University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

Chamber of the Baroness.
The Baroness on a couch. Ellen and Ursula.
BARONESS.
Take the lamp farther from me, Ursula,
And set the hour-glass in its place. It is
The good old moralist, no whit the worse
For being so old. Mark when the sand is spent:
We may not hear the clock. Our safer wisdom
Is left behind in search of something strange—
Not new, but lost awhile, and so forgot.
This lesson is of both worlds, numbering time
Rather for what it ends in, than itself.
Still stands the image graven on our tombs—
And, if we trust the sculptor, it comprises
Half of death's wealth and furniture. Who placed
These pillows where I wished them?—Barbara?

ELLEN.
Are they uneasy?—it was I.

BARONESS.
No, child—
Sickness so nursed is kin to luxury.
Then Barbara did forget them?

ELLEN.
Yes.

BARONESS.
I feared so.
You two are not forgetful. Ursula,
I shall release thee soon, so stay thou near me—
Be with me at the last—but keep her hence—
Let her not see me die.

ELLEN.
Forgive her this;
She is unhappy that you love her not.
We told her that she might be spared to-night,
So far the fault is ours.

URSULA.
I told her so.

ELLEN.
Speak in the morning kindly to her.

BARONESS.
Well—
Nay, God forbid that I should speak unkindly!
Have I seemed harsh of late?

URSULA.
Even less than ever:
Yet should I feel unhappy were I Barbara.

BARONESS.
She will be easily pacified! It is
But little sign of charity to say so—
In truth I cannot love her. There appears
No right agreement 'twixt her lips and eyes.
Sickness is superstitious.

ELLEN.
We put by
Something to be reminded of.

BARONESS.
Ay, now.

ELLEN.
When speech is easier I will ask again:
Rest till to-morrow come.

BARONESS.
It never may.
We must not wait for morrows. Watch in turns.
I make the burden heavier through my scruples—
Yet send me not this Barbara. Go, and sleep:
God grant thee peace like mine, good Ursula!
[Exit Ursula.
I leave some signs of love for both these girls;
But not alike, nor do thou trust alike.
Thy mother's little wisdom still grows less:
And yet she cares not—it will last while she does:
'Twere better risk ill thoughts of it, than hide
What haply might bring comfort if believed.
Sit nearer; let me see thee while I may—
Last night I saw thy brothers, Babe.

ELLEN.
In dreams?

BARONESS.
Ay, dreams—sick fool!—a babbler of her dreams!
Yet such they were as well endured the waking.
Day's brightest certainties grow dim beside them!
Wouldst hear, to pity me?

ELLEN.
I know the less,
Since tales which others told were hushed by you.
My mother did not credit this before?

BARONESS.
At least she did not teach it thee. There is
But One to fear, yet hope for. If there hide
Aught else behind the veil which parts from death,
We must not seek it yet. What I shall tell thee
May be believed in, or may not—it bears
No sacred warrant with it—take or leave it—
It makes thy mother happier.

ELLEN.
Teach it me!

BARONESS.
What dost thou know already, Babe? Speak first.
Tell me the truth—thou hearest it every day.
It is the castle's whisper now—the text
Whence Ursula draws her homilies. When death
Is in, or near, the house, we all remember.

ELLEN.
Who dies at Rolandseck awakes the next
Who is to die?

BARONESS.
Who dies in charity.
Go on—What else hast learnt?

ELLEN.
The happiest they
To whom the vision chances more than once.

BARONESS.
More than one message, or one messenger,
Is blessed, but rare—as given in grace, not terror.
There is, beside, a prophecy—what is it?

ELLEN.
Three called, and one called thrice—shall be the last.
It ends our line.

BARONESS.
Thou hast been truly taught,
Yet pay not Ursula back with what I tell thee.

ELLEN.
You saw my brothers?

BARONESS.
Ay, methinks I did.

ELLEN.
They died too young for visions.

BARONESS.
Who knows that?
They died too young to tell us of them, child.
Didst hear the priory clock strike twelve last night?
I did, who slept.

ELLEN.
It struck, and loudly too—
The casements were unclosed.

BARONESS.
Didst ever count
So many, and so truly, in thy sleep?
These were not dreams—Bring me some water, babe.
At last this speaking wearies me. Sit near—
Look to the hour-glass ere the sand run out;
Let us both pray at midnight.

ELLEN.
It is gone!
Midnight is passed already! while we spoke
The sand is spent:—Asleep! so suddenly—
I did not mark the clock—How still she lies!
The bosom rises with the breath, or else
These slumbers would affright me! O my mother!
Patience so meek as thine and charity
Are surer guidance to the hope beyond
Than aught in dreams. This weariness overcomes me—
I will not sleep—but pray for both—not sleep—

(She leans upon the couch above her mother and sleeps. A distant clock slowly strikes twelve. The chamber becomes lighter—then soft music, as if in the air, and voices.)

The heart of grief is breaking—come to rest!
Look back no more, since leaving what thou hast,
Is not forsaking.
Come, then, twice-called! the meek are blessed
With calmer sleep when this is past—
With happier waking.
The veil is fallen—Faith's innocent fraud confessed—
All which life loves and loses lives at last—
The heart is breaking!