Mary [aside].
Weights, weights! [Exit Dickon.]
[Herbert looks about him, opens the door of the taproom, grows troubled. She watches him with dissatisfaction, seeming to warm her feet by the fire meanwhile.]
Herbert [apart].
I know this place. We used to come
Together, he and I ...
Mary [apart]. Forgot again.
O the capricious tides, the hateful calms,
And the too eager ship that would be gone
Adventuring against uncertain winds,
For some new, utmost sight of Happy Isles!
Becalmed,—becalmed ... But I will break this calm.
[She sees the lute on the table, crosses and takes it up, running her fingers over the strings very softly. She sits.]
Herbert.
Ah, mermaid, is it you?
Mary. Did you sail far?
Herbert.
Not I; no, sooth. [Crossing to her.]
Mermaid, I would not think.
But you—
Mary.
I think not. I remember nothing.
There's nothing in the world but you and me;
All else is dust. Thou shalt not question me;
Or if,—but as a sphinx in woman-shape:
And when thou fail'st at answer, I shall turn,
And rend thy heart and cast thee from the cliff.
[She leans her head back against him, and he kisses her.]
So perish all who guess not what I am!...
Oh, but I know you: you are April-Days.
Nothing is sure, but all is beautiful!
[She runs her fingers up the strings, one by one, and listens, speaking to the lute.]