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 http://www.archive.org/details/matildamontfortr01pere
 
 BIATJLBA MONTFORT 
 
 A 
 
 ROMANTIC NOVEL. 
 
 1 N 
 
 FOUR VOLUMES. 
 
 BY 
 
 PETER PEREGRINE, Esq. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Lend thy serious hearing 
 
 To what I shall unfold. SHAKEJPEAn. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by W. M'Dcwall, PembertonFow,GoushSfiU-rc, 
 rOR H. SPENCER, XO. 22, GREAT-ORMOND-STREET, 
 
 1800.
 
 J/. / 
 
 MATIUDA BIONTFOjRT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ever charming, ever new. 
 
 When will the landscape tire the view ! 
 ^y^ The fountain's fall, the river's flow, 
 
 CD The woody valleys, warm and low; 
 
 I The windy summit, wild and high, 
 
 ^^ Roughly rushing on the sky! 
 
 <X. Dyer. 
 
 \ ^^ E ^vlll Stop here, my dear," said 
 
 ^ Montfort to his daughter, as they were 
 proceeding through the vale Le Pui, 
 in the ancient province of Languedoc ; 
 *' we win stop here, and inquire if I 
 " can purchase a cottage in this neigh- 
 
 B
 
 '^ bourliood; the fertility of the sur- 
 ^^ rounding country, and the pleasantness 
 " of the situation please me much.'* 
 
 He ordered Jacques to stop at the first 
 house of entertainment that he came to 3 
 and, whilst the horses were refreshing, 
 asked the landlord, if there was a cot- 
 tage, with a garden and some land to it, 
 to be disposed of in the vale. 
 
 " Yes," said the landlord, " there is 
 *' one that is at present uninhabited^ 
 " and has been for some time past; no- 
 " body has lived in it since the Marquis 
 *' de Saint Aubyn, who fitted it up for 
 " himself, to spend a night in occa- 
 ^' sionally, during the time the castle 
 *^ was repairing; but since the fire, he 
 " has never been near it, or visited the 
 " country.'*
 
 5 
 
 '' Was the castle burnt?** asked 
 Montfort. 
 
 '^ The Marquis," replied the host, 
 " took possession of his estates in this 
 ^' province, on the death of his father, 
 ^* and determined to repair the old cas- 
 " tie, which had been suffered to run 
 *' Into a state of ruin and decay; and, 
 " accordingly, began upon one of the 
 " towers first, which was scarcely com- 
 ^^ pleted, when it was reduced to its 
 " former state, by a fire that took place, 
 " nobody knew how. He was, how- 
 " ever, determined to go on with the 
 *' repairs, having set his mind upon re- 
 " siding here; and it was again nearly 
 *' finished, when it was a second time 
 *^ destroyed by another fire. He bui't 
 ^^ it up a third time, and just as it was 
 " completed, it was a third time de-
 
 4 
 S' stroyed. He thought that there was 
 '' some supernatural interference, and 
 ^^ gave up the intention of repairing it; 
 " and it now remains in the same state 
 *'. as it has done for many years back. — 
 '' Many people thought, as^the Mar- 
 " quis did, that the fire was not the act 
 " of chance, or the effect of human 
 " power, but that it was done by su- 
 *^ pernatural agency; indeed, some of 
 " the country people said, that a black 
 " creature, with a long tail and horns, 
 " had been seen flying over it, with a 
 " lighted torch in his hand, just before 
 '' the last fire took place." 
 
 " Is the cottage you mention to be 
 *' purchased?" said Montfort. 
 
 '' That I can't tell," replied the 
 landlord, " but the Marquis's steward
 
 *^ is now In the house, and he w\\\ In- 
 ^' form you." 
 
 The steward came to Montfort, and 
 told him, that the cottage might be had, 
 for any length of time upon lease, but 
 that the Marquis would not sell it. 
 
 Tpiey went together to view It, when 
 jVIontfort was so much struck with its 
 beauty, that he agreed, without hesita- 
 tion, for a long term, and took posses- 
 sion of it immediately. It was not 
 large, yet large enough for his family, 
 which consisted only of himself and his 
 daughter, with Jacques and Alice, his 
 male and female domestics. 
 
 MoNTFORD was charmed with his 
 new residence, as well as Matilda, the 
 latter of whom grew every day more 
 
 B3
 
 delighted with the romantic prospects 
 that presented themselves in almost 
 every direction. 
 
 The cottage was seated upon a gentle 
 eminence, backed by a delightful bower 
 of evergreens, overtopped by the tower- 
 ing poplar, and the lofty pine. Upon its 
 snow-white walls was trained the far- 
 spreading vine. Mantling jessamines, 
 and convoluted woodbines, twined a- 
 round the windows, shedding their de- 
 licious odours; which, aided by small 
 clumps of flowering shrubs, and the 
 eglantine — sweet smelling plant — filled 
 the circumambient air, with a fragrance 
 that surpassed the boasted perfumes 
 of far-famed Arabia. The balmy ze- 
 phyrs played upon the bosom of a pel- 
 lucid lake, from which ran a murmur- 
 ing stream, that nearly encircled the
 
 7 
 
 cottage, and its garden ^ forming a kind 
 of peninsula, of enchanting beauty ; 
 then taking its meandering course 
 through a flower-fringed glen, enriched 
 with nature's choicest scents, the violet 
 blue, the valley's lily — sweet- emblem 
 of infant innocence — was, for a mo- 
 ment, lost to the sight, whilst winding 
 through a tufted grove of variegated 
 hues; again it was discerned, gliding 
 in translucent rills, down the gently* 
 sloping side of a verdant lawn, wash- 
 ing the walls of the ancient castle of 
 Saint Aubyn, now in ruins; then dis- 
 appeared behind the rugged brow of a 
 curving mountain, round which it flow- 
 ed; and w-as agaia discovered, aug- 
 mented by collected streams, into a 
 majestic river, rolling magnificently 
 along the dale with undulating motion, 
 till its waves were lost in distant space. 
 
 J3'i
 
 The velvet banks were speckled with 
 woolly flocks, the thoughtless shep- 
 herds beguiling time, by playing on 
 their pipes of reed, which the native 
 warblers of the air and woods — the 
 blithsome lark, and thrush of tuneful 
 note — accompanied with their harmo- 
 nious music, making melody more 
 sweet. 
 
 Matilda thought herself transport- 
 ed into a paradise, which seemed the 
 more enchanting to her as she had ne- 
 ver, before she began this journey with 
 her father, been out of Paris, where 
 Montfort had resided, and she with 
 him, in a close and obscure part of the 
 city, as long as she could remember 
 any thing.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Oh say, what sums that genVous hand supply ? 
 What mines to swell that boundless chanty ? 
 
 Pope. 
 
 .ONTFORD was of the middle age 
 of life, not beyond forty, although he 
 appeared to be more, which may be 
 accounted for, by a melancholy, and 
 gloom of mind, under which he seemed 
 to labour, having imparted a rigidity to 
 his features, which lent assurance to the 
 idea that he was at least ten years more. 
 He was dotingly fond of his daughter, 
 and being himself a man of letters, and 
 of extensive knowledge, he had devoted 
 
 B5
 
 10 
 
 the greateat part of his time, since Ma- 
 tilda was capable of receiving instruc- 
 tion, in storing her youthful mind with 
 every necessary and accomj)lished ac- 
 quirement, that adorns the understand- 
 ing, and renders the possessor an orna- 
 ment to society; and he had the satis- 
 faction to find, that his parental efforts 
 were crowned with the completes! 
 success. 
 
 Matilda was now in her eighteenth 
 year. She was of a temper and dispo- 
 sition the most engaging; and not only 
 was her mind endowed with every en- 
 viable embellishment, but her person 
 also was equally an object of admira- 
 tion. The symmetry of her form was 
 enchanting, her countenance was charm- 
 ingly interesting, and her complexion 
 was delicately fair, *Uhe softest blush
 
 11 
 
 " of nature tinging her lovely cheek." 
 A pair of fine dark eyes, the lustre of 
 which could not be surpassed, like two 
 stars shining from their spheres, com- 
 pleted a finished model of beauty. It 
 rarely happens that mental and personal 
 accomplishments go hand in hand with 
 each other. If the mind be well stored 
 with the gifts of nature, the person often 
 wants the attracting form, or the easy 
 carriage, so enviable by all. Or, if the 
 person be handsome, and the features 
 interesting, the mind is frequently defi- 
 cient in those endowments, so far be- 
 fore the external appearance of the out- 
 ward form. But here, all-bountiful na- 
 ture had been lavish of her gifts, both 
 mental and personal, and there was no- 
 thing left to wish for, to add to the per- 
 fection of the whole, 
 
 B6
 
 12 
 
 Moi^^TFORT was a man, as has been 
 
 observed, of an excellent understand- 
 ing; he had, at the same time, a heart 
 that could always feel for the distresses 
 of others j so that ere he had lived long 
 at the cottage, he was almost adored by 
 his numerous neighbours, who looked 
 up to him as their oracle, to guide them 
 in their difficulties, and assist them in 
 their troubles; this he always did to the 
 best of his judgment, which was seldom 
 found to err. - .• 
 
 Yet, with all this philanthropy, and 
 excellence of heart, he appeared far 
 from being a happy man. His breast, 
 at times, heaved with sighs, and he was 
 often lost and absorbed in deep thought. 
 Whilst he lived in Paris, he seldom 
 w^ent out of the house 3 and when he
 
 13 
 
 did. It was always in the night, avoid- 
 ing ail company, or society with the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 The new scene of life he had now en- 
 tered upon, having so much more variety 
 in it than that he had left, was the mean 
 of diverting his thoughts from the point 
 on which they had heretofore appeared 
 to have been fixed. He would now fre- 
 quently ramble through the vale, and 
 mount the rising hill, admiring the won- 
 der-working hand of nature ; contem- 
 plating the wisdom and beneficence of 
 almighty Providence, in his productions 
 for the use of man. Sometimes his eyes 
 would be fixed upon the animal, now 
 upon the vegetable, creation; animate, 
 or inanimate, he still found cause for 
 wonder and for praise : whether he 
 watched the first, from the timid hare.
 
