The Castle of Wolfenbach - Eliza Parsons (little red riding hood ebook free .txt) 📗

am I to be thrown off at once; have you no feeling for the wretchedness you doom me to for the remainder of my life?’ ‘Oh! Sir, what can I say,’ answered Matilda; ‘impressions once strongly conceived are difficult to eradicate; the conversation I overheard is ever present to my mind, and could I forget that, then my reverence for my uncle would return, and I should shudder at the idea of a nearer connexion. When I think of it, and indeed, Sir, I have endeavoured to think of it, an unaccountable repugnance makes the idea horrible to me; yet after all, if you persist in wishing me to become your wife, I do not think myself at liberty absolutely to refuse, but I tell you candidly, I never can love you, that though I will obey you, and do my duty, I know I shall be miserable, and in that persuasion surely ‘tis impossible I can make you happy.’ ‘I am sensible,’ said he, ‘that my age is against me, I cannot expect to be loved like a young fellow, but my unremitting attentions to please will make me deserving your esteem.’ ‘Well, Sir,’ said Matilda, hastily, ‘it is fit you should prefer your own happiness to mine, I have no right to refuse, nor any way of discharging the obligations I owe you for the care of my early life, but by the sacrifice of the maturer part of it.’

Unable any longer to struggle with the grief and horror that opprest her, she burst into tears. Her friends felt for her, but were as yet silent. Mr Weimar took her hand and kissed it, ‘Cruel Matilda, is this the return for all my tenderness; but I do not prefer my own happiness to yours; consider, pardon me if I say, consider your situation; with all the charms you possess, such is the cruel prejudice against those who have neither friends nor family to protect and provide for them, that in France you could not hope or expect any proper establishment.’ ‘Hold, Sir,’ said she, with indignation, ‘do not insult me; I know what I am, and since I am unworthy of an establishment in France, I never will have one in Germany. No, Sir, you have now convinced me, if I cannot honour you I ought not to degrade you. I will retire to a convent: I will become a lay sister, ‘tis perhaps the line Providence intended for me; be that as it may, you have convinced me I ought not, nor I solemnly declare I never will be your wife.’ She spoke with a force and spirit as surprised them all. ‘Do not be rash, Matilda; I offer you a handsome fortune; you shall no longer be confined in the country, as my wife, you shall have a house at Berne, at Lausanne, or where you please; every pleasure shall attend you; the Marquis himself shall secure your future fortune: do not be offended for trifles, and what never was intended as an insult; trust to my love to create an interest in your heart.’ ‘No, Sir,’ answered she, ‘the die is cast; a little while since I thought, if you desired it, I ought to be yours; but if you can stoop to degrade yourself by a connexion with a friendless deserted orphan, I never will owe the obligation to any man, nor have the chance of being upbraided, that I belong to nobody. Pardon me, my good friends, the trouble I have given you, a few days hence I will hide myself for ever.’ She arose to leave the room. ‘Stop, madam,’ said Mr Weimar; ‘since nothing can prevail on you to accept my hand, at least permit me to tell you, you have no right to dispose of yourself without my permission; you were committed to my care, doubtless by your parents; you may one day be reclaimed; I am answerable for the trust reposed in me, and with me I shall insist upon your remaining till those to whom you belong appear to claim you.’

Matilda sunk back in her chair, overwhelmed with horror; he looked furious with passion; the Marquis and his lady were perplexed and chagrined, at length the former said, ‘Without the smallest intent of contesting your rights, Sir, I have patiently attended to what has passed between this young lady and yourself; the Marchioness and I have been scrupulously exact not to give our opinion, much less advice on the subject; but now, since she has resolutely made up her mind, you certainly have too just a sense of what is owing to yourself, to persist in addressing her; taking that for granted, and that you think it improper she should become a Nun, I request it as a favor, that Miss Matilda may be permitted to spend a few months with us; should any person appear to claim her, I trust it will be no dishonour to have her found in my protection; and I pledge my honor she shall form no marriage or engagement under our care, but return to you as she now is.’ ‘My Lord,’ returned Mr Weimar, ‘I must consider of this request, and she will do well to consider and repent her rash determination; if she does, I will receive her with open arms. I trust her to your honor, and shall tomorrow wait on you with my decided opinion.’ With a polite, but general bow, he left the room.

The Marchioness was supporting Matilda’s head upon her shoulder. ‘Look; up, my dear girl, be composed, he is gone.’ ‘Thank heaven!’ said she, ‘but my head is very bad, and with your leave I will lay down an hour or two.’ ‘Do so, my dear,’ replied her friend; and calling the servant to attend her, she was conducted to her apartment.

