SCENE I.
A Chamber.
Adelaide discovered.
Adel. Woe treads on woe.—Thy life, my Theodore,
Thy threaten'd life, snatch'd from the impending stroke,
Just gave a moment's respite to my heart;
And now a mother's grief, with pangs more keen,
Wakes every throbbing sense, and quite o'erwhelms me.
Her soul wrapp'd up in his, to talk thus to her!
Divorce her, leave her, wed with Isabel,
And call on Heaven, to sanctify the outrage!
How could my father's bosom meditate
What savage tongues would falter even to speak?
But see, he comes——
Enter Austin and Jaqueline.
O let me bend to thank you;
In this extreme distress, from you alone
(For my poor heart is vain) can she hope comfort.
Aust. How heard she the ill tidings? I had hopes
His cooler reason would subdue the thought;
And Heaven, in pity to her gentle virtues,
Might spare her knowing, how he meant to wrong them.
Jaq. The rumour of the castle reach'd her first;
But his own lips confirm'd the barbarous secret.
Sternly, but now, he enter'd her apartment,
And, stamping, frown'd her women from her presence!
After a little while they had pass'd together,
His visage flush'd with rage and mingled shame,
He burst into the chamber where we waited,
Bade us return, and give our lady aid;
Then, covering his face with both his hands,
Went forth like one half-craz'd.
Adel. Oh good, kind father!
There is a charm in holy eloquence
(If words can medicine a pang like this)
Perhaps may sooth her. Sighs, and trickling tears,
Are all my love can give. As I kneel by her,
She gazes on me, clasps me to her bosom;
Cries out, My child! my child! then, rising quick,
Severely lifts her streaming eyes to heaven;
Laughs wildly, and half sounds my father's name;
Till, quite o'erpower'd, she sinks from my embrace,
While, like the grasp of death, convulsions shake her.
Aust. Remorseless man! this wound would reach her heart,
And when she falls, his last, best prop, falls with her,
And see, the beauteous mourner moves this way:
Time has but little injur'd that fair fabric;
But cruelty's hard stroke, more fell than time,
Works at the base, and shakes it to the centre.
Enter the Countess.
Countess. Will then, these dreadful sounds ne'er leave my ears?
Our marriage was accurs'd; too long we have liv'd
"In bonds forbid; think me no more thy husband;
The avenging bolt, for that incestuous name,
Falls on my house, and spreads the ruin wide."
These were his words.
Adel. Oh, ponder them no more!
Lo! where the blessed minister of peace,
He, whose mild counsels wont to charm your care,
Is kindly come to cheer your drooping soul;
And see, the good man weeps.
Countess. What! weep for me?
Aust. Ay, tears of blood from my heart's inmost core,
And count them drops of water from my eyes,
Could they but wash out from your memory
The deep affliction, you now labour with.
Countess. Then still there is some pity left in man:
I judg'd you all by him, and so I wrong'd you.
I would have told my story to the sea,
When it roar'd wildest; bid the lioness,
Robb'd of her young, look with compassion on me;
Rather than hoped in any form of man,
To find one drop of human gentleness.
Aust. Most honour'd lady!—
Countess. Pray you, come not near me.
I am contagion all! some wicked sin,
Prodigious, unrepented sin, has stain'd me.
Father, 'twould blast thee but to hear the crimes,
This woman, who was once the wife of Raymond,
This curs'd forsaken woman here, has acted.
Aust. What slanderous tongue dare thus profane your virtue?
Madam, I know you well; and, by my order,
Each day, each hour, of your unspotted life,
Might give as fair a lesson to the world,
As churchmen's tongues can preach, or saints could practise.
Countess. He charges me with all—Thou, poor Hortensia!
What guilt, prepost'rous guilt, is thine to answer!
Adel. In mercy, wound not thus your daughter's soul.
Aust. A villain or a madman might say this.
Countess. What shall I call him? He, who was my husband;
My child, thy father;—He'll disclaim thee too.
But let him cast off all the ties of nature,
Abandon us to grief and misery—
Still will I wander with thee o'er the world:
I will not wish my reason may forsake me,
Nor sweet oblivious dulness steep my sense,
While thy soft age may want a mother's care,
A mother's tenderness, to wake and guard thee.
Adel. And, if the love of your dear Adelaide,
Her reverence, duty, endless gratitude
For all your angel goodness, now can move you,
Oh, for my sake (lest quite you break my heart)
Wear but a little outside show of comfort;
A while pretend it, though you feel it not,
And I will bless you for deceiving me.
Countess. I know 'tis weakness—folly, to be mov'd thus;
And these, I hope, are my last tears for him.
Alas, I little knew, deluded wretch!
His riotous fancy glow'd with Isabel;
That not a thought of me possess'd his mind,
But coldness and aversion; how to shun me,
And turn me forth a friendless wanderer.
