Cora. Or else that I am ill.—Yes, I am now often ill.
Alonzo. Indeed!
Cora. Yes, indeed!—But that must be so—for soon—soon—I shall not love you alone.
Alonzo. (Starting) Not me alone?
Cora. (Smiling) Not you alone!
Alonzo. Your words involve a riddle, or else a crime. Cora, love cannot comprehend more than one object.—You will not love me alone? (He fixes his eyes earnestly upon her) No, you cannot mean to say so—if it were true, you could not look at me with so much composure, such perfect unreserve.
Cora. And why should I not look at you with composure?—My feelings are so sweet that they cannot be criminal. An unknown, but pleasing sadness has taken possession of my heart—I experience sensations not to be described. When lately at the Solstitial feast, I was ornamenting the porch of the temple with flowers, I saw upon the lowest of the steps which lead up to it, a young woman sleeping, at whose breast lay a little smiling angel: my heart was altogether dissolved at so interesting a spectacle, and I involuntarily stretched out my arms to the child, intending to take it gently from its mother, and press it to my bosom. But how easily are the slumbers of a tender mother disturbed; for scarcely had I touched the babe ere she awoke, rose up anxiously, clasped her treasure to her heart, and cast on me a look of deep distrust. Say, Alonzo?—Do you not think an affectionate mother one of the most respectable of creatures?
Alonzo. (Bewildered) Oh, why that question?
Cora. Can’t you guess?—(With pure and innocent transport) I shall soon be a mother myself.
Alonzo. (Thunderstruck) Great God!!!