When she left the room the Marchioness said, ‘Mr Weimar’s conduct appears very strange, and unbecoming a man of his years; I know not what to think; had he not injudiciously mentioned her birth she would certainly have accepted his hand, though I own it would have given me pain had she done so.’

‘For my part,’ answered the Marquis, ‘I marked him well during the whole scene; that he is excessively fond of her, I believe, but I am not perfectly satisfied, although I know not, what part to blame of his conduct; nevertheless she has now taken her resolution, and only force shall compel me to withdraw my protection from a friendless orphan, whose situation is really deplorable. If the circumstances he related of her birth are true, I have no doubt but one time or other a discovery will take place to her advantage; all I wish at present is, that she may accompany you to England.’ ‘Do you not think, said the Marchioness, ‘the Count De Bouville is very fond of her? ‘I fear so,’ replied he; ‘but you know Mr Weimar’s observations with respect to the obscurity of her birth are founded on truth, I would by no means encourage a dangerous intimacy between them, which might be productive of misery to both; ‘tis for that reason I should wish her to leave Paris whilst the liking which I think mutual is in its infancy.’ During the conversation of her generous friends the unhappy Matilda gave herself up to extreme sorrow. If Mr Weimar chose to exert his right over her, she saw no one to whom she could appeal for redress; but determined as she now was never to become his wife, she was sensible she had little chance of becoming the wife of any other man; to engage her benefactors in disputes and controversies with him was equally repugnant to her inclinations, and without his consent it would be in vain to think of accompanying her friends, as he might pursue her every where. She knew she had many obligations to him, but she could not return them in the way he was desirous of, which must make her miserable, and of course give no happiness to him. ‘What then,’ cried she, weeping, ‘am I to do? there is no alternative but Mr Weimar or a convent; the latter is my preferable choice, and if he persists tomorrow in exerting the authority he claims over me, I will fly to that for protection.’

Having now made up her mind, she dropt asleep, but her slumbers were broken and disturbed; and in about three hours she returned to her friends, very little refreshed, but was much gratified by their peculiar tenderness and attention, and an increased respect in their manner proved they wished to restore her self consequence, and make her at ease with herself.

This is true benevolence; ‘tis the mode of confering favours that either obliges or wounds a feeling heart. Many people are generous, but they forget how painful it is to ask favors, and think it quite sufficient if they give, let the manner of giving be ever so ungracious, and their superiority ever so ostentatiously displayed. Not so the Marquis and his lady - they endeavoured to persuade her, they were the persons obliged by her acceptance of their little civilities, and entered into all her concerns with the affection and anxiety of her nearest relatives.

Matilda’s grateful heart overflowed; speech indeed was not lent her, but her tears, her expressive looks forcibly conveyed the language she could not utter.

In the meantime Mademoiselle De Fontelle was not idle; scarce a person the Marchioness was acquainted with, but knew she had taken a girl under her protection, who had robbed and run away from her uncle, with a young handsome footman; and during two days circulation of the story Miss Weimar was detected by her uncle in several low intrigues, which he kindly forgave, ‘till quite abandoned and incorrigible, she had taken away all his gold and jewels, and came to Paris with this fellow, whom the Marchioness herself had taken into the house.

‘Ciel,’ cries one, shrugging her shoulders, ‘a pretty story indeed; this is the discreet, the admirable Marchioness De Melfort, held up as a pattern to all the women in Paris.’ ‘Yes, I thought she was a wonder,’ said another; ‘abundance of art, to be sure she has; for I’ll answer for it, this intrigue with a footman is not the first by many; but, poor woman, her charms are in their wane now, so the man is a substitute for the master.’ ‘What,’ cries a third, ‘has the Marchioness herself an intrigue? Lord, didn’t you hear that? why this girl is only a cover to her own amusements.’ ‘Well,’ said a fourth, ‘I saw both the other night at Madame De Bouville’s, and I am sure they are both ugly enough, notwithstanding the men made such a fuss about them.’

‘Twas thus the scandal of Mademoiselle’s fabricating was increased and magnified among their generous and charitable acquaintance: like Sir Peter Teale’s wound, it was in all parts of his body, and by a variety of murderous weapons, when the poor man was unconscious of having received any himself, and could scarce obtain credit when he appeared in perfect health: so unwilling is the good-natured world to give up a story that is to the disadvantage of others. It was in vain the Countess De Bouville, her son and daughter, Madame De Nancy and her sister, attempted to stop the scandalous tales; like lightning it flew from house to house, and every one who had no character to lose, and others of suspected reputation only rejoiced to level an amiable respectable woman with themselves.

The Count De Bouville was distracted; he flew from a set of envious wretches to the Marquis De Melfort’s; when he entered the room he met the eyes of the lovely dejected Matilda, with such an expression of grief and softness in them, that it pierced his heart: she blushed, and withdrew