(aside). The Jezebel! (Aloud) But, Sancho, was she quite satisfied with your assertion of his being killed?
San. No; she said she must have more proof, that there might be no mistake; for, as she truly observed, it would be an awkward thing to have two husbands.
Ant. (aside). It is to have two wives. (Aloud) Sancho, proceed.
San. I followed your advice, and told her 'twas by my hand that Lopez fell—Saint Petronila pardon me the lie.
Ant. What said she then?
San. Why, at first, she repulsed; but then remembering that second thoughts as well as second husbands were the best, she dried her eyes, and was content; don't you see how fresh I am with the joy?
Ant. (aside and looking contemptuously on Sancho). Confound him!
San. What say you?
Ant. That you're a happy man. Did you press her hard to marry you at once, as I advised you?
San. I did, and at last she promised, as soon as she had seen her husband dead, to marry me immediately.
Ant. Now, Sancho, I will be your friend. Of course I must not appear in this, nor must my name be mentioned. But if to-morrow at dusk will suit you, I'll drag his body from the place where I concealed it, and lay it in the path which leads to the summer house—you know where I mean, just where the row of tall chestnut trees——
San. I know exactly. Thank you, Antonio. She said to-morrow night she thought she would be able to come out. I'll go to her immediately, and make the appointment. Saint Petronila, smile on my joys of wedlock! [Exit Sancho.
Ant. How I hate women! … If that fool had mentioned the name of Lopez, the crafty Beppa would have discovered the whole affair. What with keeping my own secrets, and finding out those of my master, I have enough to do. So far the former has been well managed, now for the latter. [Exit into house.
Scene V.
An Apartment in the Guzman Palace. Donna Inez discovered seated at table.
Inez. Last night, again, beneath my niece's window I heard that tuneful voice; and if mine ears Deceived me not, my Isidora's too. As I pass'd by, a light whose feeble rays Shone thro' the vacancy beneath the door Proved that she'd not retired. I much suspect She is entangled in some web of love. Yet oft have I enjoin'd her to advise With me, her friend, and truest counsellor. But 'tis in vain; Love ne'er would be so sweet—so fondly cherish'd, If not envelop'd in the veil of secrecy: And good intents are oft in maidens check'd
By that strange joyous fear, that happy awe,
Which agitates the breast when first the trembler
Receives its dangerous inmate.
I've summon'd her, for now I must endeavour
To be her confidante. (Muses.) 'Twere better first I made her mine. And sympathy may win the treasured key, Which startled love would willingly retain. Enter Isidora. Isid. You wish my presence. (Aside) Hush, my tell-tale heart. Inez. Hast thou slept well, my child? Isid. My dreams have been confused, but not unhappy. Inez. Oh! may'st thou never wake to mystery! Thine is a dang'rous age: my Isidora, Thou little know'st, that while thy path is strew'd With flow'rs, how many serpent dangers lurk Beneath the sweets. Isid. I will not stray, then. Inez. It is a happy resolution. If, in my youth, I had been so resolved, I had not loaded mine old age with care, Nor soak'd my pillow with remorseful tears. Isid. I've often seen you weep, and then retire, Nor glad me with your presence, until after You had communion held with Father Philip; Then have you smiled again, that is to say, Smiled mournfully, as does the winter's sun, Gleaming through heavy clouds, and scarce deigning To light up sober nature for the minute. Inez. True, dearest child, for such is our blindness, That we reject our greatest boon, until We can receive support from it alone. 'Tis time thou should'st receive my confidence, And learn the danger of clandestine love. Isid. (aside). She must suspect me. (Aloud) I'm all attention.
Inez. To say I once was fair, and that mine eyes Were bright as thine are now, were almost needless. I had a mother most considerate— Kind to excess, yet ever pointing out The path to virtue, and to happiness. One precept above all did she enjoin, And sure 'twas little in exchange to ask For so much kindness—wisely to seek her counsel Ere the heart was wounded. You hear me, love, I oft have made the same request of you. Isid. (faintly). You have. Inez. I promised faithfully, as thou hast done, And well, I know, wilt keep the promise made. But virgin fear induced me to withhold My confidence, until it was too late. My heart was given and my troth was plighted; Don Felipe, such was his cherish'd name, Implored my silence; our frequent meetings Were sanctified by marriage: then I learn'd It was an old and deadly feud that barr'd His long sought entrance to our house; but soon He hoped our marriage publicly t'announce, And strife of years to end, and peace restore By our acknowledged union. Alas! two days before this much-sought hour, My brothers were inform'd I did receive My husband in my chamber. He was surprised And murder'd—basely in my presence slain! Isid. Oh Heavens! Inez. They would not listen to my frantic words! They would not credit our asserted union! They dragg'd me to a convent in their wrath, And left me to my widowhood and tears, Tore my sweet infant from my longing arms, And while I madly scream'd, and begg'd for pity, The abbess spoke of penitence and prayer. Reason, for weeks, forsook me: when again I was awaken'd to a cruel world, They would have forced me to assume the veil. Isid. To me, that force had been most needlessly Exerted. What haven could the world offer So meet for such a wreck of happiness? What could induce you to repel that force? Inez. The hope, that one day I might find my boy— A hope which still I cherish. Years have fled; My brothers fell by those who sought revenge, And I remain'd, sole scion of our noble house, In line direct. Then did I seek my child. Those who attended at the birth inform'd me It had a sanguine bracelet on the wrist. By threats and bribes at last I ascertained My child had been removed unto the hospital Built in this city for receiving foundlings. Full of a mother's joy, a mother's fear, I hasten'd there, alas! to disappointment! All clue of him was lost, and should my boy survive, The heir of Guzman's noble house may be Some poor mechanic's slave! (In anguish throws herself into a chair.) Isidora (kneels beside Inez). Indeed 'tis dreadful. I marvel not you grieve To think that he survives in hapless penury, Unconscious of his right, perchance unfitted, And if recover'd, prove no source of joy, But one of deep regret, that a young stock Which culture and the graft of education Would now have loaded on each bough with fruit, Neglect hath left degenerate and worthless. How should I joy, yet dread to meet my cousin, Should your maternal hopes be realised! Inez. He is my child. You cannot feel the pangs Which rack a mother sever'd from her own. Isid. I've often thought how sweet that love must be Where all is sanction'd, nought is to conceal— When hand may lock in hand, heart beat with heart, And the whole world may smile but not upbraid. Such love a sister towards a brother bears, And such a mother feels towards her son. I have no brother—none of kin but you. Now, dearest mother, for mother you have been Unto my childhood and now budding youth, Would that my feebleness could e'er repay Your years of love. O that I could console you, And prove me grateful! Heaven ne'er be mine If these, my sobbing words, be not sincere. Inez. 'Tis well, my child, thou canst console me much: Let my sad tale but prove to thee a beacon And I am satisfied. Tell me, my love, Hast thou no secrets hidden in thy breast? [Isidora, still kneeling, covers her face with her hands.] Hast thou fulfill'd thy oft-repeated promise? Isid. Forgive
