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

them, with a sigh she could not suppress. The Marquis had left the room, the Marchioness was holding her young friend’s hand with an affectionate tender air.

After the usual compliments he enquired particularly after Matilda’s health; she could not trust her voice just then to speak, the Marchioness answered, ‘She is better, only a dejection on her spirits, which you must assist in removing: I was trying to persuade her to accompany me in a carriage to pay a few visits.’ The Count, alarmed at the intention, replied, ‘Paying visits might possibly be too fatiguing, but an airing would surely be of service.’ ‘Well then,’ said the Marchioness, forgetful of her Lord’s caution, ‘you shall accompany us.’ The carriage, which was in waiting, drawing up, he gladly escorted the two ladies to it, and took his seat very quietly opposite to Matilda, who had hitherto observed a profound silence. He contrived however to draw her into a little conversation, and was charmed with her good sense and sweetness of manners. The languor that pervaded her fine features, powerfully engaged the heart, and the Count could not help thinking how happy that man must be who was destined to possess so great a treasure! This reflection caused a sudden alteration in his countenance; he grew thoughtful and uneasy, when he was disturbed in his reverie by an exclamation from the Marchioness, ‘Good heavens! what insolence.’ ‘What’s the matter, madam?’ ‘Bless me, didn’t you observe the two carriages that past, in one was Madame Remini and her two daughters, in the other Madame Le Brun, her niece, and two others of my acquaintance. As the carriage past, I bowed and kissed my hand; they one and all returned a slight bow, and laughed in each other’s faces: upon my word I never saw such rudeness.’ The Count who could too well account for this behaviour, was however very much vexed. ‘Dear madam,’ said he, ‘such impertinent women are scarce worth your notice, and only deserving contempt.’ ‘That’s true, Count,’ replied she, ‘and henceforth I shall treat them as they deserve.’

As neither of the parties were in high spirits, their airing was not a long one, and they returned to the house as the Marquis entered it.

After they were seated the Marchioness was expressing her wishes to be in England. ‘Does Miss Weimar accompany you?’ asked the Count. ‘I hope so,’ replied the Marchioness. The Marquis giving the Count a glance, they retired to the library, where the conversation of the morning, between Mr Weimar and Matilda, was repeated. The Count felt indignation, pity, and resentment; he was delighted with Matilda’s spirit, yet most sincerely felt for her unhappy situation. ‘Good God, my dear Marquis, what is to be done for this amiable girl?’ ‘I hope,’ he replied, ‘we shall prevail on him to leave her with us, - tomorrow will determine; but take it how he will, I have this day made several persons acquainted with his being the guardian of Matilda, and his offers of marriage in my presence: the circumstance of a young lady’s flying from her guardian is nothing extraordinary, and will, I hope, do away the scandal that has been propagated at her expence.’ ‘You are very good,’ returned the Count, ‘and I am sure she merits the esteem of all the world.’ He took his leave under such a contrariety of sentiments, and so much real concern for the unfortunate Matilda, that when he returned to his sister she was quite alarmed, and asked a thousand questions relative to her friend. When he had explained every thing, the gentle Adelaide felt equal concern, and lamented that her troubles were of a kind that placed it out of the power of their friendship to afford her any consolation or relief.

Whilst they were expressing mutual regret Mademoiselle De Fontelle was announced; she was received with a coldness that would have mortified any other person, but putting on a gay air, ‘Ah! Count, so soon returned from your party; I did not expect to find you here.’ ‘Perhaps, madam, had I known your intended visit, I might have been elsewhere.’ ‘Very polite, upon my word,’ said she, colouring deeply; ‘your brother, my dear Bouville, has acquired the English roughness of manners, by his tour to that country.’ ‘I hope, madam,’ replied he, significantly, ‘I have acquired the sincerity of that nation, at least, to speak as I think; and as a proof of it, were you not my sister’s guest, I should be free enough to say, I so much detest the fabricators of scandal, that I heartily rejoice when they are mortified by being obliged to hear the object of their envy is as much superior to them in every amiable quality of the mind, as she is in the beauty of her person, and that it will be her own fault only if she is not established in a more brilliant situation than her enemies can boast of.’

With these words he left the room, with a look of scorn she could not support, but burst into tears. ‘Your brother has cruelly insulted me,’ said she. ‘I am sorry for it, and for the occasion,’ answered Mademoiselle De Bouville; ‘but indeed you have been too unguarded in your reports to the disadvantage of Miss Weimar.’ ‘Name her not,’ cried she, ‘I hate her.’ ‘That may be,’ returned the other, ‘nevertheless I hold it my duty to do her justice.’ She then briefly mentioned Mr Weimar was only her guardian, and that he was come after her to solicit her hand, the only thing for which she left him. His offers before the Marquis and his lady, and the very great justice he did her character. The malicious girl was ready to burst with spleen, but carried it off with an air. ‘Upon my word,’ said she, ‘Mr Weimar was himself the person who first mentioned the affair to her disadvantage; and I suppose there is some point to carry, or some mystery in an affair where there are such contradictions, which I do not comprehend, and which, I dare say, will deceive nobody, though I would venture to swear, hardly any person will concern themselves about the Marchioness’s little prot��g��e, or whether the German is uncle or not to one whom no body knows.’ She arose, and desiring her respects to her very polite brother, flounced out of the room.

