should I not be the happiest creature in the world?

Mother. And how will it be in the future?

Clara. I only ask, does he love me?--does he love me?--as if there were
any doubt about it.

Mother. One has nothing but anxiety of heart with one's children. Always
care and sorrow, whatever may be the end of it! It cannot come to good!
Thou hast made thyself wretched! Thou hast made thy Mother wretched too.

Clara (quietly). Yet thou didst allow it in the beginning.

Mother. Alas! I was too indulgent; I am always too indulgent.

Clara. When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the window, did you chide
me then? Did you not come to the window yourself? When he looked up,
smiled, nodded, and greeted me, was it displeasing to you? Did you not
feel yourself honoured in your daughter?

Mother. Go on with your reproaches.

Clara (with emotion). Then, when he passed more frequently, and we felt
sure that it was on my account that he came this way, did you not remark
it yourself with secret joy? Did you call me away when I stood behind
the window-pane and awaited him?

Mother. Could I imagine that it would go so far?

Clara (with faltering voice, and repressed tears). And then, one
evening, when, enveloped in his mantle, he surprised us as we sat at
our lamp, who busied herself in receiving him, while I remained, lost in
astonishment, as if fastened to my chair?

Mother. Could I imagine that the prudent Clara would so soon be carried
away by this unhappy love? I must now endure that my daughter--

Clara (bursting into tears). Mother! How can you? You take pleasure in
tormenting me!

Mother (weeping). Ay, weep away! Make me yet more wretched by thy grief.
Is it not misery enough that my only daughter is a castaway?

Clara (rising, and speaking coldly). A castaway! The beloved of Egmont
a castaway!--What princess would not envy the poor Clara a place in his
heart? Oh, Mother,--my own Mother, you were not wont to speak thus! Dear
Mother, be kind!--Let the people think, let the neighbours whisper what
they like--this chamber, this lowly house is a paradise, since Egmont's
love dwelt here.

Mother. One cannot help liking him, that is true. He is always so kind,
frank, and open-hearted.

Clara. There is not a drop of false blood in his veins. And then,
Mother, he is indeed the great Egmont; yet, when he comes to me, how
tender he is, how kind! How he tries to conceal from me his rank, his
bravery! How anxious he is about me!