SCENE I.--_Study of Don Silvio, with large open window, through which is

seen the castle of Don Diego on the opposite mountain peak. Don Silvio is discovered at a table covered with books, papers, and scientific instruments. Strewn about the floor and on shelves are various objects of natural science. Don Silvio closes a book he has been reading and advances._

D. SIL. In vain the consolations of deep science, The chiding voice of grave philosophy, To wean us from our earthly fond affections, When once deep-rooted in our bosom's core. Paternal love, surviving youthful passion, As autumn's deep'ning tints the summer's green, Remains mature till the cold wintry blast Of death hath scattered its last quivering leaf, And driven us, whither? I have a daughter, Than whom no saint in heaven purer is. Fair and virtuous Inez! Sole object left Me now to love on earth of all my kin. An old man's pride, and only legacy Of my late spouse, the sainted Dorothea. Who, giving birth to this fair angel, left, After ten years of childless married life, This, my poor helpless babe, but in exchange For her own precious self. Long unconsoled For this, my doleful loss, I sought once more Relief from sorrow in those studies deep, Abandoned since my manhood's prime, when I In Salamanca's university, Did strive for honors, my child consigning To a certain faithful old retainer, The good Rodriguez, who in lieu of mother Did rear the tender babe until it grew To years maturer, when I thought it fit To rescue her from out the hands of one Who, whatsoe'er her care maternal be, Is yet too full of vanity to make A good instructress to my only child, Whom I designed to educate in mode Far different from that in which Rodriguez And all her worldly tribe would seek to do. With this my aim in view, I took the child Away from home whilst yet her mind was tender, And placing her under my sister's care, The Lady Abbess of Saint Ursula-- A convent distant thirty miles from hence-- I left her until she should reach such age As maidens having made due preparations Are deemed fit to marry. Scarce sixteen Is now my daughter Inez; far too young To face without a guide the many wiles And dire temptations of this giddy world; I fain would keep her longer there, but then, Then comes the thought that harasses my soul. Having in youth squandered my patrimony, Wasting my substance that I might procure Expensive books and likewise instruments I needed in the fond pursuits of science, In gratifiying literary tastes, And other fancies, thus I soon became Deeply indebted to my richer neighbour, The valiant Don Diego, who, much loath To see an old house ruined, hath full oft From time to time with liberal hand advanced Such sums as I could ne'er hope to repay. This knew he, too, full well, and having seen Once my little daughter at the castle, And fancying much her beauty, thereupon Did make what he then doubtless did consider An offer fair and not to be refused By me, a desperate man--his debtor, too-- An offer, namely, for my daughter's hand When she should have attained her sixteenth year; And this he gave me well to understand Would be the only way that he'd consent To counsel all my former debts to him; Refusing this, I knew th' alternative. Don Diego is a soldier fierce and proud As he is courageous, stern and merciless Towards those who thwart his will. What could I do? Unable to pay and in his power, Groaning 'neath a sense of obligation; Allured, too, perhaps, by prospects flattering In worldly sense to her, a poor man's daughter, I e'en consented. In an evil hour I gave my word to friend Diego, A man of my own years, whose castle stands Upon the opposite peak. Behold it. A man, I say, who might be her grandsire; Nor is it mere disparity of years That makes the gap to gape between the pair. Besides his age, and now decaying health, Don Diego all his youth has led a life The most licentious. Rumours strange and wild Are busy with his name, for it is known That he esteems the holy love of woman But as a flower to pluck and cast aside. He hath no reverence for religious rites, And thinks of matrimony but as a bond, Of all bonds easiest broke. With thoughts like these How shall it fare then with my poor daughter When once the knot is tied? His temper then Is stern and imperious, blunt and rude. Accustomed to command, he reigns alone Amidst a flattering troup of followers, Like petty tyrant, treating men as serfs. In boasting moods he vaunts of ancestry Who never thwarted