Nay, rumple not your lip; it is the truth for all your pretty poutings! Convince me it is not.
| Nita |
Your pardon, but that would take words, and words would take time, and time given to one of your persuasion would refute all my arguments on the face of them. Still retreating. |
| Martino |
Well, lady, since it is your pleasure to be consistent, rather than happy, adieu. Had you stayed but as long as the bee pauses on an oleander blossom, you would have heard— |
| Nita |
Buzzing, signior? |
| Martino |
Yes, if by that word you would denominate vows of constancy and devotion. For I do greatly love you, and would tell you so. |
| Nita |
And for that you expect me to linger! as though vows were new to my ears, and words of love as strange to my understanding as tropical birds to the eyes of a Norseman. |
| Martino |
If you do love me, you will linger. |
| Nita |
Yet if I do, Slowly advancing be assured it is from some other motive than love. |
| Martino |
So it be not from hate I am contented. |
| Nita |
To be contented with little, proves you a man of much virtue. |
| Martino |
When I have you, I am contented with much. |
| Nita |
That when is a wise insertion, signior; it saves you from shame and me from anger.—Hark! someone calls. |
| Martino |
None other but the wind; it is a kindly breeze, and grieves to hear how harsh a pretty maiden can be to the lover who adores her. |
| Nita |
Please your worship, I do not own a lover. |
| Martino |
Then mend your poverty, and accept one. |
| Nita |
I am no beggar to accept of alms. |
| Martino |
In this case, he who offers is the beggar. |
| Nita |
I am too young to wear a jewel of so much pretension. |
| Martino |
Time is a cure for youth, and marriage a happy speeder of time. |
| Nita |
But youth needs no cure, and if marriage speedeth time, I’ll live a maid and die one. The days run swift enough without goading, Signior Martino. |
| Martino |
But lady— |
| Nita |
Nay, your tongue will outstrip time, if you put not a curb upon it. In faith, signior, I would not seem rude, but if in your courtesy you would consent to woo some other maiden today, why I would strive and bear it. |
| Martino |
—When I stoop to woo any other lady than thee, the moon shall hide its face from the earth, and shine upon it no more. |
| Nita |
Your thoughts are daring in their flight today. |
| Martino |
They are in search of your love. |
| Nita |
Alack, your wings will fail. |
| Martino |
Ay, when they reach their goal. |
| Nita |
Dost think to reach it? |
| Martino |
Shall I not, lady? |
| Nita |
’Tis hard to believe it possible, yet who can tell? You are not so handsome, signior, that one would die for you. |
| Martino |
No, lady; but what goes to make other men’s faces fair, goes to make my heart great. The virtue of my manhood rests in the fact that I love you. |
| Nita |
Faith! so in some others. ’Tis the common fault of the gallants, I find. If that is all— |
| Martino |
But I will always love you, even unto death. |
| Nita |
I doubt it not, so death come soon enough. |
| Martino |
Taps his poniard with his hand.—Would you have it come now, and so prove me true to my word? |
| Nita |
Demurely. I am no judge, to utter the doom that your presumption merits. |
| Martino |
Your looks speak doom, and your sweet lips hide a sword keener than that of justice. |
| Nita |
Have you tried them, signior, that you speak so knowingly concerning them? (Retreating. Your words, methinks, are somewhat like your kisses, all breath and no substance. |
| Martino |
Lady! sweet one! Follows her. |
| Nita |
Nay, I am gone. Exit. |
| Martino |
I were of the fools’ fold, did I fail to follow at a beck so gentle. Exit. |
That was not all, but it was all that Mr. Sylvester heard. Hastily retreating, he went out into the corridor and ere long found himself in the conservatory. He felt shaken; felt that he could not face all this unmoved. He knew he had been gazing at a play; that because this Florentine maiden looked at her lover with coyness, gentleness, tenderness perhaps, it did not follow that she, his Paula, loved the real man behind this dashing cavalier. But the possibility was there, and in his present frame of mind could not be encountered without pain. He dared not stay where men’s eyes could follow him, or women’s delicate glances note the heaving of his chest. He had in the last three hours given himself over so completely to hope. He realized it now though he would not have believed it before. With man’s usual egotism he had felt that it was only necessary for him to come to a decision, to behold all else fall out according to his mind. He had forgotten for the nonce the power of a youthful lover, eager to serve, ready to wait, careful to press his way at every advantage. He could have cursed himself for the folly of his delay, as he strode up and down among the flowering shrubs in the solitude which the attractions of the play created. “Fool! fool!” he muttered between his teeth, “to halt on the threshold of Paradise till the door closed in my face, when a step would have carried me where—” He grew dizzy as he contemplated. The goal looks never so fair as when just within reach of a rival’s hand.
A vigorous clapping, followed by a low gush of music, woke him at last to the realization that the little drama had terminated. With a hasty movement he was about to return to the parlors, when he heard the low murmur of voices, and on looking up, saw a youthful couple advancing into the conservatory, whom at first glance he recognized for Bertram and Miss Stuyvesant. They were absorbed in each other, and believing themselves alone, came on without fear, presenting such a picture of love and deep, unspeakable joy, that Mr. Sylvester paused and
