60 Gothic Classics. Эдгар Аллан По

from his power long before that period expires.'

      The Count de Bouville rose and left the room to conceal his emotions.

      'I will not forgive you, my dear child,' said the Marchioness 'if you indulge such desponding ideas; depend upon it happier days await you -trust in Providence, and rejoice you are now free from anxiety: equally under the protection of the ambassadors and the Marquis, Mr Weimar will not dare to molest you.'

      The ladies all congratulated Matilda; and, the Marchioness taking her hand, 'Come with me into the garden, I must chide you, but I will not do it publicly, though you deserve it. ' She led her to a little temple, at one end of the garden, and when seated she said to the still silent Matilda, 'You do not consider the advantages we have gained.' 'O, my dear madam,' cried the other, interrupting her, 'how sensible I am of that kind we have gained!' ' Well, well,' resumed the Marchioness, 'hear me out. We can now take public methods to enquire, if there yet exists a being who has any claim to you, without fear of Mr Weimar; a twelvemonth may make great alterations in his sentiments; should it appear you have no particular relations, he has no legal claim upon you, but from his expenditure for your maintenance and clothes -let him bring in his bill, he shall be paid to the uttermost farthing; you are my adopted child; consider yourself as such, and dare not refuse that trifle for your future expences; -if you utter any ohs! or ahs! if you ever talk of obligations, I will never pardon you: to be cheerful and happy is the only return you can make or I accept.' She then placed the deed mentioned by the Marquis, with a fifty-pound note, upon the lap of the astonished Matilda, and hastened away to the house.

      It was some moments before she recovered herself enough to examine the papers. The contents overwhelmed her with gratitude; she burst into a flood of tears, the papers in her hand, when unexpectedly the Count stood before her. 'Good heavens!' he cried, 'what means this distress, these tears?' 'O, my Lord,' answered she, 'they are tears of sensibility and gratitude.' 'I rejoice to hear it,' replied the Count, 'heaven forbid they should ever flow from any other cause.' He seated himself by her, she dried her eyes, and put the papers in her pocket. 'I congratulate you, madam,' resumed he, 'on the happy turn in your affairs, which the Marquis has informed me of.' 'You know me then for an unhappy deserted orphan?' said she, blushing and mortified. 'I know you,' replied he, eagerly, 'for the most amiable of your sex; no adventitious advantages of birth or fortune can add to those claims your own merit gives you to universal esteem.' 'Ah, my Lord,' said she, 'to generous spirits like yours and this family's, misfortunes are a recommendation to kindness and attention, but with the generality of mankind I have not to learn it must be otherwise. Stranger as I am to the manners and customs of the world, I am sensible birth and fortune have superior advantages, and that without them, though with liberal minds we may obtain compassion, we can never hope for consideration or respect.' 'Pardon me, madam,' replied the Count,' if I pre sume to say you judge erroneously; she who with merit, with good sense, delicacy, and refined sentiments can command respect, is a thousand times superior to those whose inferiority of mind disgraces a rank which the other would ennoble.' 'You are very kind, Sir,' said Matilda, rising, and unable to support a conversation which she feared might grow too interesting for her peace: 'you are truly friendly, in endeavouring to reconcile me to myself; and I have no way of deserving your favorable judgment, but by constantly remembering what I am, that I may at least preserve my humility.' She courtesied and walked fast towards the house, and to the apartment of the Countess. That lady was alone, her head resting on her hand, and seemed buried in thought. Matilda would have withdrawn, the other entreated her return; 'Come in, my dear girl,' said she, 'my own thoughts are the worst company you could leave me in at present.' 'I come to tell you, my dear madam,' cried her young friend, 'that my heart is bursting with gratitude: the Marchioness will not hear me, but I must have vent for my feelings, or I shall be opprest to death.' She burst into tears. 'My dear April girl,' said the Countess, 'no more of those showers, -you have too much sensibility; I know what you want to tell me, therefore spare yourself the trouble, and let me acquaint you, that I am indebted to my generous brother, for a settlement of treble the value of what he has given you, yet I make no fuss about the matter.' 'But, dear madam,' cried Matilda, 'sure there is great difference in our situations, you have a natural claim -' 'A natural claim,' repeated the Countess; 'the best claim to a generous mind, is being unfortunate with merit that deserves a better fate. I think little of those favours which are bestowed from claims of affinity only; since family pride, the censure of the world, and many causes, may unlock a heart to support their own consequence in their connexions, but the truly benificent mind looks upon every child of sorrow as their relation, and entitled to their assistance; but when beauty and virtue suffer, from whatsoever cause, believe me, dear Matilda, they receive a superior gratification that have the power of relieving sorrows, than the receiver can in accepting the favors.' 'I believe, my dear madam, replied Matilda, her heart warmed by the idea, 'I believe you are right; for if there is a human being I could envy, it would be the one who can raise the desponding heart to hope and peace.' 'With that conviction,' resumed the Countess, 'feel as if you conferred a favor, without the oppressive notion of having received one; and now pray listen to me. My brother and sister hourly importune me to prosecute the Count: you know my objections, -God only knows whether I have a child living or not -the doubt gives me a thousand pangs; as to the murder of the poor Chevalier, Peter only was a witness beside myself, and he is a creature of the Count's; then to accuse one's husband, what an indelible reproach! I never can submit to it: tell me, advise me, dear girl, what I must do?' 'Impossible madam,' replied she; 'I am incompetent to advise, - your own good sense, and the opinion of your friends, are more capable of it than one so little conversant in the world as I am.' 'Well,' resumed the Countess, 'I will be guided by Lord Delby and Mrs Courtney; my own relations are too warmly interested in my favor to give an impartial opinion: -but pray, my dear, what do you think of our Count, is not he a charming youth?'

