Remorse is as the heart in which it grows: If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
MARQUIS VALDEZ, Father to the two brothers, and of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
Donna Teresa's Guardian.
DON ALVAR, the eldest son.
The more behoves it, I should rouse within him Remorse! that I should save him from himself.
It is a poison-tree that, pierced to the inmost, Weeps only tears of poison.
A portrait which she had procured by stealth (For ever then it seems her heart foreboded Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry),
A portrait of herself with thrilling hand
She tied around my neck, conjuring me With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred To my own knowledge: nor did she desist, Till she had won a solemn promise from me, That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew, Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.
And but for the imperative Voice within, With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen. That Voice, which quell'd me, calm'd me: and I sought
The Belgic states: there join'd the better cause; And there too fought as one that courted death! Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying, In death-like trance: a long imprisonment follow'd. The fullness of my anguish by degrees Waned to a meditative melancholy;
And still, the more I mused, my soul became More doubtful, more perplex'd; and still Teresa, Night after night, she visited my sleep, Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful, Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me! Yes, still, as in contempt of proof and reason, I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless! Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.— The Moorish robes ?-
Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves, And could my heart's blood give him back to thee, I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts; Thy dying father comes upon my soul
With that same look, with which he gave thee to me, I held thee in my arms a powerless babe, While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty Fix'd her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this, That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom, And with slow anguish wear away thy life, The victim of a useless constancy.
I must not see thee wretched.
Ill-barter'd for the garishness of joy!
If it be wretched with an untired eye
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean; Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock, My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea-breeze, To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again All past hours of delight! If it be wretched To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there, To go through each minutest circumstance Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them; (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
Will they not know you? And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft Hung with her lute, and play'd the self-same tune He used to play, and listen'd to the shadow Herself had made)-if this be wretchedness, And if indeed it be a wretched thing To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine That I had died, died just ere his return! Or hover round, as he at midnight oft Then see him listening to my constancy,
With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion, My long imprisonment, the scanty food, This scar, and toil beneath a burning sun, Have done already half the business for us. Add too my youth, when last we saw each other. Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice A hoarser note-Besides, they think me dead: And what the mind believes impossible, The bodily sense is slow to recognize.
"Tis yours, Sir, to command; mine to obey.
Here Valdez bends back, and smiles at her wildness, which Teresa noticing, checks her enthusiasm, and in a soothing half-playful tone and manner, apologizes for her fancy by the little tale in the parenthesis.
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon; Or haply, in some more fantastic mood, To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers Build up a bower where he and I might dwell, And there to wait his coming! O my sire! My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness
That eats away the life, what were it, think you, If in a most assured reality
He should return, and see a brother's infant Smile at him from my arms? Oh, what a thought!
Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,
A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried Beyond myself, if I but hear of one Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not
[Clasping her forehead. Born in one day, like twins of the same parent?
Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought. A six years' absence is a heavy thing, The very week he promised his return-
Captured in sight of land!
From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower We might have seen-
Yet still the hope survives
VALDEZ (looking forward).
The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood? Enter MONVIEDRO with ALHADRA.
MONVIEDRO (having first made his obeisance to VALDEZ and TERESA).
Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord, My present need is with your son.
[Looking forward. We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he.
Enter from the opposite side DON ORDONIO.
My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman (Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.
Hail, reverend father! what may be the business?
My Lord, on strong suspicion of relapse To his false creed, so recently abjured, The secret servants of the inquisition Have seized her husband, and at my command To the supreme tribunal would have led him, His capture, not his death. But that he made appeal to you, my Lord, As surety for his soundness in the faith. Though lessen'd by experience what small trust The asseverations of these Moors deserve, Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name, Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honor The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers, Thus far prevail'd with me that-
Alas! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio Saw both the pirate and his prize go down, In the same storm that baffled his own valor, And thus twice snatch'd a brother from his hopes: Gallant Ordonio! (pauses; then tenderly). O beloved
Wouldst thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar, And most delight his spirit, go, make thou His brother happy, make his aged father Sink to the grave in joy.