Neither her resentment nor absence was a subject of regret to Adelaide, who only visited her in compliance with the fashion of the times, which is to go every where with the rest of the world, and assist in forming a crowd, without knowing or caring for three fourths of the company.

Meantime the remainder of the day was spent at the Marquis’s in the most affectionate endeavours to console Matilda, and the warmest assurances of love and attention to her interests. They all anxiously expected the return of Mr Weimar next morning, as the crisis on which her future destiny appeared to depend.

At the appointed hour Mr Weimar sent in his name; her friends had persuaded Matilda to receive him alone, and send for them when she thought it necessary. She had tried all the morning to reconcile herself to his displeasure, but she was resolved to persevere in the resolution she had formed of retiring to a convent, if he made it necessary.

He entered the room with an air of kindness and complacency took her hand and kissed it. ‘Let me flatter myself, dearest Matilda,’ said he, ‘that you are in better health and disposition than when I left you yesterday. I have passed many uneasy hours lately, indeed I may say truly, from the day you was committed to my care, every hour of my life has been spent in anxiety on your account.’ ‘Do not, Sir,’ said she, ‘for heaven’s sake, do not crush me with the weight of obligations I owe you: a poor forlorn being, without family or friends, as you have justly told me, is entitled to no one’s consideration; I am therefore beyond all possibility of return at present; indebted to you for every thing, for the life I enjoy, hard is the task upon me to refuse any thing you request, but as this meeting is to decide once for all, pardon me if I say I cannot marry you, but this deference I owe to your fatherly care of me, I solemnly declare, that unless the authors of my being claim my first reverence, I never will encourage any man without your permission; this, Sir, is all I can, or ever will promise in your favour.’ ‘Ungrateful girl!’ cried he, raising his voice, ‘and is this all, this all you owe to a man who preserved your life, and bestowed his time and fortune to make you what you are?’ ‘Oh! that I had died,’ cried Matilda, in an agony, ‘rather than to live and be thus upbraided for favours I never can return; but my mind tells me you will one day be repaid for all; - yes, I have a pre-sentiment I am no base-born unworthy offspring; one day, Sir, I may yet have the power to prove my sense of the obligations you reproach me with, and it will be the happiest moment of my life.’ She had spoken with such vehemence as precluded interruption; he was surprised; ‘You are warm, Matilda,’ said he, very calmly. ‘I cannot help it, Sir, you have made me desperate; I will seek peace and quietness in a convent. You will not permit me to accompany the Marchioness,’ said she, softening, and tears running down her cheeks, ‘and I think I owe you that respect not to go without your leave; therefore I have no other asylum but a convent to hope for.’ ‘Have I not a house, Matilda?’ ‘Yes, Sir; I might have resided in my uncle’s house, but I cannot, with propriety, in yours, when I have no such claim to boast of.’ She arose and rang the bell; ‘Desire the Marquis and his lady to favour me with their company.’ When the servant retired, ‘You are then determined, madam?’ ‘I am, Sir.’ ‘Then so am I, and you may take the consequence.’

Her friends now entered; after they were seated Matilda spoke, ‘I took the liberty to request your presence, that you might be witness to my declaration for the last time, That I never will be the wife of Mr Weimar, nor without his consent, unless commanded by my parents, (alas! how unlikely at present that hope) never to marry any other man. It would be the joy of my heart to have been permitted to accept the honor of the protection you have offered me, but as I fear that cannot be, I will retire into a convent, ‘tis the only place of refuge for a poor unfortunate, friendless being, without family, friends, or even a name.’ She wept aloud, pronouncing those last words. The Marchioness sympathized with her, and addressing Mr Weimar, ‘Come, Sir,’ said she, ‘let me prevail on you to accede to our request, we ask it as a favor; permit Miss Matilda to be in our care for six months; I engage my honor she shall return by that time free from every engagement.’ He made no answer.

‘Shall I entreat the favor of a few words in private, Sir,’ said the Marquis. They arose and left the room. Within a short time they returned. Mr Weimar, advancing to Matilda, ‘I have consented to oblige you, too ungrateful girl; I permit you to remain with the Marchioness, but conditionally, that you write me constantly every occurrence, nor presume to enter into any engagement without my acquiescence.’ ‘To these conditions,’ cried she, her eyes sparkling with joy, ‘I most cheerfully subscribe.’ He looked full of resentment at her, but taking a polite leave, declined an