Aust. Lady, for your peace,
Think, conscience is the deepest source of anguish:
A bosom, free like yours, has life's best sunshine;
'Tis the warm blaze in the poor herdsman's hut;
That, when the storm howls o'er his humble thatch,
Brightens his clay-built walls, and cheers his soul.
Countess. O father, reason is for moderate sorrows;
For wounds which time has balm'd; but mine are fresh,
All bleeding fresh, and pain beyond my patience.
Ungrateful! cruel! how have I deserv'd it?
Thou tough, tough heart, break for my ease at once!
Aust. I scarce, methinks, can weigh him with himself;
Vexations strange, have fallen on him of late!
And his distemper'd fancy drives him on
To rash designs, where disappointment mads him.
Countess. Ah no! his wit is settled, and most subtle;
Pride and wild blood are his distemper, father.
But here I bid farewell to grief and fondness:
Let him go kneel, and sigh to Isabel:
And may he as obdurate find her heart,
As his has been to me.
Aust. Why, that's well said;—
'Tis better thus, than with consuming sorrow
To feed on your own life. Give anger scope:
Time, then, at length, will blunt this killing sense;
And peace, he ne'er must know again, be yours.
Countess. I was a woman, full of tenderness;
I am a woman, stung by injuries.
Narbonne was once my husband—my protector;
He was—what was he not?—He is my tyrant;
The unnatural tyrant of a heart, that lov'd him.
With cool, deliberate baseness, he forsakes me;
With scorn as steadfast shall my soul repay it.
Aust. You know the imminent danger threatens him,
From Godfrey's fearful claim?
Countess. Too well I know it;
A fearful claim indeed!
Aust. To-morrow's sun
Will see him at these gates; but trust my faith,
No violence shall reach you. The rash count
(Lost to himself) by force detains me here.
Vain is his force:—our holy sanctuary,
Whate'er betides, shall give your virtue shelter;
And peace, and piety, alone, approach you.
Countess. Oh, that the friendly bosom of the earth
Would close on me for ever!
Aust. These ill thoughts
Must not be cherish'd. That all righteous Power,
Whose hand inflicts, knows to reward our patience:
Farewell! command me ever as your servant,
And take the poor man's all, my prayers and blessing.
[Exit Austin.
Adel. Will you not strive to rest? Alas! 'tis long,
Since you have slept. I'll lead you to your couch;
And gently touch my lute, to wake some strain,
May aid your slumbers.
Countess. My sweet comforter!
I feel not quite forlorn, when thou art near me.
Adel. Lean on my arm.
Countess. No, I will in alone.
My sense is now unapt for harmony.
But go thou to Alphonso's holy shrine;
There, with thy innocent hands devoutly rais'd,
Implore his sainted spirit, to receive
Thy humble supplications; and to avert
From thy dear head, the still impending wrath,
For one black deed, that threatens all thy race.
[Exit Countess.
Adel. For thee my prayers shall rise, not for myself,
And every kindred saint will bend to hear me.
But, O my fluttering breast!—'Tis Theodore!
How sad, and earnestly, he views that paper!
It turns him pale. Beshrew the envious paper!
Why should it steal the colour from that cheek,
Which danger ne'er could blanch? He sees me not.
I'll wait; and should sad thoughts disturb his quiet,
If love has power, with love's soft breath dispel them.
[Exit Adelaide.
Enter Theodore, with a Paper.
Theod. My importunity at last has conquer'd:
Weeping, my father gave, and bade me read it.
"'Tis there," he cried, "the mystery of thy birth;
There, view thy long divorce from Adelaide."
Why should I read it? Why with rav'nous haste
Gorge down my bane? The worst is yet conceal'd;
Then wherefore, eager for my own destruction?
Inquire a secret, which, when known, must sink me?
My eye starts back from it; my heart stands still;
And every pulse, and motion of my blood,
With prohibition, strong as sense can utter,
Cries out, "Beware!"—But does my sight deceive?
Is it not she? Up, up, you black contents:
A brighter object meets my ravish'd eyes.
Now let the present moment, love, be thine!
For ill, come when it may, must come untimely.
Enter Adelaide.
Adel. Am I not here unwish'd for?
Theod. My best angel!
Were seas between us, thou art still where I am.
I bear thy precious image ever round me,
As pious men the relics they adore.
Scarce durst I hope to be so blest to see thee,
But could not wish a joy beyond thy presence.
Adel. O Theodore! what wondrous turns of fortune
Have given thee back to a dear parent's arms?
And spite of all the horrors which surround me,
And worse, each black eventful moment threatens,
My bosom glows with rapture at the thought
Thou wilt at last be bless'd.
Theod. But one way only
Can I be bless'd. On thee depends my fate.
Lord Raymond, harsh and haughty as he is,
And adverse to my father's rigid virtue,
When he shall hear our pure, unspotted vows,
Will yield thee to my wishes;—but, curs'd stars!