 14 
 
 the fleecy sheep, and branched deer, 
 to the horned ox of giant stature: or 
 the latter, from the humble salad creep- 
 ing upon the bosom of the earth, to the 
 clustered grape, the pendent citron, and 
 tawny orange; or the golden fields, 
 whose undulating burthen invites the 
 dividing hand of the sturdy reaper — all 
 for the use of man. 
 
 Matilda was unacquainted with 
 the cause of the disquietude of her fa- 
 therms mind, nor did she ever hint to 
 him any desire she had to be informed 
 of it, lest it should add still more to the 
 
 uneasiness under which he seemed to 
 labour; and now she did not even 
 think of his past gloomy behaviour, so 
 elate was she with the great alteration 
 in him. It is true, that a heavy sigh 
 would sometimes escape him in the
 
 15 
 
 midst of conversation, though he did 
 not, as before, indulge init^ but, imme- 
 diately suppressing it, he would assume 
 a cheerful air, which seemed to drive 
 away the unpleasant thought that had 
 occasioned it. 
 
 Matilda shewed by her manner, too 
 plain for her father not to perceive it, 
 the filial affection she bore for him, at 
 all times; but now, that there was such 
 an improvement in his spirits, she dis- 
 played it by her artless, unfeigned joy, 
 which endeared her to him more, if 
 possible, than ever. 
 
 *^ O ! my dear father," she would say, 
 " how happy am I in this paradise ! 
 " Bless, a thousand times bless, the day 
 '' we left Paris!"
 
 16 
 
 Then, taking his hand, she would 
 press it to her ruby lips, whilst extatic 
 tears of delight would chace each other, 
 in pearly drops, down her damask check, 
 till her doting father would catch her in 
 his arms, and kiss the trickling dew 
 away. 
 
 Whilst Montfort employed himself 
 in his study, or was engaged in his 
 walks, Matilda amused herself at her 
 music, or in tending some favourite 
 shrubs in her garden, the management 
 of which her father had given up entire- 
 ly to her direction. She would, some- 
 times, stray into the neighbouring ham- 
 let, where she had, more than once, 
 surprised him in stolen acts of charity 
 and benevolence, exercising them to an 
 extent, far beyond what she had always 
 understood his fortune would afford.
 
 17 
 
 She would say to herself, " How 
 ** does the goodness of my father's heart 
 ** shew itself in these acts of genero- 
 " sity ! What deprivations must he 
 " not suffer, to enable him to exercise 
 ** them, out of his small fortune! How 
 *' much more valuable are they in the 
 " sight of him v/ho judges of the intent, 
 " than the ostentatious sums draw^n 
 " from the purse of the rich and great! 
 " My father, at the expence of per- 
 '* sonal convenience, shares the little 
 " he possesses, with those who want it. 
 
 " He hath a tear for pity, and a hand 
 " Open as day for nielting charity.** 
 
 *^ To do all in my power to enable him 
 '^ to indulge in his pious propensity, I 
 '^ will suffer every deprivation of luxury 
 " also."
 
 18 
 
 In a little time after this, she one 
 morning came to her father with a 
 cheerful air, and told him that she had 
 saved a purse, out of the money he al- 
 lowed her for her expences, and desired 
 he would take it, and distribute it as he 
 thought proper 3 as, she was convinced, 
 there were many in the neighbourhood, 
 that he would wish to relieve to an ex- 
 tent, beyond what he frequently told her 
 his finances would allow him. 
 
 « " My dearest child^' said he, " I 
 
 " applaud your motives, but I have, at 
 
 '* present, sufficient for my own wants, 
 
 *' and to relieve those of my poor dis- 
 
 ** tressed neighbours. When I have 
 
 " occasion for further aid, and you can 
 
 ** assist me out of your savings, I will 
 
 *' borrow from you what you can spare, 
 
 '^ to repay you always double for it.
 
 19 
 
 This, however, did not satisfy the 
 mind of Matilda, and she bestowed her 
 charity herself, having from that time a 
 set of little pensioners of her own, se- 
 lected out of the poorest families in the 
 neighbourhood.
 
 20 
 
 CHAPTER III, 
 
 How revVend is the face of this tall pile, 
 Vi'hose ancient pillars rear their marble heads! 
 
 CONGREVE. 
 
 JL HE old castle of Saint Aubyn was a 
 favourite retreat of Montfort; he gene- 
 rally called to rest himself, after his dis- 
 tant rambles, on the fragments of stones 
 that strewed the floor; or, he would 
 mount the battlements, and view the 
 distant country round — the variegated 
 hill, and verdant dale. Or, he would 
 sometimes sit, absorbed in thought, 
 while time rolled away, unheeded by 
 him.
 
 21 
 
 .jjOn one of these occasions, as he was 
 skting at the foot of a broken stair- 
 case, he heard a deep groan, which ap- 
 peared at no great distance from him. 
 He was stard^d, and listened attentive- 
 ]y, expecting to hear it repeated, but 
 all remained silent. He was astonislied, 
 as he had so often visited the castle 
 before, and had never, till now, heard 
 any noise there. 
 
 He determined upon an examination 
 of the inside of the building. He en- 
 tered every accessible part above the 
 ground floor, but did not perceive any 
 thing worth notice, almost the whole of 
 it being roofless, and open to the sky. 
 From the ground floor he descended a 
 stair-case, and went through a number 
 of vaulted passages, w^hich brought him 
 to a door, that appeared strongly barri-
 
 22 ' 
 
 cadoed, having an iron bar across it^ 
 fastened at one end with a large pad- 
 lock. He had an irresistible wish to 
 penetrate this apartment, but how to 
 accomplish it he knew not, as the bar 
 of iron, and the great lock, seemed to 
 be of a strength sufficient to baffle every 
 effort he could make. However, upon 
 approaching nearer to it, he found that 
 the strength was all in appearance, as 
 time had so rusted the iron, that the 
 lock gave way to the first touch. He 
 entered, but did not see any thing that 
 served to repay his curiosity. 
 
 As he was leaving the apartment, he 
 discovered, at the farthest side, another 
 door, which easily yielded to his hand, 
 and shewed him a niche in the wall, 
 with a stone seat in it, upon which was 
 sitting the skeleton of a human figure.
 
 23 
 
 nearly complete, upon the wrists and* 
 legs of which, were massy chains, with 
 which it appeared to have been fasten- 
 ed to the wall. He searched every part 
 of the niche, and of the room in which 
 it was situated, in hopes of finding 
 something by which he could elucidate 
 what he had seen. 
 
 As he was departing from the place 
 that contained the skeleton, and was 
 closing the door, that it might be left 
 as he had found it, he saw upon the 
 floor something in the form of a letter. 
 He took it up, and perceived that it 
 was a piece of parchment, folded and 
 sealed; the superscription on which 
 was — 
 
 *^ The person who may find this, is 
 " earnestly requested to" deliver it into
 
 24 
 
 ** the hands of the Marquis de Saint 
 ** Aubyn; and, until that time, to keep 
 " secret frem every one, what he may 
 " have discovered in this castle." 
 
 Mo NT FORT was determined to com- 
 ply with the injunction contained in 
 this address, both as to the delivery of 
 it to the Marquis only; and until then, 
 as to the silence respecting what he 
 had seen and heard. 
 
 He now left the castle; but his curi- 
 osity not being yet satisfied, as to the 
 groan he had heard there, his intention 
 was to endeavour to search still farther, 
 the next time he should visit it. 
 
