The Count of Narbonne Part 2

_Theod._ Indeed. Frown on.--Ask thy own heart,-- Did innocence and beauty bend before thee, Hunted, and trembling, wouldst thou tamely pause, Scanning pale counsel from deliberate fear, And weigh each possibility of danger?

No; the instinctive n.o.bleness of blood Would start beyond the reach of such cold scruples, And instant gratify its generous ardour.

_Count._ [_Aside._] I must know more of this. His phrase, his look, His steady countenance, raise something here, Bids me beware of him.--I have no time To bandy idle words, with slaves like thee.

I doubt not thy intent was mischievous; Booty perhaps, or blood. Till more inquiry Clear, or condemn him, hold him in your guard.

Give none admittance--Take him from my sight.

_Theod._ Secure in her integrity, my soul Casts back thy mean suspicions, and forgives thee.

[_THEODORE is led out by ATTENDANTS._

_Count._ Away with him!--What means this heaviness?

My heart, that, like a well trimm'd, gallant bark, Was wont to mount the waves, and dash them off In ineffectual foam, now seems to crack, And let in each a.s.sailing tide to sink me.

I must not yield to this dull lethargy.

Good Fabian, hie thee to Saint Nicholas'; Bid holy Austin straight repair to me.

[_Exit FABIAN._

His sanct.i.ty, and reverend character, His pious eloquence, made engines for me, Might save a world of anguish to my soul, And smooth my unwelcome purpose to Hortensia.

But how prevail with him?--Ambition?--No; The world is dead in him, and gold is trash To one, who neither needs, nor values it.

Interest and love shall wear the guise of conscience; I must pretend nice scruples, which I feel not, And make him mediate for me with the church.

Yet he reveres the countess; and, I fear, Will spy more sin, in doubts that wound her quiet, Than in my stifling them. But see, she comes, With downcast eye, and sad, dejected mien.

I will not yet disclose it.

_Enter the COUNTESS._

Where's my child, My all of comfort, now, my Adelaide?

_Countess._ Dear as she is, I would not have her all; For I should then be nothing. Time has been, When, after three long days of absence from you, You would have question'd me a thousand times, And bid me tell each trifle of myself; Then, satisfied at last, that all were well, At last, unwilling, turn to meaner cares.

_Count._ This is the nature, still of womankind; If fondness be their mood, we must cast off All grave-complexion'd thought, and turn our souls Quite from their tenour, to wild levity; Vary with all their humours, take their hues, As unsubstantial Iris from the sun: Our bosoms are their pa.s.sive instruments; Vibrate their strain, or all our notes are discord.

_Countess._ Oh, why this new unkindness? From thy lips Never till now fell such ungentle words, Nor ever less was I prepar'd to meet them.

_Count._ Never till now was I so urg'd, beset, Hemm'd round with perils.

_Countess._ Ay, but not by me.

_Count._ By thee, and all the world. But yesterday, With uncontrollable and absolute sway I rul'd this province, was the unquestion'd lord Of this strong castle, and its wide domains, Stretch'd beyond sight around me; and but now, The axe, perhaps, is sharp'ning, may hew down My perish'd trunk, and give the soil I sprung from, To cherish my proud kinsman G.o.dfrey's roots.

_Countess._ Heaven guard thy life! His dreadful summons reach'd me.

This urg'd me hither. On my knees I beg, (And I have mighty reasons for my prayer) O do not meet him on this argument: By gentler means strive to divert his claim; Fly this detested place, this house of horror, And leave its gloomy grandeur to your kinsman.

_Count._ Rise, fearful woman! What! renounce my birthright?

Go forth, like a poor, friendless, banish'd man, To gnaw my heart in cold obscurity!

Thou weak adviser! Should I take thy counsel, Thy tongue would first upbraid--thy spirit scorn me.

_Countess._ No, on my soul!--Is Narbonne all the world?

My country is where thou art; place is little: The sun will s.h.i.+ne, the earth produce its fruits, Cheerful, and plenteously, where'er we wander.

In humbler walks, bless'd with my child and thee.

I'd think it Eden in some lonely vale, Nor heave one sigh for these proud battlements.

_Count._ Such flowery softness suits not matron lips.

But thou hast mighty reasons for thy prayer: They should be mighty reasons, to persuade Their rightful lord to leave his large possessions, A soldier challeng'd, to decline the combat.

_Countess._ And are not prodigies, then, mighty reasons?

The owl mistakes his season, in broad day Screaming his hideous omens; spectres glide, Gibbering and pointing as we pa.s.s along; While the deep earth's unorganized caves Send forth wild sounds, and clamours, terrible; These towers shake round us, though the untroubled air Stagnates to lethargy:--our children perish, And new disasters blacken every hour.

Blood shed unrighteously, blood unappeas'd, (Though we are guiltless,) cries, I fear, for vengeance.

_Count._ Blood shed unrighteously! have I shed blood?

No; nature's common frailties set aside, I'll meet my audit boldly.

_Countess._ Mighty Lord!

O! not on us, with justice too severe, Visit the sin, not ours.

_Count._ What can this mean?

Something thou wouldst reveal, that's terrible.

_Countess._ Too long, alas! it has weigh'd upon my heart; A thousand times I have thought to tell thee all; But my tongue falter'd, and refus'd to wound thee.

_Count._ Distract me not, but speak.

_Countess._ I must. Your father Was wise, brave, politic; but mad ambition, (Heaven pardon him!) it prompts to desperate deeds.

_Count._ I scarce can breathe. Pr'ythee be quick, and ease me.

_Countess._ Your absence on the Italian emba.s.sy Left him, you know, alone to my fond care.

Long had some hidden grief, like a slow fire, Wasted his vitals;--on the bed of death, One object seem'd to harrow up his soul, The picture of Alphonso in the chamber: On that, his eye was set.--Methinks I see him, His ashy hue, his grisled, bristling hair, His palms spread wide. For, ever would he cry, "That awful form--how terrible he frowns!

See, how he bares his livid, leprous breast, And points the deadly chalice!"

_Count._ Ha! even so!

_Countess._ Sometimes he'd seize my hands, and grasp them close, And strain them to his hollow, burning eyes; Then falter out, "I am, I am a villain!

Mild angel, pray for me;--stir not, my child; It comes again;--oh, do not leave my side."

At last, quite spent with mortal agonies, His soul went forth--and Heaven have mercy on him!

_Count._ Enough! Thy tale has almost iced my blood.

Let me not think. Hortensia, on thy duty, Suffer no breath like this to pa.s.s thy lips: I will not taint my n.o.ble father's honour, By vile suspicions, suck'd from nature's dregs, And the loose, ravings of distemper'd fancy.

_Countess._ Yet, Oh, decline this challenge!

_Count._ That, hereafter.

Mean time, prepare my daughter to receive A husband of my choice. Should G.o.dfrey come, (Strife might be so prevented) bid her try Her beauty's power. Stand thou but neuter, Fate!

Courage, and art, shall arm me from mankind.

[_Exeunt._