University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Nurse,
alone.
Her mother trusted me, and I am bound
By hearty promises to cherish her.
And yet, what can I further? When I've seen
She had no other than a sister's joy
In Rudolf's company, I did rejoice.
'Twas a short-sighted joy. If she must wed him:—
O! in a loveless marriage her pure heart
Will break or wither:—if she must, her love
Had blest herself, and his so common nature
Perhaps had from its warmth some brightness caught.
She comes. With what a gait the light-limb'd child
Steps into womanhood.
(Enter Ada and falls on her neck.)
What hast thou Ada? Whence this gush of tears?

Ada.
I've heard such words.

Nurse.
From whom?

Ada.
My uncle.

Nurse.
(Eagerly.)
Ha!
What said he?

Ada.
Naught distinctly. 'Twas as if
His heart held audible converse with itself.
And what it utter'd were not meant for ears,
So terrible and wild the wo-fraught sounds.
And then he turn'd to me, and words he spake,
So full of love, so tender and so solemn,
That terror calm'd to awe: and then he left us.

Nurse.
Who heard him else?

Ada.
Rupert, the stranger, whom
He will not let depart, holding his ear
With speech most strangely mingled.
(Enter Countess.)
Leave us awhile— (to the nurse.)

(Exit Nurse.)
Ada, that thou hast been
In all the offices of love my child,
So swells my foster'd wish to call thee daughter
By holier title, that each hour since thou
Gav'st free consent to bless me with this right
Seems robbing us of rightful happiness.
I come to name thy nuptial day.

Ada.
Not now;
O! no, dear aunt, not now.

Countess.
And why not now?

Ada.
My thoughts are not familiar yet with marriage.
I'm still so young:—this is too sudden.

Countess.
Ada,
This modesty, the graceful badge of youth,
Would well become thee, had not habit smooth'd
The path for thee from maidenhood to wifehood.
Happier art thou than many of thy years
Who do with unaccustom'd strangers wed,
Rashly surrendering their virgin rights,
Induc'd by some one of the countless needs
To which our vext estate is liable;
Or greenly cheated by the wheedling shows
Of tongue or form, us women's bane. But thou,
No rude necessity hath wrench'd thy will
To hasty resolution; partial fortune
For thee has made conjunct all circumstances
Which do illuminate the marriage rite.
Thy vows will crown a whole life's expectation;
So that the future will but be the past
With deeper colours dy'd, the child's gay sports
Exalted to the joys of womanhood.
The titles, husband, wife, 'twixt thee and Rudolf
Will be the natural flowers of ripe affection.

Ada.
Wife—husband—

Countess.
Wherefore with such tristful mien
Dost thou re-sound these love-born epithets,—
The symbols of this loose world's harmony,
And echoes to that fruitful voice which through
Rude nature's everlasting discord sends
Perpetual music.

Ada.
Madam, I beseech you,
Hold me not bound by undeliberate words.
I cannot wed your son.

Countess.
Ha! child, dost know
What, who, and where thou art? Are reverence,
Authority and custom all extinct,
And girls' caprices in the world ascendant?
Thy breach of faith dost think will make a breach
In nature's rule?

Ada.
O! speak not to me thus.
I am not worth your anger.

Countess.
Ada, I
Have shar'd on thee my love. Thou wast so early
And dearly on my lonely stem engrafted,
That every pulse of my maternal heart,
Fully to thee as to my body's fruit,
Perfecting nourishment propell'd. To me
This double growth it was a double blessing;
For on the present joy hope built a higher;
And thou, my daily comfort, shone afar
A coming solace in that dim decline,
When disappointments, like deferred duns
Or sharks about a wreck, troup at the close.
In thee I was to triumph over fear,
And flout at cozening hope, made whole through thee
For multiplied defraudments. Wilt thou now,
When the rich hour is nigh to which slow time,
On wings storm-drench'd or faint with anxious toil,
Hath lifted me,—wilt thou from this high moment
Down hurl me, snatching from my outstretch'd arms
All that my mother's heart long years hath yearn'd for.
Thou can'st not,—thou whom I have holp to climb
From infancy to exulting womanhood—
Me thou willt not hurl back, in one hard instant
Rending my breast with the tempestuous ebb
Of years! My gentle child, thou wilt not?—Speak.

Ada.
Mother! Thy child has need of thee. Look down
From thy calm resting place. Breathe on me here
The spirit of thy love. Make fruitful now
Thy blessing,—all Heav'n will'd me have on earth
From thee. Ye Heavens, who teach us pity, let
An orphan's prayer mount up to your high precincts
And touch a mother's ear.

Countess.
Look hither, Ada;
I am your mother.

Ada.
I'm alone.

Countess.
Dear child,
Have I not cherish'd thee? What hast thou wanted?

Ada.
I owe you much; more than I can requite.
I knew not how much till to-day.

Countess.
Thou can'st
Re-pay a hundred fold.

Ada.
And by the act
Make worthless what should give it value.

Countess.
Ada,
Thou'rt not what thou hast been.

Ada.
I am a woman;
And I should wrong my mother and myself,
Did I not know my rights of womanhood.

Countess.
Is faithlessness one of thy new found rights?

Ada.
Reproach me not: I merit no reproaches.

(Going.)
Countess.
Ada,—Ada! (Exit Ada.)
She has a will,—
I have one too. Margaret.
(Enter Nurse.)
Say to Count Rudolf,
I would speak with him in my chamber.

(Exit.)
Nurse.
(Alone.)
The air is black and thick about this house.
O! my soft child, must thou confront a tempest?
Well, I believe the good, they suffer least.
One friend too thou shalt have.

(Exit.)