 In a day or two afterwards, he again 
 called, and recommenced his examina- 
 tipn. He now found many apartment8
 
 125 
 
 under ground, which had before escap- 
 ed his observation ; but, in not any of 
 them did he see aught that could throw 
 any new light upon what had happen- 
 ed. He continued exploring the build- 
 ing and its immediate contiguity, as 
 long as the light of day continued, 
 when he was obliged to leave off his 
 search, despairing of finding out any 
 explanation of the groan he had heard. 
 As to the skeleton, it appeared certain, 
 from the situation in which he had 
 found it, that it had belonged to som« 
 person who had been murdered there; 
 and which, it was very probable, the 
 parchment he had found would explain 
 to the Marquis de Saint Aubyn, who, 
 perhaps, was the only living person in- 
 terested in the circumstance. 
 
 He was so wrapt in thought upon 
 c
 
 26 
 
 tills subject, that time passed Impercep- 
 tibly away, when the distant hamlet 
 clock, beating with his iron tongue the 
 brazen bell, sent through the elastic 
 element the vibrating sound, and re- 
 minded him, that night had reached 
 her utmost verge. It was one of those 
 nights, when thick black clouds cover 
 heaven's high arch with impenetrable 
 darkness. The wind blew, whistling 
 through the branched trees, the pendent 
 leaves rustling with the gale. The dis- 
 tant watch dog barked on his nightly 
 guard, scaring the lawless ruffian from 
 his midnight prey. The night birds flit- 
 ted about the roofless walls, shrieking 
 their discordant notes, making darkness 
 more frightful. 
 
 '&' 
 
 As he was departing from the castle, 
 he thought he heard the sound of foot-
 
 iteps ; but listening for some time, and 
 silence reigning throughout, he wa» 
 convinced he was mistaken, and that 
 the sound he had heard, was occasion- 
 ed by the wind. He had not proceed- 
 ed far, however, before he found him- 
 self attacked by two men, who' he sup- 
 posed had an intention of robbing him. 
 He defended himself as long as he was 
 able, and was upon the point of giving 
 way to superior strength, when the 
 moon, just now emerging from behind 
 a dark murky cloud, shone with silver 
 brightness, and discovered to him at a 
 short distance, a young man running 
 to his assistance. This added new 
 strength to his arm ; he acquired fresh 
 energy, and with the aid of the stran- 
 ger, beat off his adversaries; who, by 
 the groans they uttered in their retreat, 
 he had no doubt were much wounded. 
 
 C2
 
 2S 
 
 If it had not been for the opportune 
 arrival of the stranger, he must soon 
 have fallen under their swords, as he 
 was nearly exhausted, through the great 
 loss of blood he had sustained, during 
 the combat, from several v^ounds he 
 had received, the extent of which he 
 BOW first found. He was so extremely 
 weak, that the young stranger, after in- 
 quiring where he resided, was obliged 
 to bear him in his arms to the cottage 
 ••^iiere he himself lived, that of Mont- 
 fdrt being at too great a distance for 
 him to be taken to, in the state he then 
 xvas.
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Intreat the north 
 
 To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lip?, 
 And comfort me wiih cold. 
 
 ShakespeaR. 
 
 o NT FORT was put to bed, in a state 
 of insensibility, at the cottage of old 
 Dumain, whose son it was, who had 
 rescued him from the swords of the 
 assassins. Matilda was sent for, who 
 flew upon the wings of filial duty and 
 affection, to the bed side of her father. 
 She immediately sent to the village, for 
 the only surgeon of the place, who, af- 
 ter dressing his wounds, declared that 
 
 C3
 
 30 
 
 he could not answer for the conse- 
 quence; a considerable degree of fever 
 had already taken place ; and it would 
 depend upon the turn that took, whe- 
 ther he would recover or not. The 
 next day, the fever raged with increased 
 violence, and the wounds put on an ap- 
 pearance of an approaching mortifica- 
 tion. Montfort perceived the danger- 
 ous state be was in, and expecting his 
 speedy dissolution, he desired his daugh- 
 ter and he n^ight be left alone for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 When every one else had retired 
 from the chamber, he took the weeping 
 Matilda by the hand, and said, " My 
 .** dearest child, I feel the cold hand of 
 ^' death lay heavy on me, and that'the 
 " prospects of this world are nearly 
 ** closing upon me for ever. I regret
 
 81 
 
 '^ not the loss of life, but on your ac- 
 ^' count, my only earthly joy, and 
 *' worldly comfort. To leave you to 
 *^ be tossed, unprotected, on the world's 
 " inhospitable wild, is more tha'.i I can 
 *' bear to think of, with the resignation 
 *' that I f^el I ought. O ! my daugh^ 
 " ter, methinks I see thee exposed to 
 " the lawless insults of ruffian man, a 
 *^ prey to vile deceit, or open fraud, 
 " without a monitor to caution thee a- 
 " gainst the one, or a friend to protect 
 *' thee from the other. I see thee in 
 " the arms of lustful power. I trace 
 " thee to the silent chamber, a victim 
 *' to unmerited gloom and melancholy, 
 '' a lengthened corse, brought to a pre- 
 " mature death; and all might have 
 ** been prevented, if thy unhappy fa- 
 
 *' ther had had what? Yes, my 
 
 *' child, I must tell thee; this is not a 
 
 C4
 
 9,0. 
 
 " time to hide any circumstance of my 
 " life from thee, in \vhich thou art in- 
 " terested. But let me pause ; I feel 
 
 " mysejf exhausted. O, God! keep 
 
 ^' stiJl this throbbing heart, which beats 
 ** with such convulsive violence, at the 
 " thought of what is past. Instil not 
 *' into the breast of my dearest child> 
 " hatred of her father's memory, whea 
 ** she shall be informed of the scenes of 
 
 " blood he has been engaged in. ' 
 
 « Blood! O, Heaven! -Oh!— Oh r^ 
 
 His feelings were hefe overpowered, 
 and he sunk motionless into the arms 
 of Matilda. She called for assistance, 
 and, at length, Montfort again opened 
 his eyesj but he was not able to 
 speak. 
 
 Matilda inquired, if there were
 
 not any other surgeons near, that she 
 might send for, to lend their aid j and 
 when answered in the negative, imme- 
 diately resolved to send Jacques to the 
 next large tov^n, which was about four 
 leagues off, with directions to bring 
 wdth him the most eminent physician, 
 and surgeon, that the place afforded. — 
 Thev arrived in the course of the dav, 
 and declared, that their patient had 
 been very improperly treated, both in 
 the management of his wounds, and in 
 the medicines that had been administer- 
 ed to him. They made a total change 
 in both ; and, in a short time, Matilda 
 had the hieart-felt satisfaction to be told, 
 that they pronounced her father to be 
 in a state of convalescence, and that 
 they considered him to be out of dan- 
 ger, 
 
 C5
 
 34 
 
 MoNTFORT was not able to leave his 
 room for a considerable time after this, 
 and was constantly attended by his 
 daughter, who amused him, sometimes 
 by reading to him, at others by playing 
 on her lute, some of his favourite airs, 
 in which she would be accompanied by 
 young Dumain, upon cither the Gei?- 
 man flute, or hautboy, on both of which 
 instruments he was an excellent player, 
 and was an incomparable judge of mu.- 
 sic altogether. He was a young man 
 of uncommonly good natural abilities-, 
 which had been cultivated by the -best 
 of educations, the expence of which, it 
 was a matter of surprise to the neigh- 
 bours, how his father could defray. 
 
 MoNTFORT was uow able to bear 
 being removed to his own cottage, 
 where he arrived, to the infinite joy of
 
 35 
 
 his neighbours, who poured in their 
 congratulations in abundance, in their 
 honest, artless manner. Old Alice too, 
 who had a great and unfeigned regard 
 for her master, was as much rejoiced at 
 his recovery as any of them, she having 
 lived with him for many years, and had 
 nursed Matilda. Jacques was not be- 
 hind hand, in expressing the joy he felt 
 at his master being once more able to 
 get within his own doors. In short, 
 there was a general rejoicing through- 
 out the neighbourhood. 
 
 Co
 
 36 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mocking danger^ made my foes his own. 
 
 iVJLoNTFORT was again able to resume 
 his rambles through the vale, and over 
 the adjacent hills; but did not venture 
 to be far from home at night, fearing 
 lest he might be again beset, in the 
 manner he had been before. 
 
 The more he thought of that trans- 
 action, the more bewildered in idea was 
 he, respecting the motives of his assail- 
 ants : he first thought that their inten- 
 tions were to rob him, but many cir- 
 cumstances occurred to do away that
 
 37 
 
 idea, which did not at the time present 
 themselves to him. If their intent was 
 plujider, it is very improbable that they 
 should have been in that unfrequented 
 part of the valley, where they could not 
 expect to meet with any booty worth 
 their notice, or scarcely w^iih a human 
 being at that time of night, it being 
 chance only that had then brought him 
 there. Besides, they had not, either be- 
 fore or after, attempted any other rob- 
 bery, nor had that part or the country 
 ever been known to be infested with 
 robbers. He, therefore, at last, con- 
 cluded that he must have been taken 
 for another person, whom it was meant 
 to have assassinated, and in whose place 
 he should have fallen, but for the 
 timely interference of Dumain. At all 
 events, he did not judge it prudent to 
 visit the castle at night again.
 
