Edgar Allan Poe - 60 Gothic Classics

VICTORIA

'Good God! I thank thee,' cried the Marchioness, 'this is blessed news indeed.' 'I rejoice with you, my dearest love,' said the Marquis, 'but pray communicate the news to your lovely protégée.' She hastened to Matilda; she was reclining on her arms, thrown across the table, and weeping bitterly. 'My charming girl do not give way to sorrow, heaven, in its own good time, will send you relief; here is an instance to prove it,' (giving her the letter.) Poor Matilda raised her drooping head, and hastily looked it over, clasped her hand with joy, 'O, my dearest madam, this is happiness indeed - let me not be so selfish to mourn on a day of joy like this.' 'Let this, my dear young friend, be a lesson to yourself, never despair; to misfortunes and contradictions to our best wishes, we are all liable, and all must expect; none are exempt from the calamities incident to human nature; to bear those inevitable evils with patience, to acquire resolution and fortitude under them, and to look forward with hope, that you may one day be delivered from them, will blunt the arrows of affliction, and enable you to support them with resignation.'

'My beloved, my charming monitress,' cried Matilda, 'I will try to profit by your advice; the Countess and yourself shall be my great examples - dear lady, how kind to think of the poor Matilda; I wish I could see her, but alas! - ' 'No sighs,' said the Marchioness, 'you must and shall be cheerful this day; hope, my dear girl, and all may be well yet.'

They descended to the parlour, and in the afternoon had the pleasure of hearing Joseph was just arrived with the servant. 'Let him come in,' they all cried, as with one breath. He entered; poor fellow, he fell on his knees and wept, it was difficult to say whether with joy or sorrow - he felt both; the sight of Miss Weimar remembered him of Bertha's dreadful fate, though he rejoiced to see her safe. The Marchioness and Matilda ran to raise him. 'Welcome, my good Joseph,' said the former, 'you are come on a happy day.' 'My dear friend,' said the latter, pressing his hand, 'do not give way to grief; we have all our sorrows, but we have our pleasures too, and I have news for you, Joseph. Our good lady is alive, and safe from the power of her enemies.' 'Heaven be thanked,' said the old man, wiping his eyes, 'this is blessed news indeed; and to see you safe too, my dear young madam, makes me happy, though I can't forget poor Bertha: alas, your ladyship, she was a good and faithful wife; she knew nothing about my lady - poor soul, she kept no secrets from me.' He seemed to feel a reproach for his secrecy.

My honest friend,' said the Marquis, 'your kindness and fidelity to our dear sister deserves reward; in this house you may rest free from care the remainder of your days, and I will settle two hundred livres on you yearly besides.'

Joseph again dropt on his knees, 'God bless your honour! God bless the dear ladies!' And he hurried out of the room, tears of thankfulness running down his cheeks.

'Good creature!' cried Matilda, wiping her eyes, 'may the rest of your life be peaceful and happy.'

They now again recurred to the subject of the Countess and her letter. The Marchioness expressed her wishes to set off with all possible expedition to England, and within ten days it was fixed they should depart. Matilda heard this determination with a sigh, which did not pass unobserved, though they forbore to notice it; they concluded however she should be left to herself until the next morning, that their opinions might not appear to influence her. For herself, the idea of her obscure birth was a severe mortification; she considered her friends De Bouville and De Bancre as so much her superiors that she could no longer treat them with that easy familiarity she had been accustomed, though she little thought the former was acquainted with her whole story.

In the evening came the Countess of Bouville and her family, with Madame De Nancy and her sister. After the first compliments, 'Bless me!' cried Mademoiselle De Bancre, 'what in the world, ladies, have you done to Mademoiselle De Fontelle; I met her this morning, and pleading an engagement here as a reason for refusing her invitation, she flew into a violent rage, accused the Marchioness of treating her with rudeness unpardonable; and for Miss Weimar, she lavished such a torrent of abuse on her, that had I not known her fixed aversion to all handsome women, and a small predilection in favor of a certain person, whose attentions she is fearful of losing, I should have been at a loss to account for her acrimony.'

