Edgar Allan Poe - 60 Gothic Classics

'I dragged on a wretched existence, in a daily hope, that from his own words, "There might be a possibility I should see my child again"; and that time might soften his heart, or death deprive him of all power over me. Margarite, who at first hardly brooked her confinement, grew more reconciled, and awed by the dreadful oaths we had taken, we submitted to what we could not prevent, being always in terror of being watched, and that nothing in the castle passed unnoticed. This was our situation when Matilda came. Joseph came to me late in the evening, the day she arrived at the castle, acquainting me with the circumstance, and in consequence of our vows we were obliged to conform to our orders, - he to give hints of what might happen, and myself and Margarite try to frighten her from thence - you know the consequence. Had Joseph been at home, probably she would hardly have obtained permission to sleep in the castle, but Bertha knew nothing of me, and was prevented by her fears from ever venturing through the apartments. The rest you know. I intended to have placed a confidence in Matilda, as far as being brought to the castle, but beyond that I dared not violate my oath. At your request, my dear brother, I consulted our good Dr Demoureiz, and he absolved me from my vows, which were compulsatory, and made under such horrid circumstances; I have therefore complied with your wishes, and now pray tell me what I can do, or what I ought to do? I cannot disclose to the world what I have related, without bringing the Count to condign punishment, for the death of the unfortunate and ever-lamented Chevalier, and perhaps may irritate him never to inform me whether my child exists or not - Alas! every way I turn is replete with difficulties and horror.'

Here the Countess stopt, leaving her auditors overcome with astonishment and terror.

'Good heavens!' said the Marquis. 'I never could have supposed it possible a man should carry jealousy and revenge to such frightful guilty lengths, and the whole story appears incredible and almost impossible, that he should proceed so far, trust so many with his secret, and that you should remain such a number of years a victim to his diabolical passions, when there was always, open to you the means for escaping and appealing to your friends.'

'Consider, my good brother,' said she, 'the difficulties, the oaths I had taken never to leave the castle without his permission, the fate of my child, the certainty that every step I took was known, otherwise I could have offered Matilda an asylum with me, but he assured me I was constantly watched, and therefore any attempts I might make to free myself, would, too probably, accelerate the events I dreaded, and my life (as I doubt not was intended, when he carried me to the wood) would have been the sacrifice. If you look back, you will observe his cunning: when he afterwards came to the castle and saw Joseph, he did not mention my name, and to be sure expected that he would have told him of my being carried away by some banditti, as he doubtless intended Joseph should believe, but the old man being silent, he supposed he was suspected as the author of the outrage, and therefore determined to put that witness out of the way - '

'What a villain!' cried Mrs Courtney, 'and what a wretched life that man must have endured, with such fears of detection, and conscious of such complicated wickedness.'

'It is ever the fate of villainy,' said the Marchioness, 'to plunge deeper into vice, and suffer tenfold the miseries they inflict, from the apprehensions of a discovery, which they know seldom fails at some time or other to overtake them, and Providence has so ordered it, that we generally see the very means they take to hide their crimes from a knowledge of the world, are productive of such events as lead to their detection. I sincerely lament the fate of the poor Chevalier -'

'Ah! sister,' cried the Countess, 'never shall I cease reproaching myself on that account; had I with firmness refused to receive his second letter, and avoided going to that room alone, perhaps his life, and all my subsequent miseries would have been spared: I failed in the duty I owed my husband and myself, in permitting a clandestine correspondence, although I did not intend to continue it; and one false step, you see, brought on irreparable evils and eternal remorse!'

'I will not pretend, my dear Victoria,' answered the Marchioness, 'to exculpate you, as entirely free from blame, but if we consider the ill-treatment you received from the Count, previous to the Chevalier's attempts to see you, and the sudden surprise of the moment, when the first letter was conveyed to you, doubtless some allowance ought to be made in your favor; and had you positively refused to receive a second, you would, 'tis possible, have escaped much bitter reflection; but the worst that can be said of you, in my opinion, is, that, in your difficult and unpleasant situation, it was an error in judgment, for I am well assured in you there was no depravity of heart.'

The poor Countess was drowned in tears. 'Be comforted, my dearest sister,' said the Marquis, kissing her hand, whilst the ladies tenderly embraced her, 'you are, thank heaven, and that good lady, restored to your friends; I will consult Dr Demouriez, as to our future proceedings, for I will do nothing rashly, and for your sake, would avoid dragging your husband's crimes into public view.'

END OF VOLUME I

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The ladies proposed an airing to divert the Countess from dwelling on past events, and Matilda from apprehensions of future ones. The carriage was ordered, and they drove as far as Hampstead. The evening was uncommonly beautiful, and when they returned, the moon, which was in its meridian, shone with all its splendour. Just as the carriage stopped in Harley-street, Matilda, who sat next the door, saw two gentlemen pass slowly and look into the coach; she plainly perceived one of them was Mr Weimar: she met his eyes, and he turned his hastily from her; she gave a faint shriek, and hid her head behind Mrs Courtney. Her friends were alarmed, but hastened her into the house; she ran into the dining-parlour, and, in inconceivable terror, cried out, 'He is come - he is come !' 'Who, who?' exclaimed the Countess. 'Mr Weimar,' answered she; 'did you not see him' 'No,' replied the Marchioness, 'and I hope your fears deceived you.' 'Too sure they did not,' said Matilda, 'and I am convinced also that he knew me.' 'Fear nothing,' said Mrs Courtney; you are in the power of your friends; he must prove his right to you before he can take you from us: here are no lettres de-cachet, the laws will protect you from injury; compose yourself, therefore, my dear girl -in England no violence can be offered to you in any shape.'

This kind and seasonable assurance calmed the terrors of the trembling Matilda; but when she retired to rest, and reflected on her cruel destiny, she shed floods of tears, and passed a sleepless night.

The following day was appointed for their return to Mrs Courtney's villa, to spend a week or two, previous to the preparations for the birth-day, after which the whole party, with Lord Delby, proposed going to Scarborough.

The Countess and Matilda bore evident marks in their features and pale looks, of the uneasy state of their minds; their amiable friends fought to raise their spirits, and they felt too much gratitude to their kindness not to make the effort, though their smiles were clouded with sorrow.

They had a pleasant excursion to Mrs Courtney's house, and its delightful situation, with the cheerful hospitality of its charming owner, could not fail of making those happy who had the honor of her friendship.

The Countess, who was known in public only as Madame Le Roche, and by which name her friends always called her in company, found in the sympathy of Matilda more consolation than the conversation of strangers or any amusements could afford her; they generally contrived to steal from company and ramble in the gardens, relating past sorrows, and mutually endeavoring to inspire each other with hopes of happier days, though despairing of any to themselves.