 3S 
 
 Being detef mined to follow strictly 
 the injunction imposed upon him, by 
 the superscription of the tolded and 
 sealed parchment he had found, he did 
 not mention either to Dumain or to Ma- 
 tilda, that he had been in the castle on 
 that night, previous to the attack made 
 upon him ; all he informed them was, 
 that he had strolled later than usual, 
 and was then returning home. 
 
 Gratitude, which flowed in the 
 heart of Montfort, as much as in that 
 of any human being, bound him in 
 friendship to Dumain, who often ac- 
 companied him in his distant walks, 
 and from whose lively and well-timed 
 remark?, he derived great pleasure and 
 satisfaction. He discovered in him a 
 depth of understanding, and a know- 
 ledge of the worlds unusual in a young
 
 39 
 
 man of his age, not being more than 
 twenty. 
 
 But what won upon the feelings of 
 Montfort most, were the philanthropy 
 and benevolence of Dumain's bosom; 
 who, to serve a fellow creature, would 
 brave every danger, and suffer every de- 
 privation, tliat could present themselves 
 in the way of accomplishing the gene- 
 rous dictates of his heart. The cast of 
 Montfort's disposition being formed in 
 the same mould, it is not surprising that 
 he should view Dumain with a desrree 
 of friendship, beyond what gratitude 
 alone would generate; and, that he 
 should take a pleasure in his society, 
 beyond what would arise merely from 
 his enlightened conversation, or the 
 lively sallies of his wit.
 
 40 
 
 When jMatllda was employed about 
 her household affairs, or in her studies, 
 in the prosecution of both of which she 
 always dedicated a certain portion of 
 each day, Dumain would play at chess 
 with Montfort, and would not return 
 home till late. 
 
 Matilda, finding her father en- 
 gaged one evening at that game, took 
 a walk into the valley, a considerable 
 distance from the cottage; and, after 
 rather tiring herself with the exercise, 
 sat down on a mossy bank, in a favou- 
 rite bower, admiring the beauty and 
 serenity of the evening. 
 
 The moon^s silver beams shed a pale 
 lustre o'er the face of nature; the fret- 
 ted firmament shone with sparkling 
 splendour,; the undulating clouds, with
 
 41 
 
 milky whiteness, passed slowly along 
 the vast aerial expanse. All was hush 
 as death j save when the tuneful night- 
 ingale breathed out her melodious notes, 
 filling the silent air with vocal harmony 
 unequalled; and, save the melancholy 
 murmur of a rippling streamlet, that 
 crept gently along the rocky bottom of 
 the sequestered dale. 
 
 She left the bower, and was return- 
 ing slowly to the cottage, when a man 
 sprung suddenly from behind a tuft of 
 trees, and bore her in silence in his 
 arms, with rapidity across the valley. 
 He ascended the opposite bank, and 
 carried her towards a carriage, that was 
 standing at no great distance, appa- 
 rently for the purpose of receiving her,' 
 with the post-boy ready mounted.
 
 42 
 
 She shrieked loudly, and made what 
 resistance she was able, but her fee- 
 ble frame stood a poor chance against 
 the superior strength of her assailant; 
 and they soon reached the carriage, into 
 which the man had nearly forced her, 
 she still shrieking, and calling for help, 
 at the same time. Her cries brought 
 her assistance, when she had given up 
 the expectation of receiving any. 
 
 DuMAiN, happening to be returning 
 home from the cottage, heard the sound 
 of distant cries of distress: he made to 
 the spot with all the haste he could, 
 and arrived in time to rescue from the 
 hands of her brutal ravisher, the sinking 
 Matilda. After a short contest with 
 his opponent, he overpowered him, and 
 delivered his destined prey from the 
 rude grasp of his savage strength; who.
 
 45 
 
 when he found that he must yield to 
 Dumain, ran off, down the steep bank, 
 into the valley, and soon disappeared 5 
 the post-boy having driven off with the 
 carriage during the struggle. 
 
 Dumain had now time to turn his 
 eyes towards the lovely prey of the law- 
 less rufFian, and instantly cried out, 
 " Good Heaven! Matilda' Montfort ! 
 " Blessed, a thousand times blessed, 
 *' be the propitious moment that led 
 ** me to the deliverance of the most 
 ** lovely, and most excellent of her sex ! 
 ** This hour I shall ever think the hap- 
 ** piest of my life !'* 
 
 Matilda expressed her feelings in 
 terms of unfeiorned thanks, as he accom- 
 panied her home. She leaned upon hjs 
 arm, to assist her in supporting her
 
 44 
 
 trembling, agitated frame, as she moved 
 upon her tottering limbs. The sweet 
 sensation of the pleasing burthen, with 
 thrilling extacy, and quick vibration, 
 ran along his nerves, till it reached 
 his throbbing heart, and remained in 
 full possession there. 
 
 MoNTFORT had already come out, 
 in search of his darling daughter, for 
 whose absence he began to be uneasy. 
 They met him as he was opening the 
 garden gate; he turned back with them 
 into the cottage, when she related to 
 him how she had been surprised, and 
 hurried across the valley up the oppo- 
 site bank; and was just upon the point 
 of being forced into a carriage, that ap- 
 peared to be waiting there for the pur- 
 pose, when kind Providence sent Du- 
 main to her assistance^
 
 45 
 
 Mont FORT poured out his gratitude 
 in thanks to Dumain for this second in- 
 terference, to save from destruction, first 
 himself, and now his beloved Matilda, 
 who was dearer to him even than him- 
 self. 
 
 This attempt upon his daughter prey- 
 ed deep upon the mind of Montfort^ 
 which, when connected with the recent 
 attack on his life at the old castle, he 
 could not help thinking was a deep- 
 laid scheme ; and that each was but a 
 part of the wh-ole. He could not con- 
 ceive from what quarter it sprang; he 
 had had very little connexion with any 
 person in the vicinity of the cottage, 
 since his residence there, excepting in 
 his acts of charity to his poor neigh- 
 bours 5 and out of that intercourse, he
 
 46 
 
 was certain it could not arise: besides, 
 it was plain, that it was directed by- 
 some person in a higher sphere of life, 
 from the circumstance of being fur- 
 nished with a carriage and servant, ia 
 the attempt upon Matilda. 
 
 When he thought of the attack upon 
 her, he was at a still greater loss, for 
 he did not know that she had even been 
 seen by any person, since they came to 
 the cottage, except their poor neigh- 
 bours, as before mentioned; and, he did 
 not think it possible that they could 
 have been traced from Paris; besides, 
 she was very little known even there. 
 However, he was determined to be 
 more upon his guard than he had been; 
 and to watch with attention, if any sus- 
 picious circumstances should arise, or.
 
 48 
 
 persons appear, that might lead to 
 any thing, by which he could form a 
 judgment, who might be the actors m 
 the plot, and \vhat their motives.
 
 48 
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 Wak€s to horror the tremendous strhigs. 
 
 Akmitrong, 
 
 JL HE late transactions caused Montfort 
 to relapse into his former gloom and 
 dulness. Sighs would frequently escape 
 him, which he no longer strove to sup- 
 press. He even mentioned to Matilda 
 that he had some thoughts of leaving 
 the cottage, and of going to reside in 
 a distant part of the kingdom. She 
 could not help feeling great uneasiness 
 at the change in her father's spirits, 
 and would often think of, and shudcjer
 
 49 
 
 at, the expression he made use of, when 
 he lay ill at Dumain's cottage. Yet, 
 she could not believe that a heart like 
 his, open to charity and compassion, in 
 so extended a degree, could be led to 
 be engaged in scenes of blood; she 
 therefore attributed what he had said, 
 to the effect of delirium, from the height 
 of his fever i and she was confirmed in 
 that opinion, by his silence upon the sub- 
 ject since, not having ever even hinted 
 at it; as, she thought, had he known 
 what he said, it was very probable that 
 he would have given some explanation, 
 or made some excuse, to have oblite- 
 rated the effect that it might have had 
 on her mind. 
 
 MoNTFORT now wcut out on his 
 walks more frequently alone than he 
 had lately done, Dumain having often 
 
 D
 
 50 
 
 before been his companion. One even- 
 ing, he did not return at his usual hour, 
 at which Matilda was uneasy. She 
 went into the garden, and listened to 
 the passing breeze, hoping that every 
 waft would bring the wished-for sound 
 of his approaching footsteps. She was 
 led by her anxious wishes, to stray 
 some distance from the cottage, into a 
 shrubbery, the paths in which led to 
 the brow of a gentle hill, that overlook- 
 ed the valley. 
 
