The Mysterious Mother/Act 2 Scene 3
SCENE III.
COUNTESS, PORTER.
PORTER.
Return, my gracious lady. Tho' the storm
Abates its clamours, yonder angry clouds
Are big with spouting fires—do not go forth.
Return, my gracious lady. Tho' the storm
Abates its clamours, yonder angry clouds
Are big with spouting fires—do not go forth.
COUNTESS.
Wretches like me, good Peter, dread no storms.
'Tis delicate felicity that shrinks,
When rocking winds are loud, and wraps itself
Insultingly in comfortable furs,
Thinking how many naked objects want
Like shelter and security. Do thou
Return; I'll seek the monument alone.
Wretches like me, good Peter, dread no storms.
'Tis delicate felicity that shrinks,
When rocking winds are loud, and wraps itself
Insultingly in comfortable furs,
Thinking how many naked objects want
Like shelter and security. Do thou
Return; I'll seek the monument alone.
PORTER.
No, my good lady; never be it said
That faithful Peter his dear mistress left
Expos'd to tempests. These thin-sprinkled hairs
Cannot hold long. If in your service shed,
'Twere a just debt—hark! sure I heard a groan!
Pray let us in again—
No, my good lady; never be it said
That faithful Peter his dear mistress left
Expos'd to tempests. These thin-sprinkled hairs
Cannot hold long. If in your service shed,
'Twere a just debt—hark! sure I heard a groan!
Pray let us in again—
COUNTESS.
My honest servant,
Thy fear o'er-pow'rs thy love. I heard no groan;
Nor could it 'scape a sense so quick as mine
At catching misery's expressive note:
'Tis my soul's proper language.—Injur'd shade!
Shade of my Narbonne! if thy scornful spirit
Rode in yon whirlwind, and impell'd its bolt
Implacable! indignant! 'gainst the cross
Rais'd by thy wretched wife—behold she comes
A voluntary victim! Re-assemble
Thy light'nings, and accept her destin'd head.
My honest servant,
Thy fear o'er-pow'rs thy love. I heard no groan;
Nor could it 'scape a sense so quick as mine
At catching misery's expressive note:
'Tis my soul's proper language.—Injur'd shade!
Shade of my Narbonne! if thy scornful spirit
Rode in yon whirlwind, and impell'd its bolt
Implacable! indignant! 'gainst the cross
Rais'd by thy wretched wife—behold she comes
A voluntary victim! Re-assemble
Thy light'nings, and accept her destin'd head.
PORTER.
For pity! gracious dame what words are these!
In any mouth less holy they would seem
A magic incantation. Goblins rise
At sounds less pow'rful. Last year's 'clipse fell out,
Because your maidens cross'd a gipsy's palm
To know what was become of Beatrice.
For pity! gracious dame what words are these!
In any mouth less holy they would seem
A magic incantation. Goblins rise
At sounds less pow'rful. Last year's 'clipse fell out,
Because your maidens cross'd a gipsy's palm
To know what was become of Beatrice.
COUNTESS.
And didst thou dare inform them where she dwells?
And didst thou dare inform them where she dwells?
PORTER.
No, on my duty—true; they think I know;
And so thinks Benedict, your confessor.
He says, she could not pass the castle-gates
Without my privity—Well! I had a talk
To say him nay. The honour of my keys,
My office was at stake. No, father, said I,
None pass the drawbridge without Peter's knowledge.
How then to beat him from his point?—I had it—
Who knows, quoth I, but sudden malady
Took off the damsel? She might, or might not
Have sepulture within the castle-walls—
No, on my duty—true; they think I know;
And so thinks Benedict, your confessor.
He says, she could not pass the castle-gates
Without my privity—Well! I had a talk
To say him nay. The honour of my keys,
My office was at stake. No, father, said I,
None pass the drawbridge without Peter's knowledge.
How then to beat him from his point?—I had it—
Who knows, quoth I, but sudden malady
Took off the damsel? She might, or might not
Have sepulture within the castle-walls—
COUNTESS.
Peace, fool—and thus thy shrewd equivocation
Has stain'd my name with murder's foul suspicion!
—O peace of virtue! thy true votaries
Quail not with ev'ry blast! I cloak my guilt!
Things foreign rise and load me with their blackness.
Erroneous imputation must be borne;
Lest, while unravelling the knotty web,
I lend a clue may vibrate to my heart.
—But who comes here?—retire we and observe.
[They withdraw.
Peace, fool—and thus thy shrewd equivocation
Has stain'd my name with murder's foul suspicion!
—O peace of virtue! thy true votaries
Quail not with ev'ry blast! I cloak my guilt!
Things foreign rise and load me with their blackness.
Erroneous imputation must be borne;
Lest, while unravelling the knotty web,
I lend a clue may vibrate to my heart.
—But who comes here?—retire we and observe.
[They withdraw.