were in lust or hate, And to this man shall I consign my daughter? No, no, it was an evil hour when I O'er hastily did consent to sacrifice My lovely Inez, purest of her sex, To this man's savage and rapacious lust. Repentance came too late, for he doth hold Me still to my promise, and all in vain Are pleadings of my daughter's tender age. The promise of her hand at some time hence, When she to riper womanhood hath grown, Excuse or promise unavailing both, For he, with military punctilio And lustful hot impatience, doth demand Her hand at once, and will brook no delay. He called on me of late, and from his mien I saw there was but little left to hope. A father's tears, as ever, failed to soften His all too stubborn nature, and at length He threatened me with ruin or with death And forcible abduction of my daughter If on a certain day ('tis now at hand) I gave not him my daughter for his wife. As yet my child knows nothing of this plan, But now the time draws near when she must know. How can I face my daughter? How can I With humble, piteous whine, say, "Inez, Thy father is ruined, an thou heed him not? Save him by the sacrifice of thyself." Or else, with imperious and austere brow, Say, "Inez, I command thee as a father To wed the man I've chosen thee--Don Diego. Obedience is a filial duty, and Thy father better knows what's for thy good Than thou thyself. At once prepare, obey!" Or should I, contrary to precepts taught Once by myself when she was yet a child, When I have preached 'gainst vanities and pomps, Empty frivolities and lust of greed, Can I now plead thus, and say, "Daughter mine, Behold what a grand thing it is to be One of the great ones of the earth, and move For ever midst the gay and high-born throng Of lords and ladies without care or pain, With means at hand to gratify each wish, To live the mistress of a noble castle, With serfs at thy command, with gold, with jewels, Dress at thy caprice, and hear around thee Ravishing strains of music in thy halls; Thy gardens, parks, and pleasure grounds rivalling Those of the noblest peers, exciting envy Of all thy neighbours, and this, yes, all this, Thou hast but to reach out thy hand to take; Accept the old Don Diego for thy spouse, His castle's thine, and all that therein is; Don't be a fool and throw this chance away Because, forsooth, he's old, somewhat infirm, Unfair to view, irascible and stern, And recklessly give up thy giddy heart To some young spendthrift, all because he's fair; Throw not such a glorious chance away, But make thy father's fortune and thine own?" Is this the strain that I could use to her After my virtuous lessons and wise saws? Could she not answer, "Father, is it thou-- Thou who dids't ever counsel me to shun The whispered words of gallants with the wiles And impious vanities of this base world, Dids't inculcate obedience, filial love, As primary virtues ever with the young? Was it that I might blindly, passively Submit my will to thine? Shunning fresh youth; That at thy bidding I might give my hand, Loathing, yet passively, unto a man Whose years do full quadruple mine, and all Because this man has wealth and I have none? Is this thy virtue, father? This the end Of all thy teachings, that I should become The minion, yes, the minion of a dotard?" And would she not be right? Could I look up Into her angel's face unblushingly, And with a base hypocrisy reply, "My child, 'tis for thy good. Such is the world." Would she believe me? Would she not despise Me and my words, see through my selfishness? Yet what to do I know not. I am lost. Would not the world itself proclaim me base? Would not the mockers say, "Behold the sage, The philosophic, wise Don Silvio, He who despises wealth and this world's pomp, Yet sells his daughter for Don Diego's gold?" Thus run I counter both to God and man, And mine own conscience. Crushing my child's heart That I might save my own grey head from ruin. Help me, ye saints! for I have need of guidance. [_Kneeling._ Soul of my blest departed Dorothea! Assist me with thy counsels, and send down From that high heaven where thou in peace doth dwell A blessing on thy daughter and her sire; It cannot, sure, be that our Inez shall Unwillingly and loathingly consent To wed a vicious dotard for his gold. [_Rising._ Time wanes, and with my part I must go through; Then, as to the rest, let heaven think on't. I know not if I meditate aright; Nay, I know I am wrong, but I've no choice. Hola! Rodriguez!--Rodriguez, I say!