How shall I speak it?
Adel. What?
Theod. That holy man,
That Clarinsal, whom I am bound to honour,
Perversely bids me think of thee no more.
Adel. Alas! in what have I offended him?
Theod. Not so; he owns thy virtues, and admires them.
But with a solemn earnestness that kills me,
He urges some mysterious, dreadful cause,
Must sunder us for ever.
Adel. Oh, then fly me!
I am not worth his frown; begone this moment;
Leave me to weep my mournful destiny,
And find some fairer, happier maid, to bless thee.
Theod. Fairer than thee! Oh, heavens! the delicate hand
Of nature, in her daintiest mood, ne'er fashion'd
Beauty so rare. Love's roseate deity,
Fresh from his mother's kiss, breath'd o'er thy mould
That soft, ambrosial hue,—Fairer than thee!
'Twere blasphemy in any tongue but thine,
So to disparage thy unmatch'd perfections.
Adel. No, Theodore, I dare not hear thee longer;
Perhaps, indeed, there is some fatal cause.
Theod. There is not, cannot be. 'Tis but his pride,
Stung by resentment 'gainst thy furious father—
Adel. Ah no; he is too generous, just, and good,
To hate me for the offences of my father.
But find the cause. At good Alphonso's tomb
I go to offer up my orisons;
There bring me comfort, and dispel my fears;
Or teach me, (oh, hard thought!) to bear our parting.
[Exit Adelaide.
Theod. She's gone, and now, firm fortitude, support me!
For here I read my sentence; life or death.
[Takes out the Paper.
Thou art the grandson of the good Alphonso,
And Narbonne's rightful lord.—Ha! is it so?
Then has this boist'rous Raymond dar'd insult me,
Where I alone should rule:—yet not by that
Am I condemn'd to lose her. Thou damn'd scroll!
I fear thou hast worse poison for my eyes.
Long were the champions, bound for Palestine,
(Thy grandsire then their chief,) by adverse winds
Detain'd in Naples; where he saw, and lov'd,
And wedded secretly, Vicenza's daughter;
For, till the holy warfare should be clos'd,
They deem'd it wise to keep the rite conceal'd.
The issue of that marriage was thy mother;
But the same hour that gave her to the world,
For ever clos'd the fair one's eyes who bore her.
Foul treason next cut short thy grandsire's thread;
Poison'd he fell.—
[Theodore pauses, and Austin, who has been some time behind, advances.
Aust. By Raymond's felon father,
Who, adding fraud to murder, forg'd a will,
Devising to himself and his descendants,
Thy rights, thy titles, thy inheritance.
Theod. Then I am lost—
Aust. Now think, unkind young man,
Was it for naught I warn'd thee to take heed,
And smother in its birth this dangerous passion?
The Almighty arm, red for thy grandsire's murder,
Year after year has terribly been stretch'd
O'er all the land, but most this guilty race.
Theod. The murderer was guilty, not his race.
Aust. Great crimes, like this, have lengthen'd punishments.
Why speak the fates by signs and prodigies?
Why one by one falls this devoted line,
Accomplishing the dreadful prophecy,
That none should live to enjoy the fruits of blood?
But wave this argument.—Thou wilt be call'd
To prove thy right,
By combat with the Count.
Theod. In arms I'll meet him;
To-morrow, now.—
Aust. And, reeking with his blood,
Offer the hand, which shed it, to his daughter?
Theod. Ha!
Aust. Does it shake thee?——Come, my Theodore,
Let not a gust of love-sick inclination
Root, like a sweeping whirlwind, from thy soul
All the fair growth of noble thoughts and virtue,
Thy mother planted in thy early youth;
Oh, rashly tread not down the promis'd harvest,
They toil'd to rear to the full height of honour!
Theod. Would I had liv'd obscure in penury,
Rather than thus!—Distraction!—Adelaide!
Enter Adelaide.
Adel. Oh, whither shall I fly!
Theod. What means my love?
Why thus disturb'd?
Adel. The castle is beset;
The superstitious, fierce, inconstant people,
Madder than storms, with weapons caught in haste,
Menace my father's life; rage, and revile him;
Call him the heir of murderous usurpation;
And swear they'll own no rightful lord but Godfrey.
Aust. Blind wretches! I will hence, and try my power
To allay the tumult. Follow me, my son!
[Exit Austin.
Adel. Go not defenceless thus; think on thy safety,
See, yonder porch opes to the armoury;
There coats of mailed proof, falchions, and casques,
And all the glittering implements of war,
Stand terribly arrang'd.
Theod. Heavens! 'twas what I wish'd.
Yes, Adelaide, I go to fight for him:
Thy father, shall not fall ingloriously;
But, when he sees this arm strike at his foes,
Shall own, thy Theodore deserv'd his daughter.
[Exeunt.