 The evening was fine and serene, a 
 gentle western breeze, softly rustling 
 among the leafy tenants of the grove, 
 was all the noise to be heard. The sun 
 had sunk, in the midst of fiery splen- 
 dour, beneath the horizon, and night 
 had begun to spread her sable mantle, 
 when Matilda turned to descend the
 
 51 
 
 hill she had mounted. She had not 
 proceeded far, before she was alarmed 
 at the sound of a human voice ; she lis- 
 tened attentively, and heard her name 
 pronounced, in the following exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 " O, Matilda! my heaven of joy; mf 
 " only earthly hope ; my all for which 
 " I wish to live : why has fate denied 
 *^ me the bliss of courting you to be 
 '' mine?*' 
 
 This was followed by a tune on the 
 German flute j which, by the air, she 
 knew was played by Dumain, being 
 one of his own composing, and of which 
 she had, a day or two before, expressed 
 great admiration. 
 
 She now hastened back to the cot- 
 
 1)2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 iiKin/cDciTV nc iiiiHnra
 
 52 
 
 tage, not wishing to be discovered by 
 Dumain; as, in that case, he must know 
 he had be« overheard by her, which it 
 was very probable would lead to an 
 immediate explanation of what he had 
 said. This she was determined, if pos- 
 sible, to avoid; for if, as he had said, 
 fate had placed a bar to his wishes to 
 address her honourably, it was not con- 
 sistent with prudence to indulge the hope 
 of what could never be accomplished. 
 How fate had placed that bar, she could 
 not think; sh€ was the daughter of a 
 man that had no claim to a higher alli- 
 ance, or to greater wealth, than old Du- 
 main possessed; nor, did she suppose, 
 Dumain had any claim to an alliance 
 superior to her. 
 
 Ever since she became first acquaint- 
 yed with Dumain, through the service
 
 he rendered her father, by saving him 
 from the swords of assassins,- she had 
 Jooked upon him with an eye of par- 
 tiality ; but, when he afterwards rescued 
 her from the gripe of a ruffian, grati- 
 tude was strengthened by love, and she 
 bore for him a sincere affection. The 
 thousand Httle nameless attentions he 
 shewed to her, served but to bind that 
 affection stronger. 
 
 As she had never entertained a 
 thought of any moment, that she con- 
 cealed from her father, she determined 
 to acquaint him with what she had 
 overheard Dumain say in the shrubbery, 
 and be guided by his direction, in her 
 future conduct to him. 
 
 When she got back to the cottage, 
 she found that her father was returned.
 
 54 
 
 He had been detained by one of his 
 poor neighbours, who was lying on a 
 bed of sickness, to whom he had been 
 administering medicines, both to the 
 body and to the soul. He inquired of 
 Matilda, what had kept her so late from 
 hon)e? She told him, that she went in 
 expectction of meeting him, and had 
 walked farther tlian she intended; and 
 then mentioned the words she had over- 
 heard Dumain utter. 
 
 " My dear child,** said he, " I have 
 " a great regard for Dumain ; gratitude 
 *' first bound me to him, and the more 
 " I am acquainted with him, the more 
 " I find to admire. What he means by 
 " fate having denied him the power of 
 '' addressing you in marriage, I know 
 " not; but this I would have you to 
 " impress upon your mind, that impo-
 
 55 
 
 " sing fate has placed a bar insurmount- 
 
 " able, to your ever listening to him 
 
 " upon that head, if he were so in- 
 
 « clined." 
 
 " My dear father^s will is to his Ma- 
 *' tilda, ever binding as the strongest 
 " lav^," said she; " but,*' taking his 
 hand, " may I not know, my dear Sir, 
 " in which way fate has placed such a 
 <' bar?" 
 
 " Not now, my dear; a time will 
 " come when you must know all,*' re- 
 plied he. 
 
 '' I BOW with submission to my fa- 
 ** ther's reasons for secrecy in this; yet, 
 " there is a matter, that I could hope 
 *' for information on, if my father has 
 ** not the same cause for secrecy; and
 
 56 
 
 *' Heaven knows, I am not by curr- 
 
 *' osity urged, nor by any other mo- 
 
 *^ tive, but that of pouring balm into 
 
 *' the apparently sfriicted bosom of my 
 
 « dearest father, by" '' Ha I** 
 
 said he, interrupting her, " you have 
 
 " throv^n a fire-brand into my heart, 
 
 " Matilda; never, never again, I charge 
 
 " you, allude, in any manner whatever 
 
 " to this subject, but as you have hi- 
 
 " therto refrained from diving into the 
 
 *' cause of my uneasiness, continue 
 
 " wise, and continue silent." 
 
 He had never spoke to his daughter 
 in so harsh and peremptory a manner 
 before; she could not bear it, but burst 
 into tears, and throwing herself in his 
 lap, cried out, '' Forgive, forgive me, 
 « my father."
 
 57 
 
 He clasped her in his arms, and held 
 her for some time; then eagerly gazing 
 at her, heaved a deep sigh, and said, 
 " O! Matilda, thou know'st not what 
 " thy father suffers; but 1 was too harsh 
 " with thee, remembrance of time past 
 " got the better of me; yet, be assured, 
 *^ my child, thy father never acted dis- 
 " honourably.'* 
 
 Supper being now brought in, put 
 a stop to a^y further conversation on 
 the subject. Matilda could not eat, 
 and Montfort seemed as little inclined ^ 
 so that the cloth was removea, almost 
 as soon as it was laid. 
 
 Matilda, soon afterwards, retired 
 \o bed, lighted by Alice, who whilst 
 she was undressing, said, " Ah ! Made- 
 l' moiselle, I longed for you to come 
 
 D5
 
 58 
 
 *^ up stairs, for Jacques told mc, that 
 " neither my ^master or you ate any 
 " supper, and that you did not speak 
 " to each other. 1 hope nothing has 
 *' happened, to make a difference be- 
 " tween you." 
 
 *^ I WOULD not hurt my father wil- 
 " lingly," said Matilda; " I'd rather 
 ^^ suffer any thing, than knowingly give 
 " him a moment's uneasiness; and yet,- 
 " I fear, I have wounded his mind, so 
 " that he will not soon recover." 
 
 " I HOPE, Mademoiselle, you did 
 " not say any thing about his melan- 
 '' choly." 
 
 " Yks, I did Alice, and shall never 
 "^^ forgive myself for it. I asked him if 
 *^ I might not be informed of the cause.
 
 59 
 
 *' that I might lend m%' assistance, to aS'^ 
 " suage the disquietude of his mind." 
 
 *^ Ah ! poor man/' said Alice, " he 
 " cannot forget it. I well remember 
 " the time ; and if I do, how must he 
 ** remember it!" 
 
 " Do you know the cause of his un- 
 ** easiness then?" asked Matilda. 
 
 *' Too well I do," replied the other, 
 *^ but never shall these lips utter a 
 *^ word of it to any person living; I 
 " have sworn upon the testament, that 
 *^ I would keep it secret, and it shall 
 ** die with me." 
 
 Matilda was not in spirits to pur- 
 sue the conversation, nor was she in- 
 clined to ask any questions of Alice, re- 
 06
 
 60 
 
 specting what her father had forbidden 
 her to pry into; yet, she could not a- 
 void being surprised, that he should 
 trust a secret in the bosom of a domes- 
 tic, which he refused to his daughter.
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER Vir, 
 
 There are passions grateful to the breast^ 
 And yet no friends to life. 
 
 Some have died for love; and some run mad. 
 
 Armstroxg,- 
 
 HEN Montfort met. his daughter at 
 breakfast, the next morning, he appear- 
 ed more cheerful than he had been for 
 some time, and discoursed, as usual^ on. 
 indifferent subjects; but did not once 
 allude to what had passed the evening 
 before, although it was very evident, that 
 it had taken hold of the mind of Matil- 
 da, as her eyes and pale countenance
 
 62 
 
 plainly dmoted, that she had spent the 
 night without rest or sleep. 
 
 After breakfast, Montfort took hi* 
 customary ramble, whilst Matilda re- 
 tired to her chamber, with a heart op- 
 pressed by a double weight — pity for 
 her father, and grief, that she had, im- 
 prudently, been the cause of calling up 
 his disquietude afresh. 
 
 Soon after, Alice came and informed 
 her, that Dumain had called, that he 
 was then below, and, that upon finding 
 Montfort was from home, he wished 
 particularly to see her. 
 
 It was some ti'me since he had been 
 at the cottage, and what he could now 
 want so particularly to see her for, she 
 could not conceive ^ however, she was
 
 63 
 
 not In spirits to see him, aad, therefore^^ 
 sent down an excuse. 
 
 When her father returned at dinners- 
 he told her, that he had been employed 
 in reconcihng one of his neighbours to 
 the choice that his daughter had made 
 of a husband ; that the old man had 
 long objected to the match; and, the 
 young couple having applied to him, 
 for his good offices, in endeavouring to 
 persuade the father to consent to their 
 marriage, he had happily succeeded^ 
 and they vi^ere to be united the next 
 day ; and in the evening, they were ta 
 have a dance on the green, to which^ 
 they meant to invite her. 
 
