The Count of Narbonne Part 4

_Adel._ Oh, most cruel!

And, were he not my father, I could rail; Call him unworthy of thy wondrous virtues; Blind, and unthankful, for the greatest blessing Heaven's ever-bounteous hand could shower upon him.

_Countess._ No, Adelaide; we must subdue such thoughts: Obedience is thy duty, patience mine.

Just now, with stern and peremptory briefness, He bade me seek my daughter, and dispose her To wed, by his direction.

_Adel._ The saints forbid!

To wed by his direction! Wed with whom?

_Countess._ I know not whom. He counsels with himself.

_Adel._ I hope he cannot mean it.

_Countess._ 'Twas his order.

_Adel._ O madam! on my knees----

_Countess._ What would my child?

Why are thy hands thus rais'd? Why stream thine eyes?

Why flutters thus thy bosom? Adelaide, Speak to me! tell me, wherefore art thou thus?

_Adel._ Surprise and grief--I cannot, cannot speak.

_Countess._ If 'tis a pain to speak, I would not urge thee.

But can my Adelaide fear aught from me?

Am I so harsh?

_Adel._ Oh no! the kindest, best!

But, would you save me from the stroke of death, If you would not behold your daughter, stretch'd, A poor pale corse, and breathless at your feet, Oh, step between me and this cruel mandate!

_Countess._ But this is strange!--I hear your father's step: He must not see you thus: retire this moment.

I'll come to you anon.

_Adel._ Yet, ere I go, O make the interest of my heart your own; Nor, like a senseless, undiscerning thing, Incapable of choice, nor worth the question, Suffer this hasty transfer of your child: Plead for me strongly, kneel, pray, weep for me; And angels lend your tongue the power to move him!

[_Exit._

_Countess._ What can this mean, this ecstacy of pa.s.sion!

Can such reluctance, such emotions, spring From the mere nicety of maiden fear?

The source is in her heart; I dread to trace it, Must then a parent's mild authority Be turn'd a cruel engine, to inflict Wounds on the gentle bosom of my child?

And am I doom'd to register each day But by some new distraction?--Edmund! Edmund!

In apprehending worse even than thy loss, My sense, confused, rests on no single grief; For that were ease to this eternal pulse, Which, throbbing here, says, blacker fates must follow;

_Enter COUNT and AUSTIN, meeting._

_Count._ Welcome, thrice welcome! By our holy mother, My house seems hallow'd, when thou enter'st it.

Tranquillity and peace dwell ever round thee; That robe of innocent white is thy soul's emblem, Made visible in unstain'd purity.

Once more thy hand.

_Aust._ My daily task has been, So to subdue the frailties we inherit, That my fair estimation might go forth, Nothing for pride, but to an end more righteous: For, not the solemn trappings of our state, Tiaras, mitres, nor the pontiff's robe, Can give such grave authority to priesthood, As one good deed of grace and charity.

_Count._ We deem none worthier. But to thy errand!

_Aust._ I come commission'd from fair Isabel.

_Count._ To me, or to the Countess?

_Aust._ Thus, to both.

For your fair courtesy, and entertainment, She rests your thankful debtor. You, dear lady, And her sweet friend, the gentle Adelaide, Have such a holy place in all her thoughts, That 'twere irreverence to waste her sense In wordy compliment.

_Countess._ Alas! where is she?

Till now I scarce had power to think of her; But 'tis the mournful privilege of grief, To stand excus'd from kind observances, Which else, neglected, might be deem'd offence.

_Aust._ She dwells in sanctuary at Saint Nicholas': Why she took refuge there----

_Count._ Retire, Hortensia.

I would have private conference with Austin, No second ear must witness.

_Countess._ May I not, By this good man, solict her return?

_Count._ Another time; it suits not now.--Retire.

[_Exit COUNTESS._

You come commission'd from fair Isabel?

_Aust._ I come commission'd from a greater power, The Judge of thee, and Isabel, and all.

The offer of your hand in marriage to her, With your propos'd divorce from that good lady, That honour'd, injur'd lady, you sent hence, She has disclos'd to me.

_Count._ Which you approve not: So speaks the frowning prelude of your brow.

_Aust._ Approve not! Did I not protest against it, With the bold fervour of enkindled zeal, I were the pander of a love, like incest; Betrayer of my trust, my function's shame, And thy eternal soul's worst enemy.

_Count._ Yet let not zeal, good man, devour thy reason.

Hear first, and then determine. Well you know, My hope of heirs has perish'd with my son; Since now full seventeen years, the unfruitful curse Has fallen upon Hortensia. Are these signs, (Tremendous signs, that startle Nature's order!) Graves casting up their sleepers, earth convuls'd, Meteors that glare my children's timeless deaths, Obscure to thee alone?--I have found the cause.

There is no crime our holy church abhors, Not one high Heaven more strongly interdicts, Than that commixture, by the marriage rite, Of blood too near, as mine is to Hortensia.

_Aust._ Too near of blood! oh, specious mockery!

Where have these doubts been buried twenty years?

Why wake they now? And am I closetted To sanction them? Take back your hasty words, That call'd me wise or virtuous; while you offer Such shallow fictions to insult my sense, And strive to win me to a villain's office.

_Count._ The virtue of our churchmen, like our wives, Should be obedient meekness. Proud resistance, Bandying high looks, a port erect and bold, Are from the canon of your order, priest.

Learn this, for here will I be teacher, Austin; Our temporal blood must not be stirr'd thus rudely: A front that taunts, a scanning, scornful brow, Are silent menaces, and blows unstruck.

_Aust._ Not so, my lord; mine is no priestly pride: When I put off the habit of the world, I had lost all that made it dear to me, And shook off, to my best, its heat and pa.s.sions.

But can I hold in horror this ill deed, And dress my brow in false approving smiles?

No: could I carry lightning in my eye, Or roll a voice like thunder in your ears, So should I suit my utterance to my thoughts, And act as fits my sacred ministry.

_Count._ O father! did you know the conflict here; How love and conscience are at war within me; Most sure, you would not treat my grief thus harshly.