 | Count Julian |  |
SCENE I.
A Room in the Castle.Ada. Nurse.
Ada.
You say Count Julian was not always thus?
Nurse.
When he was young no face was joyfuller.
Ada.
My books would teach me, how, what are at first
The dimpled shadows of a sunny smile,
Harden with years to delving wrinkles; and
I almost feel 'tis so. I laugh not, Nurse,
So much as I was wont.
Nurse.
Why dost thou not?
Ada.
I know not why. And yet, I would not think
My best of happiness is past. I'd rather
Take from the present than I'd lose my dreams
Of coming good by thinking them but cheats.
Nurse.
Think them not so; nor judge the world by what
This sad house shows.
Ada.
And if I would, I could not.
The vision of my broad-wing'd hopes I'll trust
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What if Count Rudolf too grow melancholy,
My glad imaginings will hardly keep
Their promises.
Nurse.
'Tis certain then he weds thee?
Ada.
My aunt has always told me so.
Nurse.
Has he
Yet spoken of his love?
Ada.
To me he has not,
But to the Countess often.
Nurse.
Would'st thou not
He spake himself?
Ada.
'Tis little that I have
To answer to his mother when she talks
Of marriage to me. My unpractis'd thoughts
Would scarce find words for him. I would he were
My brother.
Nurse.
O! I wish he were.
Ada.
Why, Nurse,
Thou say'st that with so sad a voice. It was
A childish thought.
Nurse.
Thou art a child no longer.
Ada.
Thou fright'st me. Do not speak so solemnly.
I still may be a child with thee; for thou
Didst always joy so in my childishness,
That ever when these gloomy walls have spoilt
My lonely play, I've sought thee to renew
Glad thoughts.
Nurse.
Sweet child! How thou dost drive away
All sadness from me. O! thus wert thou ever.
Thyself didst make the thoughts wherewith I met
Thy sportiveness or lulled thy little griefs.
I am thy servant only, Ada—
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Oh!
Thou art my mother. Thou hast nurs'd me, lov'd me,
Watch'd me to sleep; and when I've woke, thy eyes,
As though they'd known no rest, still gazed upon me,
Waiting to lead me through each playful day.
But tell me,—thou hast promis'd me thou would'st,—
What threw me on thy tending? What mischance,
Whose peril thy kind love has turn'd aside,
Made me an orphan e'er I'd known the voice
Of father, mother?
Nurse.
Thine was but, alas!
The lot of many, whose bereavement crowds
The world with misery. Thy father fell
In battle, and thy mother died of grief
For him.
Ada.
O! my poor mother!
Nurse.
Thou wert then
An unwean'd infant, sleeping by her side.
‘Margaret,’ she whisper'd me, ‘Thou'lt love my child?’
'Twas her last breath,—and when thou wok'st, thou cried'st,
To see me weeping over thee.
Ada.
And thou
Hast lov'd me, dearly as I'd been thine own.
Nurse.
The Countess, thy brave father's sister, was
Thy natural guardian. Hither she did bring thee
Under her husband's roof to rear thee up
And be a playmate to their son. Thou cam'st
Unto a mournful house.
Ada.
The sudden death
Of the Count's nephew—
Nurse.
Hist! thou must not speak
Of that.
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Ha! wherefore not?
Nurse.
I know not wherefore; but
When once, years afterward, I spoke of it,
The Countess sternly chid me, bidding me
Be silent, with such chilling cloudiness,
That since, the recollection of that night
Has weigh'd upon my mind more gloomily.
Ada.
What night?
Nurse.
When the poor child was lost.
Ada.
Was lost?
Nurse.
One stormy evening he was miss'd. About
The battlements the wind drove sheets of rain,
Muffling the Castle bell, whose boding rattle
Summon'd the household. All that night and days
And weeks thereafter sought we for him vainly.
Since that the Count has ne'er been seen to smile.
But hither comes the Countess. What I've told thee
Bury it, Ada, in thy secret thoughts.
Enter Countess.
Countess.
My son not yet return'd? 'Tis not his wont
To stay abroad so long. The night falls fast
Upon the forest. Margaret, go, and learn
Whom he took with him to the hunt.
(Exit Nurse.)
I do
Dread ever some calamity when from
Their even course events turn off.
Ada.
Dear aunt,
Your fears are surely idle. Rudolf's prompt
And wary, and rides always well attended.
Nor time nor distance heeds the hunter. Hours
Leap through the day, the stag's fleet footsteps being
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To turn him homeward. Then, with slacken'd pace,
He measures back in weariness the path
He sped o'er in the morning buoyantly.
Countess.
To reason, Ada, thy suggestion's sound,
And for a brief half hour at least I will
Subject to it perforce a mother's fears,
Albeit unus'd to reason's mastery.
'Tis meet that thou should'st comfort me, my Ada,
For through thee comes in part my anxiousness.
Ada.
What mean you, aunt?
Countess.
Why is of late my son
So much addicted to these out-door sports?
Ada.
If not from nimbleness and strength of youth
That seek to spend themselves in manly games,
I know not truly.
Countess.
'Tis not this alone,
Dear Ada, that thus sends my Rudolf daily
Abroad for entertainment. Blood that stirs
The quickest yields most gently to love's influence;
And when a true affection meets cold answer—
Ada.
I am not cold to Rudolf, aunt. For if
I were 't would be a thankless disobedience
To thy desires 'gainst both my love and duty.
Countess.
Sweet Ada, thou art apt as gentle, and
In thee is apprehension quick to light
Compliant will. Therefore, let thy consent
(Whose ready willingness gives my long wishes
A keener edge at once and livelier hope)
Be grac'd with such concurring speech and bearing,
That the thick doubts that now perplex my son
May melt, and leave free to the lightsome joys
Of trusting love his heart.
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I will in all
Obey you, madam.
(A hunting horn heard.)
Countess.
'Tis Rudolf's horn, and never
Was welcomer its ever welcome sound.
Its blast, methinks, is livelier than is wont.
Or is it but my ear, attun'd, my Ada,
By thy sweet words that gives to it a music.
| Count Julian | |