 Accordingly, the next morning, 
 the young couple were married, and in
 
 64 
 
 the evening their rustic friends assem- 
 bled on the grassy lawn ; and to the 
 pipe's enlivening tune, in fantastic ma- ' 
 zy steps, they passed the hours away. 
 Matilda was there, and expected to see 
 Dumain ; for though fate had placed a 
 bar between their loves, her innocent 
 heart, knew no harm in joining with 
 him in the merry dance, or in convers- 
 ing with him, as before. She was dis- 
 appointed, and felt uneasy. Perhaps, 
 she thought, he purposely avoided her, 
 knowing it impossible that they should 
 ever meet in wedlock: " Yet, if that 
 " was the case," she cried to herself, 
 " why did he call upon me, and so much 
 " wish to see me?" She could not enter 
 with spirit into the festivity of the even- 
 ing, and she was glad when the hour ar- 
 rived to depart.
 
 65 
 
 The unquiet state of Matilda's mind 
 preventing her from sleeping^ she rose 
 early the next morning, and took a 
 walk in the garden ; from thence she 
 ascended the gently-sloping brow of a 
 tufted hill, at the back of the cottage, 
 the sun then proudly rising in the dap- 
 pled east, drawing night's sable cur- 
 tains, and shining with refulgent bright- 
 ness on the misty mountains' tops, the 
 lark, the herald of the morn, tuning his 
 blithsome note, and soaring high in air, 
 the sound dying away on the enrap- 
 tured ear in melodious sweetness. Ma- 
 tilda seated herself on a grass-grown seat, 
 near the summit of the rising ground, 
 from whence she watched the happy 
 hinds, in thoughtless cheerfulness, be- 
 ginning their daily toil ; and the care- 
 less, airy shepherds, driving from the 
 pens their woolly flock^ whistling the
 
 66 
 
 self-taught tune> as they trudged along 
 the vale below. 
 
 She was sitting In contemplative si- 
 lence, when she heard, at no great dis- 
 tance from her, the sound of the Ger- 
 man flute, playing the well-known air 
 she had heard the last time she was on 
 this hill, and which she knew to be Du- 
 maia's. She was hesitating within her- 
 self, whether she should endeavour to 
 get back to the cottage, or remain 
 where she was, when Dumain ap- 
 proached her; but, good Heaven! how 
 unlike that Dumain she had seen but a 
 week or two before. The ruddy health 
 and airy smiles, that bloomed in his 
 countenance, had given way to the pal- 
 lid hue of sickness, and of sadness. — 
 Gloom and melancholy had usurped the 
 seat of cheerfulness, and of wit, and
 
 67 
 
 seemed to have taken full possession of 
 &U his faculties. 
 
 " Good God,'* cried Matilda, as 
 soon as she saw him, " you are ill, Du- 
 ^' main!" 
 
 " I AM indeed ill/' said he; *^ and I 
 " have been ill for some time past." 
 
 " Have you not had advice? You 
 " should not lose any time, but send 
 ^' for a physician immediately. I am 
 " sure my father will let Jacques go for 
 '' the same that attended him, when he 
 " lay at your cottage." 
 
 " No, Matilda, a physician can be 
 ^'_of no service to me, my complaint 
 " is here," laying his hand upon his 
 breast; " yet I feel my spirits cheered^
 
 6§ 
 
 '* to find that Matilda has the conde* 
 *^ scension to interest herself for the 
 " health of the unhappy Dumain.— 
 " May I hope that she will continue to 
 " sometimes think of him, when he will 
 " be distant many, many leagues?'* 
 
 " Where are you going, Dumain?'* 
 asked Matilda, 
 
 " That I don't know," replied he, 
 " but here, I cannot, must not stay." 
 
 MoNTFORT, having been uneasy at 
 the absence of his daughter at break- 
 fast, which had waited some time for 
 her, went out in search of her, and 
 knowing this to be a favourite walk 
 with her, had come to look for her 
 there, and arrived just as Dumain spoke 
 the last sentence.
 
 69 
 
 He was shocked to see the alteration 
 in his appearance, which he attributed 
 to the true cause. He had for some 
 time discovered the state of Dumain's 
 heart towards his daughter, and, at the 
 same time, found that she did not be- 
 hold him with an impartial eye, which 
 was the reason he did not give him the 
 same encouragement to visit the cot- 
 tage as before. 
 
 He now learned from Dumain, that 
 it was his intention, to travel to some 
 distant part of the kingdom, in hopes, 
 that it would have the effect of reinsta- 
 ting him in his health. Montfort en- 
 couraged this resolution, as he had rea- 
 sons, notwithstanding gratitude and 
 friendship had bound him to Dumain, 
 that induced him to wish to put an end 
 to the intercourse between Matilda and
 
 70 
 
 bim, and was very glad to find, that ht 
 had come to that determination. 
 
 " When do you mean to begin youf 
 *' travels, Dumain?'* said Montfort. 
 
 *^ I MEAN to set off to-morrow/' said 
 he ; *^ it was my intention to have gone 
 *' this morning, but I could not bring 
 " myself to leave the valley, without 
 *^ bidding you and Matilda farewell -, 
 " for which purpose, I called at the 
 *^ cottage a day or two since, but was 
 *^ not so happy as to see either of 
 '' you." 
 
 After taking an affectionate leave of 
 Montfort and his daughter, they part- 
 ed; Dumain towards his father's cot- 
 tage, and Matilda and her father to 
 their's. When he had left them a few
 
 71 
 
 seconds, he turned back to have a lasl 
 look at Matilda, who happening to turn 
 her head at the same moment, she re- 
 ceived another farewell, in the waving 
 of his hat. He stood taking a long lin- 
 gering look, till he lost sight of them 
 turning into the garden.
 
 12 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 1, who with more than manly strength have bore 
 
 The various ills impos'd by cruel fate, 
 
 :'Sustain the firmness of my soul no more, 
 
 But sink beneath the weight. 
 
 Shaw. 
 
 Jl ooR Dumain!" said Montfort, as 
 lie was sipping his coffee, a day or two 
 ^fter the last interview, "Poor Dumain ! 
 ** I fear it will be long, before he will 
 '" be able to undertake his journey." 
 
 " Is he not set out ?*' asked Matilda. 
 
 " In my walk down the valley to-day, 
 •'^' I met his father, who told me that his
 
 73 
 
 "' son was in a high fever, and confined 
 " to his bed. I fear it Will go hard 
 '' with him.*' 
 
 Matilda*s heart flattered; her co- 
 lour forsook her cheeks; it w^as with 
 difficulty she could keep her seat. Her 
 father saw her distress, and calling to 
 Jacques, who was digging in the gar- 
 den, gave some directions to him, that 
 he rnight, without appearing purposely 
 to do it, give his daughter time to re- 
 cover from the agitation he had thrown 
 her into. 
 
 MoNTFORT did not think that Du- 
 main had so strong an interest in the 
 heart of Matilda, as it now appeared to 
 him that he had. He blamed himself 
 for having afforded them so many op- 
 portunities of being together, and of 
 
 E
 
 74 
 
 cultivating a passion, that it was impos- 
 sible could ever be crov^^ned with their 
 union, even if Dumain should recover 
 from his illness, but this, from the ac- 
 count his father had given of him, was 
 very uncertain. 
 
 After Dumain had parted from 
 Montfort and Matilda, on the morning 
 that he took leave of them, he returned 
 home, to prepare for his journey, which 
 he had concluded upon commencing 
 the next morning. So violently was 
 his frame agitated by parting, perhaps 
 for ever, with the object of his adora- 
 ration, and that frame previously weak- 
 ened by anxiety and distress of mind, 
 that he had scarcely strength to support 
 himself dow^n the hill into the valley. — 
 At length, he reached homcj he went 
 slowly into the cottage, his knees tot-
 
 75 
 
 tering under him; a dead weight lay 
 upon his heart; a deathlike sickness 
 overwhelmed him; objects danced be- 
 fore his eyes; his brain turned round, 
 and he fell motionless into his father*s 
 arms. He was conveyed to bed, and, 
 passing a night without sleep, he was 
 the next day delirious, his fever being 
 so high, as to cause it necessary to have 
 persons to hold him down in bed. He 
 was in this situation, when Montfort 
 met his father in the valley. 
 
 Matilda had retired from the par- 
 lour, as soon as her father gave her an op- 
 portunity, by talking through the window 
 with Jacques, and went out into the air. 
 She directed her steps, without think- 
 ing where she was going, to her favou- 
 rite bowery walk on the hill side, where 
 she had last parted from Dumain. The
 
 76 
 
 scene brought to her recollection the 
 many cheerful, happy hours she had 
 spent there, often in the presence of 
 Dumain, from whom she was now se- 
 parated for ever, she feared. For, if he 
 escaped the grim tyrant's grasp, which 
 her fears told her was doubtful, her fa* 
 ther had placed an insuperable obstacle 
 to their Jove, by declaring it impossible 
 that their union could ever take place. 
 
