The Mysterious Mother/Act 3 Scene 4

SCENE IV.

COUNTESS, BENEDICT, EDMUND.

BENEDICT.
Beheld thy Edmund breathlThis gentleman
Beheld thy Edmund breathless on the ground.

COUNTESS.
Hah! is this sorcery! or is't my husband? [Swoons.

EDMUND.
Stand off, and let me clasp her in my arms!
The flame of filial fondness shall revive
The lamp of life, repay the breath she gave,
And waken all the mother in her soul.

BENEDICT.
Hah! who art thou then?

EDMUND.
Look up! O ever dear! Do not my fears tell thee!
Look up! O ever dear! behold thy son!
It is thy Edmund's voice; blest, if thy eyes
Awake to bless him—Soft! her pulse returns;
She breathes—oh! speak. Dear parent, mother, hear!
'Tis Edmund—Friar, wherefore is this horror?
Am I then deadly to her eyes?—Dumb still!
Speak, tho' it be to curse me—I have kill'd her!
My brain grows hot—

BENEDICT.
My brain grows hot—My lord, restrain your passion;
See! she revives—

EDMUND.
With dread of thy dOh! if these lips that quiver
With dread of thy disdain, have force to move thee
With nature's, duty's, or affection's voice,
Feel how I print thy hand with burning zeal,
Tho' tortur'd at this awful interval!
Art thou, or not, a mother?

COUNTESS.
Why do you hold me? Was Hah! where am I?
Why do you hold me? Was it not my Narbonne?
I saw him—on my soul I did—

EDMUND.
She raves—recall thy wand'ringAlas!
She raves—recall thy wand'ring apprehension—
It was no phantom: at thy feet behold—

COUNTESS.
Hah! whom! quick, answer—Narbonne, dost thou live?
Or comest to transport me to perdition?

BENEDICT.
Madam, behold your son: he kneels for pardon.
And I, I innocent, I ignorant
Of what he was, implore it too—

COUNTESS.
What means this complicated scenDistraction!
What means this complicated scene of horrors?
Why thus assail my splitting brain?—be quick—
Art thou my husband wing'd from other orbs
To taunt my soul? What is this dubious form,
Impress'd with ev'ry feature I adore,
And every lineament I dread to look on!
Art thou my dead or living son?

EDMUND.
Art thou my dead or living son?I am
Thy living Edmund. Let these scalding tears
Attest th' existence of thy suff'ring son.

COUNTESS.
Ah! touch me not—

EDMUND.
Revive then all sensatioHow!—in that cruel breast
Revive then all sensations, but affection?
Why so ador'd the memory of the father,
And so abhorr'd the presence of the son?
But now, and to thy eyes I seem'd my father—
At least for that resemblance-sake embrace me.

COUNTESS.
Horror on horror! Blasted be thy tongue!
What sounds are those!

BENEDICT
This young lord's disobedLady, tho' I excuse not
This young lord's disobedience, His contrition
Bespeaks no rebel principle. I doubt not,
Your blessing first obtain'd and gracious pardon,
But soon as morning streaks the ruddy East,
He will obey your pleasure, and return
To stranger climes—

EDMUND.
I have been fool'd too l'Tis false; I will not hence.
I have been fool'd too long, too long been patient.
Nor are my years so green as to endure
The manacles of priests and nurseries.
Am I not Narbonne's prince? who shall rule here
But Narbonne? Have I sapp'd my country's laws,
Or play'd the tyrant? Who shall banish me?
Am I a recreant knight? Has cowardice
Disgrac'd the line of heroes I am sprung from?
Shall I then skulk, hide my inglorious head?
Or does it please your worship's gravity
Dispatch me on some sleeveless pilgrimage,
Like other noble fools, to win you empires;
While you at home mock our credulity,
The masters of our wealth, our states, and wives?

COUNTESS.
Aside.] (Brave youth! there spoke his fire. How my soul yearns
To own its genuine offspring!)—Edmund, hear me!
Thou art my son, and I will prove a mother.
But I'm thy sov'reign too. This state is mine.
Learn to command, by learning to obey.
Tho' frail my sex, I have a soul as masculine
As any of thy race. This very monk,
Lord as thou thinkest of my ductile conscience,
Quails—look if 'tis not true—when I command.
Retire thee to the village. 'Tis not ripe
As yet my purpose—Benedict, attend me.
To-morrow, Edmund, shalt thou learn my pleasure.
[Ex. Countess and Benedict.

EDMUND, alone.
Why, this is majesty. Sounds of such accent
Ne'er struck mine ear till now. Commanding sex!
Strength, courage, all our boasted attributes,
Want estimation; ev'n the preheminence
We vaunt in wisdom, seems a borrow'd ray,
When virtue deigns to speak with female organs.
Yes, O my mother, I will learn t'obey:
I will believe, that, harsh as thy decrees,
They wear the warrant of benign intention.
Make but the blooming Adeliza mine,
And bear, of me unquestion'd, Narbonne's sceptre;
Till life's expiring lamp by intervals
Throws but a fainter and a fainter flash,
And then relumes its wasted oil no more. [Exit.

End of the Third Act.