Who?
A Christian, who took care of all my childhood.
You cannot think how little she allowed me
To miss a mother—God reward her for it—
But then she has so teased, so tortured me.
SITTAH.
And about what? Why, how, when?
RECHA.
The poor woman,
I tell thee, is a Christian—and she must
From love torment—is one of those enthusiasts
Who think they only know the one true road
To God.
SITTAH.
I comprehend thee.
RECHA.
And who feel
Themselves in duty bound to point it out
To every one who is not in this path,
To lead, to drag them into it. And indeed
They can’t do otherwise consistently;
For if theirs really be the only road
On which ’tis safe to travel—they cannot
With comfort see their friends upon another
Which leads to ruin, to eternal ruin:
Else were it possible at the same instant
To love and hate the same man. Nor is ’t this
Which forces me to be aloud complainant.
Her groans, her prayers, her warnings, and her threats,
I willingly should have abided longer—
Most willingly—they always called up thoughts
Useful and good; and whom does it not flatter
To be by whomsoever held so dear,
So precious, that they cannot bear the thought
Of parting with us at some time for ever?
SITTAH.