      A question so mal-a-propos, when poor Matilda's heart bore testimony to his merit, threw her into the greatest confusion, she was unable to speak.

      The Countess observed her emotion, but was too delicate to notice it; she therefore added, ' 'Tis a needless question; I see your sentiments correspond with mine; but your spirits are low, child - in truth mine are not high, so let us seek for better company.' She arose, and taking Matildas passive hand, led her to the drawing room, where the company was assembled.

      Matilda could not see her benefactors without being visibly affected, which the Marchioness observing, 'Come, ladies,' said she, 'give me your votes, I am collecting them for a party to Windsor to-morrow.' 'O, doubtless you may command ours,' replied the Countess; 'novelty has always its charms for us females.' 'Very well,' said the Marquis, 'then it's a settled business.'

      The excursion to Windsor, and several other places, in the fortnight they staid at Mrs Courtney's jumbled the Count and Matilda so frequently together, and he had so many opportunities of admiring her strong understanding and polished manners, that his affection was insensibly engaged beyond all power of resistance, and he determined to brave the censures of the world, and marry her, if he could obtain her heart. From the moment this resolution took place, he treated her with that insinuating tenderness in his voice and manners, which seldom fails of communicating the infection to a susceptible mind. Matilda's feelings alarmed her; she was conscious of the impropriety of indulging them, and felt the necessity of avoiding the Count as much as possible. He quickly observed the alteration in her behaviour, and was determined to come to an immediate explanation; justly conceiving nothing could be more wounding to a delicate mind than suspense under such circumstances.

      She so carefully shunned him, that it was not easy to find her alone; but the morning, when it was intended to return in the evening to London, chance afforded him an opportunity. The Marchioness, Matilda, and the Count were in the garden; the Marquis came to them and requested to speak a few words to his Lady; She disengaged her arm from her companion, and went with him to the house. Matilda turned with an intention to follow; the Count took her hand, 'Let me entreat you, madam, to pursue your walk; I wish to speak a few words, on an affair of consequence, that will not detain you long from your friends.' She trembled, and without speaking, suffered him to conduct her to an alcove at the bottom of the garden. They were both seated for a minute before he could assume courage to speak, at length, 'I believe from the first hour I had the happiness of being introduced to you, my admiration was very visible, but it was that admiration which a beautiful