of rest is distant still.
Linger not here, I say; retire to rest„
[Exit Zorada into the chamber.
(After musing some time.) I do not think her wicked, but there lurks
Within her fancy vain and dangerous things.
Those striplings,—those light, beardless play-fellows!
The devil himself hath not an imp more subtle
Than one of these.—They laugh, and mock, and mimic,
And cast upon the lovely face of virtue
The gloomy veil of cloister'd melancholy,
Whilst vice is all so gay and deftly trick'd,
That who can choose but range them on her side?
To break down every sacred tie, what is it?
'Tis but a merry trick!—— Ay, she was wary, too, in her expressions:
"Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundest to be untrue."—Equivocation,
A half-corrupted woman's poor device.
(Muses and mutters to himself a few moments longer, and then paces up and down with slow irresolute steps.)
If it be come to this, who shall restrain
The hateful progress, which as rapidly——
Restrain it! No! to hell's profoundest pit
Let it conduct her, if she hath so far
Debased her once pure mind, and injured me.
I dare not think on 't, yet I am compell'd;
And at the very thought a raging fire
Burns in my head, my heart, through every vein
Of this distracted frame. I'll to the ramparts,
And meet the chilness of the midnight wind;
I cannot rest beneath this hateful roof. [Exit.
SCENE II.
An old Gothic Gallery, with Doors leading to different Apartments.
Enter Jerome, carrying a light, and followed by Don Maurice.
MAURICE.
Which is beseeming in affairs of love.
I hope, meantime, she is upon the way.
List, dost thou hear a step?
JEROME.
MAURICE.
JEROME.
Disturbed with sudden light. Such creatures build
In ev'ry crevice of those mouldering arches.
MAURICE.
Are all untenanted, and no one near us.
JEROME (pointing).
In which Don Guzman chooses to abide,
That from its lofty windows he may see
A more extensive prospect.
MAURICE.
That may be thence survey'd!—I like it not:
He is a dangerous neighbour.
JEROME.
You need not fear to be disturb'd by him.
MAURICE.
O she is good and punctual to my wish!
Do thou retire, good Jerome.
Enter Beatrice attended, and Jerome with her Female Attendant keep on the background, while Maurice, running eagerly to her, leads her nearer the front.   My charming Beatrice! may I indeed
Believe that thou art here? that thou vouchsafest
To come with thoughts of favour for thy slave?
BEATRICE.
It is so strange,—my mind is so bewilder'd!
MAURICE.
BEATRICE.
That seem'd to follow me, and yet were nothing.
I thought the very stones of the old walls
Did call my name and know me as I pass'd.
MAURICE.
Swallows or bats may whisper of our meeting,
But naught besides.—Oh! how I have desired
To tell thee all my heart; on bended knee
To plead my cause!—My fate is in thy hands;
And since thou hast such pity of my pain
As thus to listen to me, may I hope
Thou wilt be better still?
BEATRICE.
To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message.
MAURICE.
That thou wilt say within thy cunning self,
"This man, in truth, is made to be a husband."
BEATRICE.
Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant
Would laugh most certainly within himself,
On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion
Joined to the noted name of gay Don Maurice.
MAURICE.
And levities, and gambols charged upon me
By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood.
I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious
As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt, And all the while as blithe o' heart as he.
I have as many fashions and demeanours,
As mantles in a lady's wardrobe; choose,—
I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return
Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours.
BEATRICE.
MAURICE.
Step farther this way. (Leading her to the opposite side of the Stage, near the door of Guzman's chamber.)
Let me speak plainly in few words. Thou know'st
How much I fear Romiero's apt suspicion.
Delay were dangerous: therefore by the dawn,
In the dark grove of pines, meet me, prepared
To quit with me the castle, and for life
To share my lot. Deny me not: time presses;
O let me urge thee!—As for life I plead.
BEATRICE (after a pause).
And yet I feel thou dost not plead in vain.
MAURICE.
There is no time for slow deliberation.
Thou 'lt meet me by the dawn?
BEATRICE.
Enter at the bottom of the Stage a Servant, who whispers to Jerome, and then retires, upon which Jerome advances hastily to Maurice.
MAURICE.
JEROME.
Who stood on watch without has given me notice.
He wanders through the house like one possess'd,
And may at last invade your privacy.
MAURICE.
Ere he approach.
JEROME.
BEATRICE.
So, till that time, adieu.[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Don Guzman's Chamber, who is discovered sleeping in his Chair.
Enter Romiero.
ROMIERO.
Happy unwedded! Thou canst soundly sleep;
Nor woman's fickleness, nor woman's guilt,
Can bring disgrace or agony to thee.
I'll not disturb him. (After remaining for a while on the front of the Stage musing and muttering to himself, he speaks, but in a low voice.)
The heart, the heart! What prize we but the heart! (Mutters again, then breaks out in loud and vehement utterance.)
If that be lost, I'm wretched!
GUZMAN (waking).
ROMIERO.
GUZMAN.
Thou must have heard it; 't was a human voice.
ROMIERO.
GUZMAN.
Or was it some sharp pang of bodily pain?
ROMIERO.
