The Castle of Wolfenbach by Eliza Parsons (best book club books for discussion .TXT) 📖

me from her: the dear saint was sensible, though incapable of speaking; her eyes told me all she felt -O! the expression in them can never be forgotten, -what a night was that! In the morning my dear mother was put into a kind of litter, and we were conveyed to the humble dwelling of this charitable pair. She was laid in a decent bed and dropt a sleep: I was kneeling at the side of it when the door opened, and the man who called himself my lover appeared before me. I felt undescribeable emotions; he took my hand, and placing me in a chair, still unable to speak, he said, “I came to you, my love, the first moment of leisure; last night I was engaged; but you shall not stay in this poor place, I will take a decent lodging for you and your mother, and will be answerable for all expences; I will daily be y our visitor, and I hope in a little time you will recover your spirits.” At first my heart bounded with joy at his kindness; then again I thought there was a something wrong, though I hardly knew what; at last, “I think,” replied I, ‘that I ought not to put you to such great expences, nor would it be proper you should maintain me, unless -” There I stopt. “Unless what?” said he, earnestly. “Unless I had a claim to your protection,” said I, blushing. “I will be very sincere with you, my dear Hermine: had your old friend performed his promise, and left you his fortune, though but a small one, I would have married you; but I am young, and only entering into life; a wife without a fortune, a mother in such a situation, and a family of young relations would soon ruin me, and of course you: I must prove my love another way; an old rich widow has been recommended to me; I will marry her; I shall then be enabled to support you all in affluence, and have no ill consequences to dread. What say you, my dearest Hermine, may I hope your sentiments concur with mine?” You will wonder, my dear child, at my patience and silence during this proposal; in truth I wondered at myself; heaven, no doubt, supported me, and gave me, at that trying moment, superior resolution. “Of my opinion, Sir, and of the sentiments you have avowed, you must collect my thoughts, when I tell you, that so far from living a life of obligation with such a man, were you this moment possessed of millions, and would offer to marry me, I would prefer poverty and want -I would starve, with this dear insulted woman, before I could condescend to marry a man of such infamous principles ! -Leave me, Sir, for ever; presume not to enter the habitation of virtuous poverty, and blush at your own littleness, when you enjoy the house of wealth and magnificence.” He attempted to speak. “I hear you no longer, Sir; you are more mean and contemptible in my eyes than the poorest reptile that crawls upon the earth. I stampt with my foot, and Mrs Bout�� came up. I never saw a countenance so expressive of wonder and disappointment when she entered. “I am sorry to say, madam, you do not know your best friends; but should your mind alter upon consideration, you know where to find me, and I shall be always happy to attend your commands.” I gave him no answer, but a look of contempt, and he left the room.

‘The spirit and indignation which had supported me through this scene, now subsided; I shed a flood of tears. I saw no one being to whom I could look up with any hope or prospect of comfort. Mrs Bout��, who sympathized with me, said, “Ah! madam, if Madame De Raikfort, if Madame De Creponier were acquainted with your sorrows, I am sure you would find friends; they always assist the unfortunate, and particularly persons like you, born to higher expectations.” I took my resolution immediately; I wrote to both, describing my past and present situation. From the latter lady I received an almost immediate visit: she condoled with me; she entered into my concerns with a kindness and delicacy peculiar to herself, as I then thought; I knew not that the principles of charity and benevolence were the same in every well informed mind and good heart. I received the same kind attentions from the other family: Madame De Raikfort sent me every comfort and convenience I could want for my poor mother. In short, to those good ladies I was indebted for my chief support during her existence. A fortnight, exactly, from the death of our good old friend, she expired. There was no apparent alteration till within a few hours of her death; and she went off without a sigh or groan. Though the shock was dreadful, yet I had so long expected it, and in her melancholy situation it was rather to be wished for, that I found myself, though grieved at my irreparable loss, yet rejoiced that she escaped from the evils of this life, to awake in a blessed immortality. The benevolent ladies I have mentioned, did not forsake me; they paid the last sad duties to my parent; they undertook to educate and place my younger brothers and sisters to get their living decently; they asked what were my views and wishes? I frankly answered, “To be a nun.” Had I any choice of a convent? I named this; a young lady, a friend of my juvenile days, previous to my misfortunes, had professed here. The ladies told me I should enter upon my noviciate, but on no terms to be persuaded to assume the veil; it was by no means their wish; and the first summons from me they would take me out and provide for me in the world: that they rather complied with my wishes than their own inclinations - which would be more gratified in my residence with them. I thanked my generous benefactresses, but persisted in my desire of quitting the world. The day before I intended leaving Dunkirk, I received a letter from my quondam lover, expressing regret for his behaviour, and an unequivocal offer of marriage. I put his letter under a cover, with these lines: “The man who presumes to insult the feelings of a virtuous female, and when he fails in his purpose, condescends to solicit pardon, and offers to raise that ill-treated woman to a level with himself, lowers her more, by such an offer, than the bitterest poverty can inflict: but the person to whom this letter is addressed is fortunately beyond the reach of insult or indigence; she therefore rejects the proposal with her whole heart, and with the highest contempt.”