'If the lady has any dislike, or fears respecting me,' answered Matilda, with evident confusion, 'she does me great injustice: 'tis impossible I should ever injure her, or clash with any views she has formed.' There is no saying what her views may be,' said the Count, 'but I will venture to assert, there can be no divided opinion concerning the merits of Miss Weimar and Mademoiselle De Fontelle; and the jealousy of a mean mind, when conscious of its deficiencies, is natural enough.' 'Come, come,' said the Marchioness, 'no scandal, my good friends: we cannot be hurt by malice, any more than we can be gratified by undue praises at the expence of others.'

The uncommon spirits of the Marquis and Marchioness attracted observation, as well as the dejection of Matilda, which she attributed to ill health. The Count and his sister sympathized with her, and the former was so agitated for the event of the following day, that he did not dare ask himself why he was so much interested.

Matilda rejoiced when the evening concluded and she could retire to herself: she was far from well; her anxiety in what manner she should answer Mr Weimar distracted her mind; she felt the strongest repugnance to become his wife - she was sure she could not be happy with him; if she had wronged him, he never could, she thought, cordially forgive, nor should she ever look up to him with confidence. She past a restless night, and arose ill and unrefreshed. She entreated her friends to be present; they at first objected, but she was so extremely unhappy at their refusal, that they at length consented to come in after his appearance, if she sent for them.

His name was at length announced, and he absolutely started at the alteration in her countenance. 'The solemnity of your air, my charming Matilda, gives me great uneasiness; how great will be my transport to remove every cause of sorrow from your heart, and see cheerfulness restored to your features. Have you acquainted your friends here with my communications?' 'I have, Sir,' replied she, endeavouring to collect some firmness, 'but they decline giving any opinion; have you any objection to their being present now?' He hesitated; 'I see no necessity for it - but as you please.' She then rung the bell, and requested the Marquis and his lady would do them the favor of their company. They entered, and after mutual compliments, and they were seated, Matilda addressed herself to Mr Weimar. 'At the time, Sir, when you permitted me to believe I had the honour of being your niece, although sensible of your kindness, and conscious of my obligations to you, for the care of my infancy, I have often taken my heart to task, and upbraided its want of gratitude; what must I accuse myself of now, when I am informed that to your charity alone I am indebted for the advantages I possess. O, Sir, never, never can I return what I owe you - least of all, by becoming your wife; 'tis an honour I do not deserve - ' 'Pardon me for interrupting you, my dear Matilda: I disclaim the name of obligation; you owe me no gratitude but for my affection; consider how many years you have been the delight, the darling of my heart, and now, when my love is stronger than ever, am I to be thrown off at once; have you no feeling for the wretchedness you doom me to for the remainder of my life?' 'Oh! Sir, what can I say,' answered Matilda; 'impressions once strongly conceived are difficult to eradicate; the conversation I overheard is ever present to my mind, and could I forget that, then my reverence for my uncle would return, and I should shudder at the idea of a nearer connexion. When I think of it, and indeed, Sir, I have endeavoured to think of it, an unaccountable repugnance makes the idea horrible to me; yet after all, if you persist in wishing me to become your wife, I do not think myself at liberty absolutely to refuse, but I tell you candidly, I never can love you, that though I will obey you, and do my duty, I know I shall be miserable, and in that persuasion surely 'tis impossible I can make you happy.' 'I am sensible,' said he, 'that my age is against me, I cannot expect to be loved like a young fellow, but my unremitting attentions to please will make me deserving your esteem.' 'Well, Sir,' said Matilda, hastily, 'it is fit you should prefer your own happiness to mine, I have no right to refuse, nor any way of discharging the obligations I owe you for the care of my early life, but by the sacrifice of the maturer part of it.'