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

nobody seen Joseph nor his wife. No, was the general answer, and the fire imputed to their carelessness. Some of the neighbouring gentlemen rode over; every one condoled with me, and offered me accommodations; I returned with the gentleman to whom I had first been on a visit. When retired to my apartment, a retrospection of all my crimes forced themselves on my remembrance. I tried to sleep, alas! there was no sleep befriended me; ten thousand horrid images swam before my sight; I threw myself out of bed; it was moonlight; my room commanded a view of the distant wood, I shrunk at the sight -there lies my wretched wife! then the Chevalier, Joseph, Bertha, and Peter, all seemed to walk before me; great God! what were my sufferings that night, never to be effaced from my memory. When daylight came, I went down stairs to the garden; here I first thought of destroying myself -my boy shot across my mind -I took my resolution at once. I set off that day for Vienna. On my arrival I sent for Frederic, and after some preparation acknowledged him as my son, acquainted him his mother died in child-bed, and I had particular reasons, immaterial to him, for not owning him sooner; I made my will, secured my whole fortune to him, by proper testimonials, that I acknowledged him my son, and then resolved to retire from the world, repent of my sins, and try to make my peace with heaven. All Vienna was astonished at my resolution; my son sought every argument to divert me from my purpose, his tenderness, goodness, and virtue were daggers to my heart; I fell very ill, and earnestly prayed for the hour of death; heaven thought fit to spare me, that I might receive some comfort before the fatal hour arrived. I began to get better, though weak and declining, when, to my inexpressible surprise, I received a letter from our Minister in England, with a brief account of the Countess, the deposition of the Marquis, and requesting I would acknowledge the lady, and not permit such black transactions to appear before the public as the Countess said she had the power of disclosing. At first I thought this letter was all illusion; but when I considered the possibility of her escape from death, and the application of the Marquis to the Ambassador, I was convinced the whole was founded on truth. What a mountain was taken from my bosom! I wrote immediately, I would follow the letter. In three days my strength mended greatly, yet I was obliged to take very easy journies, and by the time I arrived in England fatigue had quite exhausted me. His Excellency sent off an express to you. I now thank heaven that both you and Joseph are alive, and adore the ways of Providence, who extracts good out of evil, and made the very crimes I intended to perpetrate the means of deliverance to you both. The death of the unfortunate Chevalier I bitterly repent, and can only observe here, that when a man gives himself up to unrestrained passions of what nature soever, one vicious indulgence leads to another, crimes succeed each other, and to veil one, and avoid discoveries, we are drawn insensibly to the commission of such detestable actions as once we most abhorred the idea of: for, although my temper was not good, and my passions always violent, had not love and jealousy urged me to desperation, and deprived me of reason, my soul would have shrunk at the thoughts of murders, which grew at last necessary for my preservation.

Here the Count stopped, exhausted and fatigued; indeed he had made several pauses in his relation, from weakness, and it was very visible he had not many days to live.

The Countess could not restrain her tears. ‘Ah !’ said she, ‘I have been the unhappy cause of all -‘ ‘Do not reproach yourself,’ cried he, hastily; ‘I am now convinced of your innocence; indeed I long believed it, even when I designed your death the second time; only innocence could have supported you to bear my cruelties, and your horrid confinement with resignation: I knew too well the terrors of guilt; for let not the unhappy wretch, who forgets his duties towards God and man, who gives himself up to the indulgence of his passions, and wrongs the innocent, think, if he escapes detection, he can be happy: alas! remorse and sorrow will one day assail him; he will find he cannot hide his crimes from himself, and his own conscience will prove his bitterest punishment.’

The Countess extremely rejoiced to find him so sensible of his guilt, said every thing in her power to ease and calm his mind.

After he had a little recovered, he turned to the Marquis. ‘I sent for you, my Lord, not only to hear my confession, but to direct me in what manner I must do my wife justice; if it be your pleasure, I will repeat my story, or at least assent to a drawn up confession before witnesses.’ ‘By no means,’ answered the Marquis; ‘it will be perfectly sufficient if one part of the story, nearly what relates to her confinement, so as to authenticate her person, is related.’ After some consultation the Marquis attended the German Minister. A paper was drawn up, signifying the jealousy of the Count, without naming any particular object, in consequence of which he shut up his lady in the castle, after her delivery, and gave out a report of her death; that he had brought up her son, now an officer, who was lately acquainted with his real birth, and to whom his estates were secured: that the lady, after many years confinement, had found means to escape to her brother and sister, with whom she resided. The Count having accidentally heard of her residence, was come to England, with a view to obtain her pardon and do her justice; that he acknowledged her innocence in the strongest terms, and desired, in case of his death, she might enjoy every advantage settled on her, when married to him, in the fullest extent.