Press me no more! I have no power to love him. His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow, Chill me like dew damps of the unwholesome night: My love, a timorous and tender flower, Closes beneath his touch.
You wrong him, maiden! You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well
To character by such unkindly phrases The stir and workings of that love for you Which he has toil'd to smother, "T was not well, Nor is it grateful in you to forget
Reverend father, I am much beholden to your high opinion, Which so o'erprizes my light services.
I would that I could serve you; but in truth Your face is new to me.
My mind foretold me, That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez 'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio, That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors, | Should prove the patron of this infidel! The guarantee of a Moresco's faith! Now I return.
My Lord, my husband's name
Is Isidore. (ORDONIO starts.)—You may remember it
Three years ago, three years this very week, You left him at Almeria.
MONVIEDRO.
Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my Lord (You needs must recollect it by your wound), You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates, The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!
[TERESA looks at MONVIEDRO with disgust and horror. ORDONIO's appearance to be collected from what follows.
MONVIEDRO (O VALDEZ, and pointing at ORDONIO). What! is he ill, my Lord? how strange he looks! VALDEZ (angrily).
You press'd upon him too abruptly, father, The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.
ORDONIO (starting as in sudden agitation). O Heavens! I? I-doted? (then recovering himself). Yes! I doted on him.
[ORDONIO walks to the end of the stage, VALDEZ follows, soothing him.
TERESA (her eye following ORDONIO). I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard? Is my heart hard? that even now the thought Should force itself upon me?-Yet I feel it!
The drops did start and stand upon his forehead! I will return. In very truth, I grieve To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman! ALHADRA (to TERESA).
O gentle lady! make the father stay, Until my Lord recover. I am sure,
That he will say he is my husband's friend.
Stay, father! stay! my Lord will soon recover. ORDONIO (as they return, to VALDEZ).
Strange, that this Monviedro
Should have the power so to distemper me!
Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!
Tut! name it not. A sudden seizure, father! think not of it. As to this woman's husband, I do know him. I know him well, and that he is a Christian. MONVIEDRO.
I hope, my Lord, your merely human pity Doth not prevail-
"Tis certain that he was a Catholic;
What changes may have happen'd in three years, I cannot say; but grant me this, good father: Myself I'll sift him: if I find him sound, You'll grant me your authority and name To liberate his house.
Your zeal, my Lord, And your late merits in this holy warfare, Would authorize an ampler trust—you have it.
I will attend you home within an hour.
Meantime, return with us and take refreshment.
I was a Moresco! They cast me, then a young and nursing mother, Into a dungeon of their prison-house, Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light, No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air, It was a toil to breathe it! when the door, Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed One human countenance, the lamp's red flame Cower'd as it enter'd, and at once sunk down. Oh miserable! by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread Brought daily for the little wretch was sicklyMy rage had dried away its natural food
In darkness I remain'd-the dull bell counting,
Which haply told me, that all the all-cheering Sun Was rising on our garden. When I dozed, My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers And waked me.-If you were a mother, Lady, I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises And peevish cries so fretted on my brain That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.
O Heaven! it is too horrible to hear.
What was it then to suffer? "Tis most right That such as you should hear it.-Know you not, What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal? Great Evils ask great Passions to redress them, And Whirlwinds fitliest scatter Pestilence.
You were at length released?
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven! Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more- For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady, A trance comes on which makes me o'er again All I then was-my knees hang loose and drag, And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh, That you would start and shudder!
She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garinent! Why should my brother's-wife-wear mourning garments?
[To TERESA. Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturb'd you: But your husband-I had just started from a frightful dream.
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant With blindest trust, and a betrothed maid, Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me: For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her. This maid so idolized that trusted friend Dishonor'd in my absence, soul and body! Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt, And murderers were suborn'd against my life. But by my looks, and most impassion'd words, I roused the virtues that are dead in no man Even in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder.
You are lost in thought: hear him no more, sweet Lady!
From morn to night I am myself a dreamer, And slight things bring on me the idle mood! Well, Sir, what happen'd then?
On a rude rock, A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs, Whose thready leaves to the low breathing gale Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
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