Only to share thy chamber for the night.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Till I have need of rest.
GUZMAN.
Debars thee from the fair Zorada's chamber;
That place which gives the rest of paradise?
ROMIERO.
Where every lovely—every sweetest thing
In seeming shelter, bloom'd i' th' early sun,
Till the first sultry breath of southern winds
Blasted its freshness, leaving naught behind But tainted fragrance—sered and faded flowers.
It was the magic palace of a dream,
Changed in an instant to some dismal den:
It was a bower of healthful innocence,
Changed to a lazar's vile and loathly ward:
It was———Oh, oh! I know not what I say,
Thinking of what I was and what I am.
GUZMAN.
Be well assured things are not as thou fear'st.
She did appear so good.
ROMIERO.
If I but droop'd or looked a little pale,
The stroke of her soft hand, her kindly words,
Her sweet breath on my cheek,—O! it did turn
The hour of pain to bliss!—And all this happiness
Was but delusion—but a hov'ring vapour
That covers for a while the fenny pool.
GUZMAN.
That the delusion rests with thee, my friend?
ROMIERO (After musing, and without heeding what Guzman has said).
Went to my soul. Or if I parted from her,
Though only for a week—a day——
GUZMAN.
Be well assured it is not as thou fear'st.
Try to compose thyself: what are thy proofs
That she has been unfaithful?
ROMIERO.
I trust she has not been; but what avails it?
He whom her fancy follows, he who pleases
Her secret thoughts and wishes, is her Lord,
Let who will, by the power of legal right,
Her body hold in thraldom.—Not unfaithful!
If I have lost her heart, I've suffer'd all.
No further outrage can enhance my wretchedness. (Turning quickly and taking hold of him.)
Are mere extravagance. (Pausing and looking earnestly in his face.)
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Ay, and a doubt which, when I saw thee last,
Did not exist. Speak, speak! If thou mistrust her, It is on no slight grounds.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
GUZMAN.
'Twill make no certain proof against Zorada.
And since thou think'st her love for thee is changed,
Caring but for her love, thou may'st the better
Endure to learn the worst, if such should follow.
ROMIERO (in a faint voice).
GUZMAN.
I've been asleep, and cannot say how long——
But pause we now. Thy quiv'ring lips are white,
Thine eyes are fix'd: lean upon me, my friend.
ROMIERO.
GUZMAN (supporting him to the chair).
ROMIERO.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Were each the spiked tooth of a martyr's wheel.
Proceed:—Some two hours since———
GUZMAN.
I was perusing that old book of stories,
I heard, and, as I judged, close to the door,
Two persons speaking in the gallery.
The voice of Maurice I could recognise,
The other was a woman's.
ROMIERO (starting from the chair).
GUZMAN.
I say not it was her's: perhaps it was not;
Perhaps 't was Donna Beatrice.
ROMIERO.
It was Zorada. Absent from her chamber
I found her at that time. When she returned,
At a late hour, we had some wrangling words,
Glozed o'er, but poorly glozed, with female fraud,
Which soon betray'd itself, and then I left her.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Till thou hast told the whole, though it should make me
A very fiend of agony and shame.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Till they have proved the blackest tint of guilt,
And then will come the fatal end of all;
The sabre clutch' d in strength; the stroke of vengeance;
The horrible joy, that lasteth for a moment!
Let all this be; let horror be unstinted!
Let every misery light upon the head
Of that most wanton——No, the word would choke me;
I will not utter it.
GUZMAN.
The words they spoke, prove against her nor no one
An act of guilt, but only the intent.
ROMIERO.
If life blood warm his heart another day,
I am bereft, debased, and brutified.
Unmeet to wear the outward form of manhood.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Knowing the cursed purport; ne'ertheless.
Tell it all, as minutely as thou wilt,
I'll listen to the end.
GUZMAN.
Distinctly spoken in Don Maurice's voice:—
"Thou knowest I fear Romiero's apt suspicion;
"Delay were dang'rous; therefore, by the dawn,
"Meet me beneath the grove of pines, prepared
"To quit the castle. We will fly together:"—
Or words to this effect, which indistinctly
Fell into softer whispers, till, alarm'd,
As I suppose, they left the gallery.
'T was my intent to give thee early notice;
Therefore I shunn'd that tempting couch, and sought
Here, in my chair, to snatch a little sleep,
And be in readiness ere break of day.
ROMIERO.
Come to this pitch of secret profligacy,
Who was so modest and so timid once!
Was I a tyrant, that she is so ready
To doff the virtuous and respected wife—
For the base mistress of that minion too?
Some spell, some devilish witchery, hath subdued her,
Ere it could come to this.
GUZMAN.
It be Zorada.
ROMIERO.
Think'st thou I am a fool to be deceived
By such affected doubts, in pity utter'd?
Speak truly, plainly, treat me as a man.
Call them—yea call that woman, an' thou wilt,—
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO (putting his hand on the lips of Guzman).
Speak not the word; I'm weaker than I thought.
Is it not near the dawn?
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
We'll to the eastern turret, and look forth:
Should they escape!—My brain burns at the thought. [Exeunt.