University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The apartment of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat, her elbows resting on her lap, and her face covered with her clasped hands. She raises her head suddenly, listens for a moment, and then springs from her seat.
Countess.
I am not now deceived.
[Goes to the door and listens, then returns.
I heard his steps,—
Yea, and his voice,—and it was nothing. Ah!
My mind and senses so confused are grown,
That all this wretchedness seems like a dream;
A dream, alas! from which there is no waking.
I hear him now: it is a distant step:
I may be yet deceived.
[Going near the door, and listening again.
It is, it is!
Heav'n give me strength! my trial is at hand!

Enter Garcio, who approaches her, and then stopping short, gazes at her sadly, while she stands with her eyes fixed on the ground.
Gar.
Marg'ret, I thought—I hoped—I hoped—I was persuaded
The farewell yearnings of a broken heart
Would move thee to some pity of my state;
But that averted face, that downcast eye,—
There is abhorrence in it.

Countess.
O no! I fear'd to look; 'tis not abhorrence.

[Raises her eyes to him, and shrinks back.
Gar.
What moves thee thus?

Countess.
Alas! thou'rt greatly alter'd:
So pale thy cheek, thine eyes so quench'd and sunk!
Hath one short night so changed thee?

Gar.
A night spent in the tossings of despair,
When the fierce turmoil of contending passions
To deepest self-abasement and contrition,
Sabside;—a night in which I have consented
To tear my bosom up—to rend in twain
Its dearest, only ties—ay, such a night
Works on the mortal frame the scath of years.

Countess.
Alas! thy frame will feel, I fear, too soon
The scath of years. Sorrow and sickness then
Will bow thee down, while cold unkindly strangers
Neglect thy couch, nor give thee needful succour.

Gar.
And wherefore grieve for this? So much the better:
They least befriend the wretched who retard
The hour of his relcase.—Why should I live
If heav'n accept my penitence? Hath earth
Aught still to raise a wish, or gleam the path
Of one so darken'd round with misery?

Countess.
Nay, say not so: thy child, thy boy, to see him
In strength and stature grown,—would not this tempt thee
To wish some years of life?

Gar.
Others shall rear him; others mark his change
From the sweet cherub to the playful boy;
Shall, with such pity as an orphan claims,
Share in his harmless sports and catch his love;
While I, if that I live and am by heav'n
Permitted, coming as a way-worn stranger,
At distant intervals, to gaze upon him,
And strain him to my heart, shall from his eye
The cold and cheerless stare of wonderment
Instead of love receive.

Countess.
O think not so! he shall be taught to love thee;
He shall be taught to lisp thy name, and raise
His little hands to heav'n for blessings on thee
As one most dear, though absent.

Gar.
I do believe that thou wilt teach him so.
I know that in my lonely state of penitence,
Sever'd from earthly bliss, I to thy mind
Shall be like one whom death hath purified.
O that, indeed, or death or any suff'rings,
By earthly frame or frameless spirit endured,
Could give me such a nature as again
Might be with thine united!
Could I but forward look and trust to this,
Whatever suff'rings of a lengthen'd life
Before me lay, would be to me as nothing;
As the rough billows of some stormy frith,
Upon whose further shore fair regions smile;
As the rent shroudings of a murky cloud,
Through which the mountain traveller, as he bends
His mantled shoulders to the pelting storm,
Sees sunny brightness peer. Could I but think—

Countess.
Think it! believe it! with a rooted faith,
Trust to it surely. Deep as thy repentance,
Aspiring be thy faith!

Gar.
Ay, were my faith
Strong as my penitence, 'twere well indeed.
My scourge and bed of earth would then be temper'd
Almost to happiness.

Countess.
Thy scourge and bed of earth! alas, alas!
And meanst thou then to wreak upon thyself
Such cruel punishment? O no, my Garcio!
God doth accept the sorrow of the heart
Before all studied penance. 'Tis not well:
Where'er thou art, live thou with worthy men,
And as becomes thy state.

Gar.
No; when from hence a banish'd man I go;
I'll leave behind me all my crime did purchase.
Deprived of thee, its first and dearest meed,
Shall I retain its base and paltry earnings
To live with strangers more regarded? No;
Poor as I was when first my luckless steps
This fatal threshold pass'd,—I will depart.

Countess.
And wilt thou then a houseless wand'rer be?
Shall I, in warm robe wrapp'd, by winter fire
List to the pelting blast, and think the while
Of thy unshelter'd head?—
Or eat my bread in peace, and think that Garcio—
Reduce me not to such keen misery.

[Bursting into an agony of tears.
Gar.
And dost thou still feel so much pity for me?
Retain I yet some portion of thy love?
O, if I do! I am not yet abandon'd
To utter reprobation.
[Falling at her feet, and embracing her knees.
Margaret! wife!
May I still call thee by that name so dear?

Countess
(disentangling herself from his hold, and removing to some distance).
O, leave me, leave me! for heav'n's mercy leave me!

Gar.
following her, and bending one knee to the ground).
Marg'ret, beloved wife! keenly beloved!

Countess.
Oh, move me not! forbear, forbear in pity!
Fearful, and horrible, and dear thou art!
Both heaven and hell are in thee! Leave me then,—
Leave me to do that which is right and holy.

Gar.
Yes, what is right and holy thou shalt do;
Stain'd as I am with blood,—with kindred blood,
How could I live with thee? O do not think
I basely seek to move thee from thy purpose.
O, no! Farewell, most dear and honoured Marg'ret!
Yet, ere I go, couldst thou without abhorrence—

[Pauses.
Countess.
What wouldst thou, Garcio?

Gar.
If but that hand beloved were to my lips
Once more in parting press'd, methinks I'd go
With lighten'd misery.—Alas! thou canst not!
Thou canst not to such guilt—

Countess.
I can! I will!
And heaven in mercy pardon me this sin,
If sin it be.

[Embraces him, and after weeping on his neck, breaks suddenly away and exit, while Garcio stands gazing after her.
Gar.
Have I not seen my last?—I've seen my last.
Then wherefore wait I here?—
The world before me lies.—a desert world,
In which a banish'd wand'rer I must be.
[A pause.
Wander from hence, and leave her so defenceless
In these unruly times! I cannot do it!
I'll seem to go, yet hover near her still,
Like spell-bound spirit near th' embalmed dust
It can no more reanimate. Mine eyes
May see her distant form, mine ears may hear
Her sweet voice through the air, while she believes
Kingdoms or seas divide us.
The hermit is my friend, to him I'll go.
Rest for the present, eager crowding thoughts!
I must not linger here.

[Exit.