Chapter 4Scene 3

Ismenia’s chamber. ISMENIA Brigida lingers. O, he has denied me And therefore she is loth to come, for she Knows she will bring me death. It is not so. He has detained her to return an answer. Yet I asked none. I am full of fear. O heart, I have staked thee upon a desperate cast, Which if I win not, I am miserable. ’Tis she. O that my hope could give her wings Or lift her through the window bodily To shorten this age of waiting. I could not Discern her look. Her steps sound hopefully. Enter Brigida. Dearest Brigida! at last! What says Antonio? Tell me quickly. Heavens! you look melancholy. BRIGIDA Santa Catarina! How weary I am! My ears too! I think they have listened to more nonsense in these twenty minutes than in all their natural eighteen years before. Sure, child, thou hast committed some unpardonable sin to have such a moonstruck lover as this Antonio. ISMENIA But, Brigida! BRIGIDA And his shadow too, his Cerberus of wit who guards this poetical treasure. He would have eaten me, I think, if I had not given him

The Maid in the Mill the wherewithal to stop the three mouths of him. ISMENIA Why, Brigida, Brigida. BRIGIDA Saints! to think how men lie! I have heard this Basil reputed loudly for the Caesar of wits, the tongue and laughter of the time; but never credit me, child, if I did not silence him with a few stale pertnesses a market-girl might have devised for her customers. A wit, truly! and not a word in his mouth bullet-head Pedro could not better. ISMENIA Distraction! What is this to Antonio? Sure, your wits are bewil- dered, Brigida. What said Antonio? Girl, I am on thorns. BRIGIDA I am coming to that as fast as possible. Jesus! What a burning hurry you are in, Ismenia! You have not your colour, child. I will bring you sal volatile from my chamber. ’Tis in a marvellous cut bottle with a different hue to each facet! I filched it from Donna Clara’s room when she was at matins yesterday. ISMENIA Tell me, you magpie, tell me. BRIGIDA What am I doing else? You must know I found Antonio was in his garden. Oh, did I tell you, Ismenia? Donna Clara chooses the seeds for me this season and I think she has as rare a notion of nasturtiums as any woman living. I was speaking to Pedro in the summer house yesterday; for you remember it thundered terrifically before one had time to know light from darkness; and there I stood miles from the garden door —

Act I, Scene 3 ISMENIA In the name of pity, Brigida. BRIGIDA Saints! how you hurry me. Well, when I went to Antonio in his garden — There’s an excellent garden, Ismenia. I wonder where Don Beltran’s gardener had his bignonias. ISMENIA Oh-h-h! BRIGIDA Well, where was I? Oh, giving the letter to Antonio. Why, would you believe it, in thrust Don Wit, Don Cerberus, Don Subtle- three-mouths. ISMENIA Will you tell me, you ogress, you paragon of tyrannesses, you she-Nero, you compound of impossible cruelties? BRIGIDA Saints, what have I done to be abused so? I was coming to it faster than a mail-coach and four. You would not be so unconscionable as to ask me for the appendage of a story, all tail and nothing to hang it on? Well, Antonio took the letter. ISMENIA Yes, yes and what answer gave he? BRIGIDA He looked all over the envelope to see whence it came, dis- sertated learnedly on this knotty question, abused me your handwriting foully. ISMENIA Dear cousin, sweet cousin, excellent Brigida! On my knees, I entreat you, do not tease me longer. Though I know you would

The Maid in the Mill not do it, if all were not well, yet consider what a weak tremulous thing is the heart of woman when she loves and have pity on me. On my knees, sweetest. BRIGIDA Why, Ismenia, I never knew you so humble in my life, — save indeed to your brother; but him indeed I do not reckon. He would rule even me if I let him. On your knees, too! This is excellent. May I be lost, if I am not tempted to try how long I can keep you so. But I will be merciful. Well, he scanned your handwriting and reviled it for the script of a virago, an Amazon. ISMENIA Brigida, if you will not tell me directly, without phrase and plainly, just what I want to know and nothing else, by heaven, I will beat you. BRIGIDA Now, this is foul. Can you not keep your better mood for fifty seconds by the clock? O temper, temper. Ah well, where was I? Oh yes, your handwriting. Oh! Oh! Oh! What mean you, cousin? Lord deliver me. Cousin! Cousin! He will come! He will come! He will come! ISMENIA Does he love me? BRIGIDA Madly! distractedly! like a moonstruck natural! Saints! ISMENIA Dearest, dearest Brigida! You are an angel. How can I thank you? BRIGIDA Child, you have thanked me out of breath already. If you have not dislocated my shoulder and torn half my hair out.

Act I, Scene 3 ISMENIA Hear her, the Pagan! A gentle physical agitation and some rear- rangement of tresses, ’twas less punishment than you deserved. But there! that is salve for you. And now be sober, sweet. What said Antonio? Come, tell me. I am greedy to know. BRIGIDA I’ll be hanged if I do. Besides I could not if I would. He talked poetry. ISMENIA But did he not despise me for my forwardness? BRIGIDA Tut, you are childish. But to speak the bare fact, Ismenia, I think he is most poetically in love with you. He made preparations to swoon when he no more than saw your name; but I build nothing on that; there are some faint when they smell a pinch of garlic or spy a cockchafer. But he wasted ten minutes copying your letter into his heart or some such note-book of love affairs; yet that was nothing either; I doubt if he found room for you, unless on the margin. Then he began drawing cheques on Olympus for comparisons, left that presently as antique and out of date, confounded Ovid and his breviary in the same quest; left that too for mediaeval, and diverged into Light and Heat, but came not to the very modernness of electricity. But Lord! Cousin, what a career he ran! He had imagined himself blind and breathless when I stopped him. I tremble to think what calamities might have ensued, had I not thrown myself under the wheels of his metaphor. The upshot is, he loves you, worships you and will come to you. ISMENIA O Brigida, Brigida, be you as happy as you have made me. BRIGIDA Truly, the happiness of lovers, children with a new plaything and

The Maid in the Mill mad to handle it. But when they are tired of the game — No, I’ll be the type and patroness of all spinsters and the noble army of old maids shall gather about my tomb to do homage to me. ISMENIA And he will come tonight? BRIGIDA Yes, if his love lasts so long. ISMENIA For a thousand years. Come with me, Brigida, and help me to bear my happiness. Till tonight!