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

order in my pocket, and a person who had attended me, more like a confidential friend than a servant, I came to Boulogne, and obtained your delivery to me. The rest you know. It was my intention to have married you, unless you rejected me -in that case you must take the consequence. When I saw the Turkish vessel I gave all up for lost; and when they boarded us, expecting you would be sacrificed to their desires, and myself made a slave, I resolved to prevent both: Providence preserved you -what I have suffered, and the near prospect of death, determined me to confess all my crimes -crimes that have embittered every hour of my life, and which have led me into a thousand inconsistences, from fears and terrors, only created by guilt. Thus it is with the wicked; early plunged into vice, they proceed from one bad action to another; afraid to look back, unable to repent, they go on to fill up the measure of their crimes, ‘till their best concerted schemes prove their ruin. Had not the hand of death overtaken me, this confession never would have been made; yet even at this moment I adore Matilda. Pardon me, dear unhappy girl, the evils I have caused you; let me die forgiven by you, and join in supplicating that mercy I have so little room to hope for, but from Divine goodness to the truly penitent.’

Matilda assured her of her forgiveness, and implored heaven’s mercy on him. ‘But tell me, Sir,’ said she, ‘did you never hear of my mother?’ ‘Only once, and by accident, eight years ago; she was then at Naples, with her family.’ ‘Grant heaven!’ said Matilda, ‘she may be there still; O, what happiness, if I should ever embrace a mother ! ‘ Tears stopt her utterance; her uncle was affected. ‘O, Matilda ! leave me; I cannot bear your tears, they reproach me too deeply; and I have much to repent of before I leave you for ever.’

She quitted the room, oppressed with the most painful sensations: the tragical end of her father, the melancholy situation of her mother, the crimes of her uncle, and her own present distressed and forlorn state, altogether gave her unutterable pangs: yet a gleam of joy darted through the gloom that pervaded her fate -she was of noble birth; no unlawful offspring, no child of poverty: then she thought of the Count -‘Ah!’ cried she, ‘he is now the husband of Mrs Courtney; in all probability I shall never see him more.’ A sigh followed the reflection, which she strove to place on another score.

She was soon after joined by the captain. ‘The surgeon came in as you left the room, madam; and notwithstanding the sick man’s agitation, in telling his story, he says, he is undoubtedly better, and he begins to entertain hopes, if no change happens for the worse.’ ‘I am glad to hear it,’ replied she, ‘may he live to repent.’ ‘Meantime, madam,’ said he, ‘if you wish to write your friends, I will take care your letters shall be conveyed by the quickest dispatch possible.’

She accepted his generous offer, and retired to write the Marchioness and Countess what had befallen her; but recollecting that she could not wish to be in France until she had visited Naples, she left her letters unfinished, to consult the captain the following morning. She retired to rest, but the agitations of her mind precluded sleep: alternate joy and sorrow, hopes and fears, created such different ideas, that she passed the night without closing her eyes, and arose, at break of day, resolved to write and address a letter to her grandfather with her story. ‘If he lives,’ said she, ‘he will be overjoyed; if not, if I have no such relation, no dear mother alive, some one of the family will doubtless write and inform me.’

When the captain came to breakfast, she imparted her different thoughts to him. She had no way of paying court to his amiable wife, but by kissing her hand, whilst the other pressed hers to her bosom, with tender affection, her husband having related the lady’s story to her.

The Captain, after some deliberation, said, ‘I told you once, madam, the employment I am, or rather was engaged in, by no means suited me. I was not originally accustomed to this kind of life; my wife’s father always was; he persuaded me to follow it. I sailed with him three years; we made a good deal of money. He died six months ago. This last voyage was the first I ever made for myself. I am disgusted at the service, and mean to quit it: my wife wishes me to do so; she is a good woman; we have enough; I do not want a plurality of wives -I am content with her. My mother was an English woman -I imbibe her sentiments. I have not disposed of my vessel; I will take you to Naples, or even to France, if you wish it, under neutral colours, which I can procure. This will be better than engaging your friends to come here. I have no enemy but the Russians to fear, and those I can provide against.’ ‘You are very kind, Sir,’ said she; ‘I really am at a loss how to proceed, and will consult Mr Weimar’ (she could not reconcile herself to call him uncle). She did so: he approved of the Captain’s advice, but thought she had best write her friends of her safety and situation, also of her intention to go to Naples, from whence they might expect to hear her decisive plan; previous to which the Captain could write to some persons, to know if any of her relations were living. This being agreed upon, as the best methods to be taken, Matilda resigned herself to patience ‘till answers could be obtained, which must necessarily take up some time.

We must now return to the Countess and her friends, who arrived at Vienna without meeting any accident.

Their first step was to deliver the German Minister’s letters to the English Ambassador; his Excellency having sent dispatches to his own court of this extraordinary affair.

