The Castle of Wolfenbach by Eliza Parsons (series like harry potter .TXT) 📕

Matilda smiled, but it was not a smile of pleasure. Ah! thought she, if the Count, if Mademoiselle De Bouville knew me, for what I am, a poor dependant, without friends of family - I should have few pretensions to their notice.

Adelaide took notice of her dejection, - ‘Come, my sweet friend, recover your spirits. My brother will be anxious for my return; you must enable me to give a good report, if you are desirous he should have rest to-night.’ ‘If I am desirous,’ replied poor Matilda; ‘is there any thing I more sincerely wish than happiness to you and your amiable brother?’ ‘Well then,’ answered Adelaide, ‘you must make haste to be well.’ ‘You are very obliging,’ returned Matilda; ‘I am much better, and should be very ungrateful to my friends if I did not exert myself against trifling indispositions.’

Adelaide surveyed her with admiration and compassion, her generosity felt an increase of affection from the knowledge of her misfortunes, though she was cautious not to drop a word that might give the other any suspicion that she was acquainted with them.

They parted at night with mutual reluctance, and Matilda endeavoured to compose her spirits for the dreaded interview that was to take place the following day.

When the Marchioness entered her apartment next morning she found her dressing, and much better, which gave her great satisfaction: she encouraged and applauded the resolution she had assumed; but when the time came, and the name of Mr Weimar was brought in, she could scarcely keep from fainting. The Marchioness retired to the closet, and he entered; Matilda rose to receive him, he hastily advanced and embraced her, ‘My dearest child, I rejoice to see you, cruelly as you have used me, miserable as I have been from apprehensions of your safety, I am happy to see you under such respectable protection.’ He seated her and himself. ‘The Marquis De Melfort,’ said he, has explained to me the cause of your absenting yourself from my house, therefore I am neither surprised nor angry; but surely you acted precipitantly, and on very slight grounds, the conversation you only partially heard and little understood.’ ‘I heard enough, Sir,’ said Matilda, with some spirit, ‘to inform me I was not in safety in a house with a woman of Agatha’s principles.’ ‘You entirely mistook the affair,’ interrupted he, ‘but before I explain myself farther, tell me, Matilda, is there no gratitude, no affection due to the man who has supported you from childhood, who took you, a helpless infant, without a friend to protect you from every evil incident to deserted infancy? Did I not treat you, love you, as a blessing sent from heaven?’

Matilda was drowned in tears at this representation of her forlorn state; with a deep sigh she answered, ‘Yes, Sir, all this I acknowledge, and heaven can witness for me how grateful I was for your kindness, until my delicacy was alarmed by freedoms I thought improper from our near connexion.’

‘One question more,’ said he; should you have been offended at those freedoms (as you call very innocent attentions), had they been offered by a man who designed to make you his wife?’

Matilda started, ‘His wife! ‘tis a strange question, but I answer, yes, Sir, I should; for confined as my knowledge of mankind was, nature and decency had taught me the impropriety of such behaviour

‘Perhaps,’ said he, ‘you carried your ideas of propriety too far; but doubtless you erred on the right side. But now, Matilda, I am going to disclose a secret, known only to Agatha, and which occasioned the conversation you misunderstood and misrepresented - I am not your uncle.’ ‘Good God! cried Matilda, ‘who, or what am I then?’ ‘That,’ replied he, ‘is a question I cannot resolve, I wish for your ease I could do so; but what I do know, I will repeat. One day I was in the garden, when Agatha came running to me with a bundle in her arms, “Lord, Sir, the strangest thing; I am sure I am as innocent as the babe itself, where it came from, or to whom it belongs, but Lord, Sir, here is a child sent you from God.” Very much surprised, I uncovered a cloth, and beheld the most beautiful infant I ever saw. I asked her how she came by it: this was her account: she heard a knocking at the door, and going to open it, saw a man at a distance, running very fast and a bundle at the gate; the man was soon out of sight; she took up the parcel, and found the child, wrapped in a dimity petticoat, and two or three cambrick handkerchiefs, but no cloaths, and apparently just born; a bit of paper was pinned to the petticoat, on which was wrote, with a pencil, “Look on this child as committed to your care by the hand of Providence; be careful of it, and you will not repent it.” I was very much struck,’ continued Mr Weimar, ‘by such an extraordinary circumstance, but resolved to do my duty: a nurse was provided in the house; I had it baptized and named it Matilda. I said it was my niece; having then no other servant but Agatha, and she being faithful to my wishes, as my niece the beloved adopted child was brought up, and had masters of every kind to instruct her. Years rolled away, no enquiry was ever made, and I began to see a thousand graces in this young creature, which insensibly warmed my heart, and taught it what it was to love, a lesson I had never learnt till then. When I returned from France my prot��g��e was improved in beauty and state: she knew little of men and she was less known by them; I determined to acquaint her with the secret I have related, and to offer her my hand. I deliberated some time in what manner to disclose it, and was consulting with Agatha how to make the discovery when you overheard the conversation, mistook the purport of it, and in consequence of that mistake gave me inexpressible misery.’