This paper was signed in presence of the Ambassador, his Chaplain, and all the friends of the Countess, -Lord Delby among the rest.

Not a word was said relative to the Chevalier, Margarite, or Peter: the former had been so many years given up, as dead by his relations, though they never guessed in what manner he died, that it would have been the height of cruelty to have awakened sorrow so long dormant, had it ever been necessary, but as no such occasion appeared to demand an investigation, every thing relative to him and the other victims was buried in oblivion.

The Count survived nearly a week after their arrival in town, and then expired with more resignation and composure than could have been hoped for. Two days previous to his death he wrote to his son a few lines, referring him to the testimony he had given the Countess, and requesting he would, by his duty and tenderness, atone for the cruelties of his father; bid him remember the awful lesson placed before him, and restrain those passions, the indulgence of which had brought sorrow and shame on his guilty parent, whom, nevertheless, he had the comfort to tell him was a truly penitent one. The Marquis, taking upon him to direct every thing for preserving the body, and having it carried into Germany within a fortnight, a few days after the necessary orders were completed, told the Countess he thought it highly proper she should go in person to make her claim. She, who was impatient to see and embrace her son, received the proposition with joy. The Marchioness, Lord Delby, and Mrs Courtney accepted an invitation to accompany her with pleasure. The former had written to Matilda the late unexpected and agreeable turn in the affairs of the Countess, and again pressed her return to them. The latter, Mrs Courtney, still persevered in her soft melancholy, her tender looks, and attentions to the Count, who, when he found the party fixed for Vienna, excused himself from attending them, but promised, if the Marquis and his family did not return to France before Christmas, he would join them early in the spring.

This declaration was a thunderbolt to Mrs Courtney. She seized an opportunity of speaking to him alone. ‘How, my Lord,’ cried she, ‘is it possible you can think of separating yourself from your friends, -will you not go to Germany?’ ‘It is not in my power, madam,’ answered he. ‘Say rather not your inclination,’ said she, warmly: ‘you pique yourself on speaking truth, you know.’ ‘I wish to do so always,’ replied he, ‘but the ladies will not always permit me.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Sir, for contradicting you; I, at least, gave you credit for truth and sincerity, when you unpardonably fought to gain those affections you have since cruelly trifled with.’ ‘Such a charge from Mrs Courtney,’ said he, ‘has too much severity in it, not to call for a serious answer; I therefore protest, madam, I never sought -I never wished to gain the affections of any woman but Matilda: my love for her is no secret to my friends, -I glory in it. For you, madam. I entertained the highest respect; I thought it my duty to shew you every possible attention, a man of politeness was bound to offer to an amiable woman; more I never intended -I never could be thought to intend, with a heart avowedly devoted to another.’ ‘And do you call this politeness?’ cried she, highly enraged. ‘I must tell you, Sir, you have (if you please to call it so) trifled too much with my peace, by your gallantry; and was I not completely revenged by the entire indifference of your idol, I should resent it in a very different manner. There, Sir,’ tossing Matilda’s letter to him, ‘there see how much you are beloved or regretted by an insensible paltry girl.’ The Count had caught up the letter, and in his eagerness to read, scarcely heard her last words. He devoured every line with his eager eyes; and when he came to the conclusion, ‘happier with another woman’. ‘O, Matilda! never, never ! You may indeed forget me; mine is a common character, but there are few like yours in the world.’ Then looking at it again, and turning to Mrs Courtney who looked full of fury and malice, ‘May I be permitted to ask, madam, on what occasion you wrote this young lady, and of what nature those offers of service were, made in my name by you.’ Mrs Courtney blushed, and was in the highest confusion. ‘Shall I interpret your looks, madam?’ asked he again. No, Sir, I can speak their language myself. I wrote to know her sentiments, at the time you were amusing yourself at the expence of my folly, as I had too much honor to give you encouragement, if she had any hopes of you.’ ‘So then,’ said he, in a rage, ‘she believes I was paying my addresses to you, madam.’ She smiled contemptuously. ‘No wonder she renounces me; if such ideas took possession of her mind, she must think me the most contemptible of men.’ ‘And of what signification are her thoughts to you? are there not insuperable difficulties to a connexion with her?’ asked she. ‘Not on my side, madam; this hour, this instant, I would receive her hand with gratitude and transport; her dignity of sentiment, her true greatness of mind are the bars to my happiness.’ ‘Well, but if there are bars -‘ ‘I beg pardon for interrupting you, madam; I know what you would say; and it is far from my design to be rude to any lady, but you must permit me to declare, I