‘Having seen my brothers and sisters safe under the protection of those worthy ladies, and received from them every pecuniary assistance I could want, with letters of warm recommendation I arrived here; and here, in a short time, recovered tranquillity and ease: leaving nothing in the world to regret, I studied the duties of my situation, and, at the expiration of the time allowed to consider, I gave my decided choice of a monastic life, and took the veil. I hear often from my generous friends. Two of my sisters are well married; the rest of my family have every prospect of success. ‘Now, my dear young lady, I have related my history, tell me candidly, have your troubles ever equalled mine?’

‘Oh! no,’ cried Matilda; I am ashamed of my own impatience and inquietude. Good heavens! if such are the evils to be expected in life; if misfortunes are so frequent, ingratitude and malignancy so prevalent, men so abandoned, and the good and benevolent alloted so small a share in the proportion of the world, the only asylum for the unfortunate is a convent.” “Not always,” answered Mother Magdalene; “there are situations and difficulties in life, from which even the unfortunate may extract hope and comfort: yours is such: ‘tis possible you have parents still living, who may one day fold you to their bosoms; ‘tis likewise not impossible you may one day be united to the man you prefer. In short, your situation is not hopeless, like mine: I saw the downfall of every expectation I could form, and had no one hope or engagement to the world; you have many: you have no right to dispose of your future destiny, whilst there is the least probable chance you may be reclaimed. Reside here as a boarder, my dear child; but under your doubtful circumstances, never take the veil, for the mind should be entirely disengaged from all worldly hopes, before it can renounce it properly.” ‘

From this day Matilda grew entirely resigned; she derived wisdom and comfort from her good mother’s conversation, nor suffered anticipation of evils to disturb her serenity.

The Scarborough party were now arrived in London. The Marquis immediately waited on the Ambassador. His Excellency told him the Count Wolfenbach was alive, out past all hopes of recovery. He knows you are hourly expected, and is anxious to see you.’

The Marquis, taking his address in Dover-street, hastened thither and sent up his name. He waited some time for the servant’s return, at length he was desired to walk up, and on entering the room, scarce could he trace any recollection of the object in the bed before him. It was some years since he had seen the Count; he was not then young; but age, anxiety, and conscious guilt, with the disorder that now oppressed him, had indeed greatly altered him. When the Marquis drew near, he was for a moment silent; then, addressing him, ‘I am told, my Lord, you requested my presence.’ ‘I did,’ replied the Count. ‘Pray, is your sister with you?’ ‘Not in the house,’ answered the Marquis, ‘but she is in town, and will soon attend, if it is your wish to see her.’ ‘Yes,’ said the Count, ‘let her come; I can tell my story but once, ‘tis fit she should be present.’ The Marquis instantly dispatched a messenger for his wife and sister. In the interim the Count desired to be informed in what manner the Countess effected her escape through the wood and got to England. The Marquis recounted every particular. ‘There was a fate in it, no doubt,’ said the Count; ‘Providence intervened, to prevent me from the commission of crime I intended, and preserved her life.’

Word was brought up that the Countess and Marchioness were below. They were desired to enter. When they came into the room the Countess involuntarily shrunk back. ‘Approach, madam, do not fear; the discovery is now made, and in a very short time I shall have nothing to hope for, nor you any thing to dread.’ The Countess advanced, trembling, and seated herself by the bed. ‘I now,’ said he, ‘entreat your forgiveness of all the wrongs my cruel jealousy heaped upon you; say, speak, can you pardon me? tell me that, before I begin my narrative, lest I should be cut off e’er I have finished.’ ‘I do indeed,’ replied the Countess; ‘I pardon you from my soul, and may the God of mercy pardon you likewise.’ ‘I am satisfied,’ said he, ‘and now attend to my confessions. -I was well aware, before I married, of the affection subsisting between Victoria and the Chevalier; I was not blind to the difference in our persons and ages, and hated him in proportion to the advantages in his favor. I was resolved to carry my point, to gratify both passions; her father seconded my wishes, and she became mine. From that hour I never knew a peaceful moment. I doated on her to distraction; jealousy kept pace with love. Her conduct gave me no right to