Here Mr Weimar stopt. Matilda, who sat almost breathless and stupified, fetched a deep sigh, ‘Then I am an outcast, a forsaken orphan, without friends or protectors! Gracious heaven! the offspring of guilt perhaps, for who but guilty wretches would give up their child to strangers?’ A friendly burst of tears relieved her beating heart.

‘Take comfort, my dearest Matilda, permit me to offer you my hand, my heart, I will be your protector through life; I consent that you shall consult the Marquis and Marchioness; you shall make your own terms for Albert, whom I shall value for his fidelity to you. If I have mentioned you in Paris as my niece, it was to avoid disagreeable questions, and keep your secret. The marriage may be private or public, as you like, no one will dare interfere with my wife. Think of every thing; I will return tomorrow for your determination.’ He arose, he kissed her hand, and left her motionless in the chair.

The moment he quitted the room the Marchioness entered, and, embracing the warm statue, as she called her. ‘I have heard all, my dear Matilda, and am equally astonished with yourself: his tale is plausible, perhaps true. Whoever were your parents, I should suppose them dead, from their not making enquiries during so many years after their child. Some praise is doubtless due to Mr Weimar, for his care of you; his first motives were certainly benevolent ones; whether he latterly intended you honourable, or not, cannot be known; he offers to marry you now, in the face of your friends; ‘tis possible you might mistake the tenor of the conversation you overheard - at any rate he seems now ready to act with honour. All this I say for Mr Weimar, justice demands I should be impartial; now, on the other hand, if your heart is repugnant to his offers; if you cannot be reconciled in your own mind to the account he has given you; if the gratitude due to his care of you in early life is effaced from your heart by his subsequent conduct, and you cannot overcome the disgust it inspired, never think of accepting his hand, to render both wretched. I have adopted you, I love you as a child, and will protect you; in me you shall find the mother you have lost: fear not therefore, my dearest Matilda, to decide as your heart and judgement shall direct; do nothing hastily, take this day and night to reflect and determine with your whole heart tomorrow. I shall, with your permission, inform the Marquis of this extraordinary story, and I am sure his affection for you will coincide with mine.’

Whilst the Marchioness was speaking Matilda had time to recover herself from the astonishment she had been thrown into, and still more from the humiliating idea, that she was indeed a friendless orphan, and owed unbounded obligations to a man she had for some time past looked on with detestation.

When the Marchioness was silent the unhappy girl took her hand, and kissing it, with a flood of tears, ‘My dear, my generous benefactress, do you and the Marquis decide for me, I am incapable of judging for myself; I feel what I owe to Mr Weimar’s humanity - I honour him for his benevolence and charity to a poor deserted infant; he is a good master, and beloved, as I have heard, by his tenants; I may have erred, I may have condemned him wrongfully, yet my heart, my judgment is not on his side. Condescend, dear madam, to direct me; I will take this day and night to reflect on every thing I have heard; have the goodness to inform me in the morning of your own and the Marquis’s opinion, and I hope I shall act so as not to forfeit the friendship you have honoured me with.’ The Marchioness embraced her with expressions of tenderness, and repaired to the Marquis, to whom she repeated the preceding conversation

He was very much surprised and puzzled. ‘We cannot controvert any of the circumstances he has related, and his behaviour to her, from the moment she was thrown on his protection, deserves the greatest praise; one would scarcely believe a mind capable of such good actions could entertain designs so contrary to honour and the tenor of his former conduct; his offers now certainly prove his affection, but I own I should be sorry to see such a lovely young creature compelled to be sacrificed to a man older perhaps than her father: If there is a mystery in her birth, time yet may bring it to light; however she must determine for herself, but let it be free from the idea of necessity, for on our protection she may rely.’

The Count De Bouville, anxious for Matilda’s health, and the result of the expected conference, made the Marchioness an early visit; as he had been informed of the preceding circumstances, they made no scruple to relate every particular that had taken place that morning. The Count was very much shocked; he scarcely knew the nature of the sentiments he entertained for Matilda; ‘tis true, he admired and esteemed her, from the little observations he had found an opportunity of making on her character, but he possessed too much good sense to be violently attached on so