 The shady walks which she used to 
 delight in, had lost their attraction; the 
 tuneful warblers of the groves, to her 
 ear, had lost their harmony; the distant 
 prospects, the rising hill, and embroi- 
 dered vale, with the murmuring stream 
 that rippled through it, had lost ihcir 
 beauty. She felt uneasy, and hastened 
 back to the cottage, to solace her mind 
 with the soft tones of her dulcet lute;
 
 77 
 
 even music had not power to charm 
 away the gloom and melancholy that 
 hung upon her soul. 
 
 Mont FORT in the course of the even- 
 ing called to inquire after Dumain ; Iv^ 
 found he was stiil delirious, calling upon 
 the name of Matilda incessantly. He 
 continued in this state the whole of 
 that night, and the next morning had 
 every appearance of approaching disso- 
 lution, which was almost momentarily 
 looked for by his friends and attend- 
 ants. 
 
 MoNTFORT had a great opinion of 
 the skill and medical abilities of the 
 physician who had attended him, after 
 the wounds that he had received in 
 the attack upon his life, had been so 
 ill treated, as to bring on a dangerous
 
 78 
 
 fever. He sent Jacques that evening for 
 him, and he arrived the next day, at 
 a time that it was not expected Du- 
 main could survive many minutes. 
 
 He went into the sick man's cham^^ 
 ber, and after feeling his pulse, and 
 making the necessary inquiries from his 
 attendants, declared that he had hopes. 
 He said the low state that he was in, 
 was owing to the violence of the disease 
 having nearly exhausted nature, yet, he 
 perceived symptoms, that warranted 
 him to indulge in hopes of a favourable 
 issue. 
 
 Ik a short time after the medicine^ 
 that he ordered had been administered, 
 they began to operate in as favourable 
 a way as he could wish ; and when he 
 left his patient at night, he was consi-
 
 79 
 
 derably better than he was in ?he morn- 
 ing. The next day he was still better, 
 and in a little time was pronounced out 
 of danger. He soon after was able to 
 leave his bed, when he gained strength 
 fast, so as to be able to walk in the air, 
 which recruited his health so much, that 
 he began to think of putting his in- 
 tended journey into execution; but that, 
 the physician would not allow, until he 
 had perfectly recovered his strength; as, 
 he said, should he in any manner over- 
 fatigue himself, it might cause a re- 
 lapse; and, not having vigour to en- 
 counter it, it might, as in all probabi- 
 lity it would, prove fatal. 
 
 Time hung heavy on Duraain's hands ; 
 he sighed to be in Matilda's company, 
 but Montfort did not ask him to the 
 cottage. He frequently sat houvs to- 
 
 £4
 
 80 
 
 gethcT h\ her favourite bower, in anx- 
 ious expectation of seeing her; some- 
 times, breathing sweet music from his 
 melodious flute; at others, drawing a 
 perspective view of the surrounding 
 scene — the cloud-capt top of the dis- 
 tant rugged hill, of joyless sight; its 
 variegated sloping sides, speckled with 
 woolly flocks; the vale beneath, with 
 the translucent rivulet meandering o'er 
 its rocky bed; the meads, in nature's 
 richest verdure clothed. Here, the 
 ruddy milk-maid — picture of health — 
 with pail well poised upon her head, 
 and kimbo arms, carrying her store to 
 the shaded lactary; there, the sturdy 
 husbandman, driving along his horned 
 team; at a distance, the once stately 
 castle, now mouldering into ruins, sur- 
 rounded by branching elms and stately 
 pines; and the humble white-walled
 
 SI 
 
 cottnge, overtopped with towering pop- 
 lars and spreading planes; the earth's 
 bosom, as far as the eye could extend 
 its sight, divers fied with various hues — 
 the verdant lawn, doited with daisies 
 pied, the moss-grown bank, and pur- 
 ple heath. 
 
 He was one evening employing him- 
 self in drawing a landscape from nature, 
 when, lifting up his head, he saw Ma- 
 tilda ascending the brow. It was the 
 first time he had seen her since his 
 illness; his hand shook, it refused to 
 guide his pencil, and it fell upon the 
 grou- J. She approached the spot where 
 he v.as, without perceiving him, and 
 was passing by it. 
 
 He said, "Matilda! — won't you 
 " speak lo me, Matilda?'' 
 
 £5
 
 S2 
 
 Not expecting to see him, she scream- 
 ed with surprise. 
 
 " Does my presence alarm you?** 
 said Dumain. " If it does, I will has- 
 ^' ten away, and leave you; though I 
 " should leave my life behind me. O ! 
 " say not, Matilda, that my presence is 
 ** hateful to you.** 
 
 ^' No, Dumain, I can never speak a 
 " language that is foreign to my heart,** 
 said she; " believe me, that I rejoice to 
 •^ see you; rejoice that you are reco- 
 " vered from your illness. Believe me, 
 " Dumain, you have not a friend that 
 ** more anxiously wished it.'* 
 
 *' O! Matilda/* said he, "you are 
 " all goodness! How can I ever deserve 
 *^ such unmerited condescension.^ OhJ.
 
 83 
 
 ** fate, fate, why hast thou interposed 
 " betvv.x' happ ness ano me; Matilda, 
 *' withdraw i:ot the u lerest you have 
 " acknowledged you feel for the 
 " wretched Dumain, when I say that 
 " I love you, I adore you, more than 
 " ever man did woman ; and yet, in the 
 " same instant, tell you I never can offer 
 " you my hand. But here, I swear, 
 " by all that man holds sacred, that 
 " this hand shall never be another's. 
 " No, Matilda, though I am forbidden 
 " to offer myself to you, I will never be 
 " another's. — Another's ! where shall 
 " another Matilda be found?" 
 
 They saw Montfort at the foot of 
 the brow, as if waiting for his daugh- 
 ter; they descended together, and met 
 him. He asked Dumain to spend the 
 evening with them, which he readily
 
 consented to. After supper, he accom- 
 panied Matilda on the lute, with his 
 German flute, and he appeared with his 
 former cheerfulness and gaiety. Mont- 
 fort also, for he had a real affection for 
 Dumain, seemed, in partaking of the 
 happiness of the evening, to have forgot 
 the cause of the melancholy he laboured 
 under. They were so well pleased with 
 the company of each other, that the 
 young ones did not think of the fleet- 
 ing hours, and they were gently remind- 
 ed by Montfort that it was time to part.
 
 85 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 Great minds, like Heaven, are pleas'd with doing 
 good. 
 
 ROWB. 
 
 OTNCE Matilda had seen Dumain, and 
 found that his health was recovering 
 fast its former state, her spirits returned 
 to her, and she resumed her usual cheer- 
 fulness, to the great joy of her fond 
 father, who began to be uneasy at the 
 settled melancholy that seemed to have 
 taken possession of her mind.
 
 86 
 They frequently wa:^:ed In the val- 
 ley, and on the rising hill, as they had 
 used to do, sometimes joined by Du- 
 main, who would accompany the^n in 
 their ramble. 
 
 One evening, they were met by a de- 
 cent looking old woman, who, address- 
 ing herself to Montfort, told him that 
 she was in great trouble, her husband 
 lying ill in bed, having lost the use of 
 his limbs; that she had no money to pay 
 the rent of the little hovel they inhabited, 
 and the Marquis's steward had threaten- 
 ed to turn them out; and, to complete 
 their wretchedness, their little cow, their 
 all, that used to supply them with milk, 
 which, with a little bread, was their 
 daily food, had died last night; the old 
 woman ended her pitiable tale with a 
 flood of tears..
 
 87 
 
 Mont FORT, whose heart was ever 
 open to distress and woe, after inquiring 
 of the woman where her hovel was situ- 
 ated, told her he would go along with 
 her, and see what could be done to- 
 wards softening the heart of the stew- 
 ard. ,He then desired Dumain to see 
 Matilda safe to the cottage, and he would 
 return, as soon as he had visited the 
 poor sick man. He accompanied the 
 old woman, and the young couple pro- 
 ceeded towards the cotta^re. 
 
 'O 
 
 As Dumain and Matilda were passing 
 under the walls of the castle of Saint 
 Aubyn, " There is something awfully 
 " grand in this old building," said the 
 latter, " yet, I can never approach it, 
 " without feeling a degree of fear that 
 " I cannot account for."
 
 m 
 
 " There Is a mystery about this cas- 
 *^ tie'* said Dumain, " that I cannot un- 
 " ravel." 
 
 " Was it not burnt down several 
 " times/* asked Matilda, *' without any 
 ** one being able rationally to account 
 '' for the fire?" 
 
