The Castle of Otranto Horace Walpole (best free ereader .TXT) 📖

its altar to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest shed thy own blood at the foot of that Prince’s sepulchre!”

“Cruel man!” cried Matilda, “to aggravate the woes of a parent; may heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My Lord, my gracious Sire, dost thou forgive thy child? Indeed, I came not hither to meet Theodore. I found him praying at this tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for thee, for her⁠—dearest father, bless your child, and say you forgive her.”

“Forgive thee! Murderous monster!” cried Manfred, “can assassins forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but heaven directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child. Oh, Matilda!⁠—I cannot utter it⁠—canst thou forgive the blindness of my rage?”

“I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda; “but while I have life to ask it⁠—oh! my mother! what will she feel? Will you comfort her, my Lord? Will you not put her away? Indeed she loves you! Oh, I am faint! bear me to the castle. Can I live to have her close my eyes?”

Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be borne into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried to the castle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as she requested. Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in despair.

Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was lost in tenderness for her mother.

Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself, she asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his hand and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella’s care would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda’s wound, she cried,

“Remove me! never, never! I lived but in her, and will expire with her.”

Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with a transport equal to frenzy.

“Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shall be mine in death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried he to the friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons.

“What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome. “Is this an hour for marriage?”

“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Alas! there is no other!”

“Young man, thou art too unadvised,” said Frederic. “Dost thou think we are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? What pretensions hast thou to the Princess?”

“Those of a Prince,” said Theodore; “of the sovereign of Otranto. This reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.”

“Thou ravest,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince of Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all pretensions.”

“My Lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tells you true. It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon, but fate presses onward to its work. What his hotheaded passion has revealed, my tongue confirms. Know, Prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land⁠—”

“Is this a season for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father, come and unite me to the Princess; she shall be mine! In every other thing I will dutifully obey you. My life! my adored Matilda!” continued Theodore, rushing back into the inner chamber, “will you not be mine? Will you not bless your⁠—”

Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was near her end.

“What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible!”

The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up her eyes, she looked round for her mother.

“Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not I will quit thee!”

“Oh! you are too good,” said Matilda. “But weep not for me, my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells⁠—Isabella, thou hast loved me; wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman? Indeed I am faint!”

“Oh! my child! my child!” said Hippolita in a flood of tears, “can I not withhold thee a moment?”

“It will not be,” said Matilda; “commend me to heaven⁠—Where is my father? forgive him, dearest mother⁠—forgive him my death; it was an error. Oh! I had forgotten⁠—dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore more⁠—perhaps that has drawn down this calamity⁠—but it was not intentional⁠—can you pardon me?”

“Oh! wound not my agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst offend me⁠—Alas! she faints! help! help!”

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot be⁠—Isabella⁠—Theodore⁠—for my sake⁠—Oh!⁠—” she expired.

Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from