The Mother’s Tragedy

THE MOTHER'S TRAGEDY 17 With your true, noble, and unselfish self— Were you the synthesis of all I hate, In mind and body leprous and deformed— Did every word and gesture fill my soul With hatred and its parody, disgust— It touches not my question! This one fact O’ermasters all eccentric circumstance : I love you—you, and not your attributes! CORA. Great noble soul! I hate myself the more That I must wound you further with the truth. A double prong this poisoned poniard Snaps in our hearts. I kept the secret long. Your breath, that burns upon me, wraps me round With whirling passion, pierces through my veins With its unhallowed fire, constrains, compels, Drags out the corpse of twenty years ago From the untrusty coffin of my mind, To poison, to corrupt, to strike you there Blind with its horror. ULRIC. Leave these bitter words! They torture me with terrible suspense, And you with fear. I see by these dread looks, Tedious prologues, that there is a truth You are afraid to speak. CORA, aside. What subterfuge ? B