_Enter_ RODRIGUEZ.

How now, Rodriguez, did'st not hear me call?

ROD. Indeed, my lord, I came as soon as I Did hear you, but it may be that of late I have grown a little hard of hearing; Rodriguez now is getting old. How many Years is it I have served your lordship here?

D. SIL. Cease thy prating tongue, and now lend thine ear.

ROD. I'm all attention, good my lord, proceed.

D. SIL. Well then, here is a letter I have written To thy young mistress, bidding her return With fullest speed to the paternal roof.

ROD. What! my young mistress Inez coming home After full five years' stay within the walls, The gloomy walls, of grim St. Ursula! Poor soul! she'll scarce remember old Rodriguez. How I long to see her! How she'll have grown. Time will have wrought great changes. But a child She was when first she left her father's hall, And now returns a woman. Pretty dear! Shall I ever forget how she did cry At leaving me? For you must know, Senor, That ever with a mother's tender care I've cherished her as were she child of mine, And she, sweet soul, ne'er having known her mother, Looked for no other mother than myself. And mother she would call me when a babe, Until she grew and first began to learn The death of your good lady Dorothea-- Peace be to her soul, the dear sweet lady-- Then she learned to call me Nurse Rodriguez. Dear little soul! When I did see her last She had her mother's brow, her mother's hair, Her eyes, too, and her tiny foot and hand; Her smile was all her mother's, yet methinks Something about the nose and mouth and chin Was from your lordship. How I wonder now If she be changed, if she do remember How I was wont to dance her on my knee To still her cries with sweets, and how she'd ask Me to tell her all about her mother-- How she looked and spoke, and how she dressed? I told her all I knew. What I knew not That straight I did invent to please the child, And oftimes on a chilly wintry night Of storm and tempest, when the lightning's flash Lit up with lurid glare the outward gloom, And the loud thunder, like to wake the dead, Shook the old castle walls to their foundation, On such nights as these, when sleep would desert Her downy pillow, I would lift her thus, And wrapping her up in my ample shawl, I'd draw her to the fire. Then, whilst the warmth Of the genial element diffused Itself throughout the chamber, rendering By the contrast of the black storm without Its growing blaze more grateful, then would I Beguile the night with tales of ghosts and ghouls, Of elves and fairies, and hobgoblins grim, Of witches, wizards, vampires, dwarfs, and giants, Pirates, brigands, and unburied corpses, Whose restless spirits, ever hovering near, Render the place accursed, and bring ill To happen unto those who wander there. Wraiths and doubles, and corpse candles glim'ring O'er unhallowed graves. Of secret murders, Of spells, enchantment, and of hidden treasure, Fights of knights and dragons, Christian damsels Rescued from Moorish captors by their lovers, Tales of the Inquisition and its tortures, Of dungeons dark and drear, and skeletons Found bleak and bare, laden with rusty chains That ever and anon at midnight's hour Were heard to move and shake, with many a tale Of the wild gipsy tribes that roam these mountains, Of haunted houses and weird palaces, That at the magician's word sink 'neath the ground, Of devils and of fiends--

D. SIL. And all the lore That gossips love to frighten children with. Wretch and most wicked beldam! Is it thus By giving reins to thine accursed tongue That thou hast sought to poison my child's mind? Is this why every eve when it grew dark I've seen her shudder and look o'er her shoulder? Why she would never enter a dark room? Why, as I've watched beside her tiny crib, I've seen her start in sleep with stifled sob? When I have watched her wan and haggard cheek, Her thoughtful mien, her dreamy vacant stare, Until I've fancied her in a decline, And feared she would not long be left to cheer My gloomy hearth; then was it this, I say, Thy foolish wicked lies, torturing thus Her tender infant brain? I say, for shame! In good time I rescued her from thy hands.

ROD. I'm sure my lord, I've always sought to--

D. SIL. Hush! And give me no more of thy silly prate, I've some affairs on hand, and must away, O'er long thou hast detained me with thy cant. Here, take this note, bid Pedro start at once And bear this safely to my daughter there, For to-night at the hostel he must sleep, To-morrow early he must start towards home, Accompanying my daughter by the way. [_Going._

ROD. My lord, I'll see to't.

D. SIL. And hark! Rodriguez, There's one thing I would caution you against.

ROD. And that is, my lord?

D. SIL. And that is, I say, That when my daughter home arrives to-morrow, You fill not her head with foolish stories And antiquated superstitions. Above all, talk to her not of gallants, Of tournaments, elopements, serenades, Or anecdotes of thine own frivolous life.

RON. My lord! my lord!

