SCENE I.—_A Room in DON ALONSO’S House at Madrid.

_Enter ALONSO and OTAÑEZ, meeting._

_Otañ._ My own dear master!

_Alon._ Welcome, good Otañez, My old and trusty servant!

_Otañ._ Have I lived To see what I so long have longed to see, My dear old master home again!

_Alon._ You could not Long for ’t, Otañez, more than I myself. What wonder, when my daughters, who, you know, Are the two halves that make up my whole heart, Silently called me home, and silently (For maiden duty still gagged filial love) Out of the country shade where both have grown, Urged me to draw the blossom of their youth Where it might ripen in its proper day.

_Otañ._ Indeed, indeed, sir. Oh that my dear lady Were but alive to see this happy hour!

_Alon._ Nay, good Otañez, mar it not recalling What, ever sleeping in the memory, Needs but a word to waken into tears. God have her in his keeping! He best knows How I have suffered since the king, my master, Despatching me with charge to Mexico, I parted from her ne’er to see her more; And now come back to find her gone for ever! You know ’twas not the long and roaring seas Frighted her for herself, but these two girls— For them she stayed—and full of years and honour Died, when God willed! and I have hastened home Well as I may, to take into my hands The charge death slipped from hers.

_Otañ._ Your own good self! Though were there ever father, who could well Have left that charge to others, it was you, Your daughters so religiously brought up In convent with their aunt at Alcalá. Well, you are come, and God be praised for it! And, at your bidding, here are they, and I, And good old Mari Nuño—all come up To meet you at Madrid. I could not wait The coach’s slower pace, but must spur on To kiss my old master’s hand.

_Alon._ Myself had gone To meet them; but despatches of the king’s Prevented me. They’re well?

_Voices_ (_within_). Make way there—way!

_Otañ._ And lovely as the dawn. And hark! are here To answer for themselves.

_Enter CLARA, EUGENIA, MARI NUÑO, as from travel._

_Clara_ (_kneeling_). Sir, and my father—by my daily prayers Heaven, won at last in suffering me to kiss These honoured hands, leaves me no more to ask, Than at these honoured feet to die, With its eternal blessing afterward.

_Eug._ And I, my father, grateful as I am To Heaven, for coming to your feet once more, Have yet this more to ask—to live with you For many, many happy years to come!

_Alon._ Oh, not in vain did nature fix the heart In the mid bosom, like a sun to move Each circling arm with equal love around! Come to them—one to each—and take from me Your lives anew. God bless you! Come, we are here together in Madrid, And in the sphere where you were born to move. This is the house that is to be your own Until some happy lover calls you his; Till which I must be father, lover, husband, In one. Brigida!

_Enter BRIGIDA._

_Brig._ Sir?

_Alon._ My daughters’ rooms Are ready?

_Brig._ Ay, sir, as the sky itself For the sun’s coming.

_Alon._ Go and see them then, And tell me how you like what I have bought, And fitted up for your reception.

_Clara._ I thank you, sir, and bless this happy day, Though leaving my loved convent far away.

_Eug._ (_aside_). And I twice bless it, that no longer hid In a dull cell; I come to see Madrid.

[_Exeunt CLARA and EUGENIA._

_Mari Nuño._ Now the young ladies, sir, have had their turn, Shall not I kiss your hand?

_Alon._ Oh, welcome too, Good Mari Nuño; who have been so long A mother to them both. And, by the by, Good Mari Nuño, now we are alone, I’d hear from you, who know them both so well, Their several characters and dispositions, And not as ’twere, come blindfold to the charge That Heaven has laid upon me.

_Mari._ You say well, sir. Well, I might say at once, and truly too, That nothing need be said in further praise But that they are your daughters. But to pass, Lest you should think I flatter, From general to individual, And to begin with the eldest, Donna Clara; Eldest in years and in discretion too, Indeed the very pearl of prudence, sir, And maidenly reserve; her eyes still fixt On earth in modesty, or heaven in prayer; As gentle as a lamb, almost as silent; And never known to say an angry word: And, such her love of holy quietude, Unless at your desire, would never leave Her cloister and her missal. She’s, in short, An angel upon earth, whom to be near And wait on, one would sell oneself a slave. So much for her. Donna Eugenia, Though unexceptionable in heart and head, As, God forgive me, any child of yours Must be, is different,—not for me to say Better or worse,—but very different: Of a quick spirit, loving no control; Indeed, as forward as the other shy; Quick to retort, and sharply; so to speak, Might sometimes try the patience of a saint; Longing to leave a convent for the world, To see and to be seen; makes verses too; Would not object, I think, to have them made (Or love, may be) to her—you understand; Not that I mean to say—

_Alon._ Enough, enough. Thanks for your caution as your commendation: How could I fortify against weak points Unless I knew of them? And, to this end, Although Eugenia be the younger sister, I’ll see her married first; husband and children The best specific for superfluous youth: And to say truth, good Mari, the very day Of my arrival hither, I despatch’d A letter to my elder brother’s son, Who still maintains our dwindled patrimony Up in the mountains, which I would reclaim, Or keep it rather in its lawful line, By an alliance with a child of mine, All falls out luckily. Eugenia Wedded to him shall make herself secure, And the two stems of Cuadradillos so Unite and once more flourish, at a blow.

[_Exeunt._