The Countess found but little difficulty in being acknowledged, and put in possession of her rights. Her story engrossed the public attention at Vienna, and she received a thousand visits and congratulations from every person of distinction. Though abundantly gratified by their civilities, she was too anxious to see her son for her mind to be at ease. A messenger had been sent to his quarters, by the Marquis, with leave from the Emperor for his return, and preparing him, by degrees, for the agreeable surprise of finding some near and dear relations. The youth had been apprised of his father s death, but not having read the Count’s letter, was a stranger to all the circumstances relative to it. He made no difficulty of obeying the order, and set off for his father’s seat directly.

One day, when every heart beat high with expectation, a travelling carriage was seen driving through the park. ‘My son, my son!’ cried the Countess starting up. The Marquis ran out to meet him. In a moment a tall elegant youth, about sixteen, entered the room, with looks of eager expectation. The Countess flew towards him, threw her arms round him; attempted to speak, but overpowered by tender emotions ‘till then a stranger to her breast, she fainted in his arms. The young gentleman, alarmed, and equally agitated, assisted, in silence, to convey her to a seat; and whilst the Marchioness was busy in her endeavours to restore her sister, he kissed her hand eagerly and cried to the Marquis, ‘Tell me, Sir, who is this dear lady?’ ‘It is -‘ said the other, with a little pause, ‘she is your mother, Sir.’ ‘Mother!’ repeated he, dropping on his knees. ‘Great God! have I a mother? my own mother!’ ‘Yes,’ replied the Marquis, ‘she is indeed your parent, for very many years believed to be dead.’ Young Frederic was now in a state very little better than the Countess: surprise, joy, the soft emotions that at once assailed him, rendered him speechless and immoveable.

It was some time before they were both sufficiently recovered to be sensible of their felicity. The Countess embraced him with tears of expressive tenderness; he, on his knees, kissing her hands with ardour. ‘My mother! my dear mother!’ was all he could utter for a long time. The Marchioness at length separated them. ‘My dear Frederic,’ said she, ‘you have other duties to pay, besides your present delightful one -I claim you as my nephew; this gentleman is my husband, consequently your uncle.’ He flew and embraced both. ‘Gracious heaven !’ cried he, ‘what happiness. A few months ago I supposed myself without family or friends, dependent on the Count’s bounty; then I was agreeably surprised with being acknowledged as his son, then suddenly separated, and only ten days since informed of his death -again I was an orphan, and knew not what claims I could or ought to make; but now this unexpected tide of joy and happiness -to find a mother! O, the blessed sound! to find a mother, uncle, aunt, all dear and honoured relations! Great God, I adore thy bounty, make me deserving of thy favours.’ He again threw himself at the feet of the Countess, who had hung with rapture on his words, and now embraced him with the highest delight.

After this tumult of pleasure was a little subsided, he eagerly enquired the particulars of her story; which the Marquis repeated, as had been agreed upon, glossing over the Count’s crimes, as much as possibly could be done, to exculpate the Countess. No mention was made of the Chevalier’s death; but the youth heard sufficient to comprehend his mother had been cruelly used, and his features bore testimony of his emotions. ‘Dearest madam,’ cried he, ‘how great have been your sufferings! henceforth it shall be the study of my life to make you forget them in your future happiness.’

Lord Delby, who had been rambling in the park, now entered the room. Young Frederic was introduced to him, and the foregoing scene slightly described by the Marchioness. ‘I am glad,’ said his Lordship, ‘I was not present; for though I adore sensibility, such a meeting would have been too much for me.’

Growing more rational together, his relations were delighted with the young officer. ‘It must be confessed,’ said the Marquis, ‘the Count paid particular attention to Frederic’s education.’ ‘Yes, my Lord,’ answered the youth, ‘it would have been my fault, if I had not profited by the instructions I received; but I thought my debt of gratitude so great for such uncommon kindness from a stranger, on whom I had no claims, that I strove to exert my small abilities, and by diligence and application, evince my sense of his favours, as the only return in my power.’ ‘The deception, as far as related to you,’ said the Marchioness, ‘proved a happy one; it laid the foundation for virtue, humility, and gratitude, which perhaps happier circumstances and legal claims might never have called forth. Thus sometimes good springs out of evil.’

The following day, when the happy party was assembled, and projecting pleasurable schemes, the Marquis received the letter which the good Mother Magdalene had found means to send off from Matilda. He started, with an exclamation of surprise. All were eager to know the contents. Prepare yourselves for some regret, on account of your young friend,’ said he. ‘What! Matilda?’ cried both in a breath. ‘Yes, I am sorry to tell you she is again in her uncle’s power; he has again claimed her as his niece.’ He then read the letter, and all were equally grieved at the unfortunate destiny of this deserving young woman.

Frederic,