D. SIL. Once for all, I repeat, Detail not all the follies of thy youth; Talk to her not of dress or finery, Nor all the gilded pageantries of courts, Or such like vanities; and now, adieu, I must go hence. Think well of what I've said. [_Exit._

ROD. (_Alone._) Poor, poor gentleman, I fear he's going; He's growing old now, is my poor master, And folks when they grow old are ever childish. He ne'er has been the same since the departure Of my poor mistress, Lady Dorothea. What said he about my frivolous life? Who can cast a stone at Dame Rodriguez? Oh, his head's gone; that's very clear, alas! _My_ life! 'Twere well he thought about his own, Spent here mid dusty books and parchments old, With dirty bottles and queer instruments. As no one ever saw the like before. What he does with them, who can understand? Shut up here like a hermit all day long. A plague on him, and all his crotchety ways! Wait till my mistress Inez doth return; She will enliven him, and 'twixt us two, We'll make a clearance of this dusty cell. "Talk to her not of dress!" Poor silly man! Why, how on earth is the poor child to know, Shut up these five years in those convent walls, Of all the latest fashions of the day? How should she dress herself without the aid Of old Rodriguez? See how these men are. Do we live in a world or do we not? I should not do my duty to his child Were I to listen to him. No I must, The instant she arrives, take her in hand. "Talk to her not of gallants!" Why, forsooth? Must the poor child see no society? Is this hall a convent or a desert? Was she not born to marry and to mix With other ladies of her state and rank? How should she find a husband without me? She's growing up now, and has no mother, And as for her poor father, he'd as soon Think of flying as of his daughter's weal. No, no; but I will teach her how to cut A figure in this world as best becomes Her rank and station. I will teach her, too, What colours best become her, and how I, I, Rodriguez, figured once in youth, When I with train of yellow and scarlet silk, And stomacher of green, sleeves of sky-blue, First did meet my Carlos at the bull-fight. I'll teach her how to dress, to use the fan-- Thus, also thus, and thus, and how to draw, With well-feigned coyness, the mantilla, thus, Across her face, leaving one eye exposed, And ogle, so, the gallants as they pass. A few good lessons taken from an adept Will soon prepare her for society.

PEDRO. (_Without._) Rodriguez, Hola! Rodriguez, What ho!

_Enter_ PEDRO.

ROD. Donna Rodriguez, an it please you, sir.

PED. Well then, be it so, Donna Rodriguez, I've just met master coming from the castle, Apparently in no good humour. He Asked me if you'd given me a letter Addressed to Donna Inez at the convent, And bid me thither haste without delay, Threatening me with mine instant dismissal Should Mistress Inez fail to arrive to-morrow, And thus with hasty step and moody brow He passed me by, as if old retainers Had not their privileges, eh? Rodriguez-- Donna Rodriguez, I should say. Pardon me.

ROD. Here is the letter; you had best be off. Stay, Pedro. Did master look so savage?

PED. Even so.

ROD. Something must have angered him. Prithee, good Pedro, hast thou not of late Noted a change in poor Don Silvio?

PED. Faith, I cannot tell. Since I have known him He hath been always the same moody man.

ROD. But has he not of late seemed more estranged, More dull, more gloomy, just as if there were Something of unusual import that Were hanging o'er him?

PED. In truth I know not.

ROD. He sees no company.

PED. That's nothing new.

ROD. I mean--save that of that old haughty Don, Old Don Diego from the neighbouring castle, Who ne'er vouchsafes me word, but when he comes Passes me by as the veriest slut, With not so much as "Good-day, Rodriguez," But asks me sternly if my master's in. His visits have been frequent here of late. What think'st thou is the meaning of all this?

PED. In faith, I know not, and do not much care.

ROD. Ha! thou carest not? Come now, good Pedro, Wilt thou that I confide a secret to thee?

PED. A secret that shall increase my wages, Take more work off my shoulders? Then declare 't; If it be ought else, then keep your secret. I am tired of ever being the slave and drudge Of my old master for such paltry pay. I've served here now some twenty years and more. But matters were not always thus. I've seen The castle walls look handsomer in my day. In Lady Dorothea's time I never Had to wait for my wages, and my suit Was always clean and new. Then were there more Servants in the castle who took near all The work off my hands. Now that they're dismissed The burden of the household falls on me, And the wages, 'stead of waxing more, I have to wait for. I know not how long 'tis I have not seen the colour of his gold. Why, the castle's gone to rack and ruin. I am ashamed to meet my former friends, The well-fed menials of Don Diego's hall, When they with grave and supercilious smile Do thus accost me, "Ha! good man, Pedro, How fares it with thee and thy poor master? Thy suit, methinks, grows musty, like his castle, And, to speak truth, I once have seen thee fatter." Then straight they talk about their master's bounty. "Look how we fare," say they; "an I were thou I'd strike for higher wages or else leave." And all these taunts I have to bear--for what?

