De Val. But if Florian married any other woman, would you not hate the object of his preference?
Ger. (throwing herself upon his neck.) Ah! uncle, you have my secret: no, I would not hate my fortunate rival—I would pray for her happiness, but my heart would break while it breathed that prayer!
De Val. My excellent ingenuous child, indulge the virtuous emotions of your heart without disguise—Florian and Geraldine are destined for each other.
Ger. Generous benefactor! what delightful dazzling visions your words conjure up to my imagination; the universe will concentrate within the fairy circle of our hearth; a waking consciousness of bliss will ever freshly dress our day in flowers, and at nights, fancy will gild our pillow with the dream that merrily anticipates the future.
De Val. Enthusiast! you contemplate the ocean in a calm, nor dream how frightfully a tempest may reverse the picture.
Ger. Ambitious pride may tremble at the storm, but true love, uncle, never can be wrecked; its constancy is strengthened, not impaired by trials, and when adversity divorces us from common friendships, the chosen partners of each other’s hearts a second time are married, and with dearer rites.
De Val. (averting his face with a look of anguish) Girl!
Ger. (unnoticing his emotion) Then if they have children, how surpassing is the bliss, while their own gay prime is mellowly subsiding into age, to trace the features and the virtues they adored in youth, renewed before their eyes, and feel themselves the proud and grateful authors of each other’s joy—Ah! trust me, uncle! such a destiny is beyond the reach of fortune’s malice; ’tis the anti-type of heaven.
De Val. (Grasping her hand suddenly, convulsed with agitation.) ’Tis the distracting mockery of hell that cheats us with an hour’s ecstatic dream to torture us eternally: girl! girl! wouldst thou find happiness, die! seek it in the grave, only in the grave—a watchful fiend destroys it upon earth! Prat’st thou of love? Connubial and parental love? Ah! dear-lov’d objects of my soul! what are ye now—ashes, ashes, darkly scattering to the midnight winds. God! the flames yet blaze—here, here—my brain’s on fire! Rushes out.
Ger. Uncle! listen to your Geraldine!—Ah! ingrate that I am! the vulture that gnaws his generous heart, had slumbered for a moment, and I have waked it to renew its cruelty! my fault was unawares, yet I could chide it like a crime; my mounting spirits fall from their giddy height at once. Oh! uncle! noble, suffering uncle! would that my tears could wash away the recollection of my words. Weeps.