ROD. Well, well, I fare but as yourself; but hark-- Something's astir within the castle.

PED. (_Turning round timidly._) Where?

ROD. Bah! I mean something's about to happen In this old hall, an I do not mistake. A _change_.

PED. For the better? Out with it, Rodriguez. Be quick, for with this note I must away. [_Going._

ROD. Just so; the letter. What think'st thou there's in 't?

PED. I never play the spy. Money, think you? [_Holding it up to the light._

ROD. I trow not. I spoke but of it's import.

PED. Marry, what should it be but just to bid Young Mistress Inez home without delay?

ROD. Exactly; and canst divine the motive?

PED. Faith! Perhaps the charges of the convent Have grown too costly for the miser's purse, Or 't may be having stayed there her full time, She now returns unto her father's hall.

ROD. Not altogether that, for I well know Don Silvio would fain have kept her longer. Hark, Pedro! thou know'st that I've always been A faithful follower of this ancient house, And no time-server as some others are.

PED. (_Aside._) Humph! That's meant for me. Time-server, forsooth!

ROD. Ill would 't become a faithful old retainer Not to take interest in her lord's affairs, So with this sense of duty upmost, aye, And marking something most unusual In these frequent visits of Don Diego, Then hearing once his voice in angry tones, And that of our poor master, trembling, meek, I naturally bent my ear until It level stood with the chamber's keyhole.

PED. Naturally, Donna Rodriguez. Well?

ROD. Ha! Now you take more interest in my tale. Well, then I heard the whining piteous tones Of our old master's voice in broken sobs. "Think of her tender age, and your own years. Can this disparity between you both, This forced consent on her part, bring to her Ought but unhappiness? Prithee, reflect. Think of a father's feelings, and forbear." "Think of your debts, old man, and of your past," Now said a sterner voice; "and if you fail To have your daughter all in readiness The next time that I call, so the wedding May be solemnised within my private chapel At whatsoever hour I please, hark ye! I'll sell your ruined castle o'er your head, Drive you houseless into the open air To beg your bread; by force abduct your daughter, And----

PED. Did he say that?

ROD. Ay, he did, indeed.

_Enter_ DON SILVIO _musingly behind--he stops and listens_.

PED. Why then he'll do 't; that is, if our old lord Do not peaceably give up his daughter.

ROD. Oh, it's horrible, horrible. Poor child!

PED. Horrible for us to be turned adrift. Poor child, indeed! the best thing that could hap, I wish the little jade no better luck. The daughter of a threadbare miser. _She_ Turn up her nose at such a match as this! I can't think what our master's scruples are To such a union. Luck seems on his side.

ROD. Hush. You forget her age, the poor dear child Has scarce arrived at puberty, and then Knows nothing of the world, but cometh straight From that old convent without time to taste The sweets of life, or choose from out the crowd Of motley youths who _should_ encompass her One of her choice, befitting more her age Than this grey, grim, and surly Don Diego.

PED. Don Diego is a proper gentleman. A trifle old, perhaps; so much the better, He will but die the sooner, and so leave Our Inez mistress of his lordly hall. Once left a widow, young and rich, she then May marry any gallant that she likes. First let her fill her mouth and clothe her back, Then indulge her own caprice at leisure. I'm for Don Diego, and will help his plan With all my power.

ROD. Oh! you men, you men, You're all alike, and have no sentiments. Just such a one is master, who would sell His only child to pay his debts withal.

PED. Why, how can he help it? Debts must be paid. And when the debt is cancelled in this way I fancy I can see the old miser chuckle To himself at having got off so cheap.

DON SILVIO _advances in their midst_.

D. SIL. Discussing matters that concern ye not, Eavesdropping hounds, unmannered miscreants! Is this your duty and your gratitude? Knaves that ye are, and base-born time-servers, Off with ye both! Thou, Pedro, lazy lout, Off to the convent, as I bade thee. Fly! Rouse not my wrath; and thou, thou gossiping hag, Back to thy room and give thy tongue a rest, Else it will swell and choke thee. Would it might.

[_Exeunt severally Pedro and Rodriguez. Don Silvio throws himself into an armchair, and covers his face with his hands._