 " One of the towers that the Marquis 
 " had repaired, was destroyed by fire 
 " three times/' said he, " which cir- 
 " cumstance is attached to the mystery 
 " of the castle. 1 have some reason 
 " to think, that my father is acquainted 
 " with something concerning it; but> 
 ** whenever 1 have made any inquiries 
 " from him, he has always checked me, 
 " and turned the subject of dibcourse/* 
 
 They now approached the cottage^
 
 89 
 
 and were descending the bowery hill 
 side^ Matilda's favourite retreat, many 
 of the little shrubs on which, were plant- 
 ed and nurtured by her hand. One of 
 them had fallen from the green painted 
 stick that had supported it, and was ly- 
 ing on the ground, the flowers of which 
 •were beaten off, and the leaves brokea 
 by the wind's rough blast. 
 
 " Ah! see," said Dumaln, " the em- 
 ** blem of man," as he was assisting 
 Matilda to tie it up; " our infancy is 
 " trained and supported by our parents* 
 " tender care and anxiety; we approach 
 *^ the age of manhood, when we are 
 *^ impatient of restraint, and burst from 
 *^ their trammels, without a monitor to 
 " guide us; beat and battered by the 
 *' storms of life, bereft of bloom, bereft 
 '' of health, like this poor plant; happy
 
 90 
 
 " if we meet with a kind fostering hand 
 '* to afford us help and succour* like the 
 «* object of Matilda^s care !'' 
 
 ** You are turning moralist, Dumain,** 
 said she. 
 
 " Pardon me, Matilda,'* he replied, 
 
 •^ but I cannot help being grave at 
 
 " times, when I think, that, ere long, 
 
 " the happiness that I now enjoy, can 
 
 *' only be had in recollection. When 
 
 '* I am distant far; when you look upon 
 
 '^ this plant, will yon sometimes think 
 
 *^ of the forlorn Dumain, who, like it, 
 
 ** has been beaten by the wind of fate ; 
 
 ^^ but, unlike it, unhappily, has not the 
 
 <* fair, the fostering hand of the kind 
 
 '* Matilda, to bring him back to his for- 
 
 " mer peace, and former happiness?'*
 
 91 
 
 '^ I HOPE and trust/' said she, " that 
 *' there are many years of happiness yet 
 " in store for you." 
 
 " Ol NAME not happiness; I shall ne- 
 ** ver taste of happiness without Matil- 
 " da; and, O wretchedness! her I can 
 " never have; so has imperious fate de- 
 ^' creed;* 
 
 They had got into an interesting con- 
 versation, which they might have conti- 
 nued much longer, had they not been 
 obliged to make the best of their way to 
 the cottage, to avoid the effects of a 
 heavy shower of rain, which began to 
 fall thick upon them ; and, from the ap- 
 pearance of the gathering clouds, they 
 saw a storm of violence was approach- 
 ing. 
 
 The turn the conversation had taken.
 
 92 
 
 had imparted to both their minds a se- 
 riousness that unfitted them for pursu- 
 ing a more lively one, and they amused 
 themselves with music — sweet solace of 
 melancholy and distress. 
 
 In the mean while, Montfort, after 
 relieving the trouble of the old woman, 
 by extricating her from the misery of 
 want, and securing her in the posses- 
 sion of her hut, in which she and her 
 husband lived, was returning home to 
 the cottage, when he was overtaken by 
 the same shower of rain that had driven 
 Dumain and Matilda from the bower. 
 He was at that time passing the castle 
 of Saint Aubyn, into which he went for 
 shelter. The rain continuing with great 
 violence, he could not leave it, before 
 the black veil of night had totally ob- 
 scured the light of day, and reigned
 
 93 
 
 with uncontrouled sway over nature's 
 vast expanse. The tempest beat against 
 the mouldering walls, and shook them 
 to their foundation. Night crept on 
 apace, but no abatement of the driving 
 5torm. The distant clock struck twelve. 
 He thought he heard a sound like that 
 of a human voice, which was followed 
 by a deep loud groan; and he saw a 
 pale blue flame, gliding gently along a 
 vaulted passage, in the opposite tower 
 to that he was in, and from which also 
 the voice and the groan seemed to 
 issue. The light suddenly disappeared, 
 and immediately the deep groan was 
 repeated, Vv-hich was lost in the dismal 
 howling of the tempest, which conti- 
 nued with increased force. The wind 
 blew in terrible gusts; the rain descend- 
 ed in torrents ; the vivid lightning 
 flashed, darttng its forked fire; the thun-
 
 9* 
 
 <ler rolled awfully tremendous, and broke 
 with a crash that seemed to have rent 
 the castle in twain, from the top to its 
 base. He listened attentively, in the 
 intervals between the gusts of wind, but 
 did not hear either the voice or the 
 groan repeated. Another flash of light- 
 ning, more vivid and of longer duration 
 than any before, illuminated the gloomy 
 pile, and shewed him a figure, walking 
 slowly along a passage, near the place 
 where he was. He followed it a little 
 distance, when, impervious darkness a- 
 gain succeeding, he lost it, and could 
 •not tell which way it went. 
 
 He continued some time after the 
 storm had abated, in expectation of see* 
 ing the figure again, or of hearing the 
 voice; by which he hoped to have been 
 able to account for these extraordinary
 
 ^5 
 
 circumstances ; but in vain ; all remain- 
 ed quiet, nor did the figure again make 
 its appearance. 
 
 Th£ moon being now risen, shedding 
 her silver beams around, he left the cas- 
 tle. He was lost in wonder and amaze- 
 ment at what he had seen and heard this 
 night. He did not doubt, from the ske- 
 leton which he had before found, being 
 in the situation and position that it was, 
 that murder had been committed there ; 
 but that could have nothing to do with 
 the appearance of the figure he had 
 seen, and with the groan he had heard, 
 without giving in to the vulgar belief of 
 the ghosts of murdered persons rising, 
 and haunting the place, where their 
 bones lie unburied; which was an idea 
 he had always scouted, but which he 
 now was almost ready to subscribe to
 
 96 
 
 the truth of. He could not think of any 
 rational way of accounting for these 
 mysteries, and was obliged to submit, 
 at present, to ignorance, in hopes that 
 time would unravel all.
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 What dang'rous action, stood it next to death, 
 
 Would I not undergo ? 
 
 Shakespear. 
 
 .oNTFORT was onc morning walk- 
 ing in the garden, where he was joined 
 by Matilda, who came to call him in to 
 breakfast. As they were in that part 
 of it which overlooked the road, a party 
 on horseback, attended by servants, rode 
 by. One of the foremost, who seemed
 
 98 
 
 to be of some rank, stopped his horse, 
 for a moment, and looked, with a de- 
 gree of curiosity, at Montfort and his 
 daughter, then passed on with the rest 
 of the party. 
 
 Matilda could perceive that her fa- 
 ther^ was unusually agitated; he ate 
 no breakfast, and seemed absorbed in 
 thought; he rose from table, and re- 
 tired to his study, w^hich he did not 
 leave till he was called to dinner. He 
 ate little now, and that little seemed to be 
 forced by his efforts, against his inclina- 
 tion. He spoke seldom, and in a man- 
 ner that plainly shewed his bosom was 
 rent with uneasiness. He had not 
 shewed such symptoms of disquietude, 
 since they had resided at the cottage. 
 As soon as the cloth was drawn, he 
 again retired to his study.
 
 Matilda could not account for this 
 sudden change in her father, which, 
 made her very unhappy; she had hoped 
 that he had, in a great measure, got the 
 better of his gloom and melancholy, as 
 he had latterly been more cheerful than 
 ever she knew him, but his distress of 
 mind seemed to have returned with 
 ten-fold force. She longed to be made 
 partaker of his sorrow, that she might 
 endeavour to find some method of alle- 
 viating it; but she would not make any 
 inquiry from him of the cause, as he 
 had, in such a peremptory manner, 
 charged her to refrain from curiosity on 
 that subject. 
 
 In the evening, she played on her lute 
 several airs, that she knew he was par«* 
 tial to> but music had no effect in 
 
 F2
 
 100 
 
 rousing him from his heaviness of mind, 
 and he soon retired to his chamber. 
 The next day, he appeared no better, 
 neither eating or conversing in his usual 
 manner. This gloomy state of his mind 
 continued for some days ; at length, it 
 gradually wore off, and he recovered his 
 former serenity. 
 
 D UMA I n's health being now sufficient- 
 ly re-established for him to undertake 
 his journey, he had determined to set off 
 in the course of a day or two. He 
 called at the cottage, to bid a reluctant 
 farewell to Matilda and her father, when 
 he was informed, that Montfort had been 
 gone out some time, but that Matilda 
 was in the garden. 
 
 He went in search of her, with a
 
 101 
 
 heavy heart, but she was not there; he 
 then ascended the bowery brow, and at 
 a distance saw her standing in a thoudit- 
 ful mood. He came up to her unper- 
 ceived, and found her eyes attentively 
 fixed upon the shrub that he had assist- 
 ed ber in tying up ; and on her finger 
 was perched a favourite bull-finch. As 
 she stooped to put her hand to the 
 plant, he could perceive her snow-w^hite 
 bosom heave with a sigh. 
 
 " O!" CRIED he to himself, " how 
 ^^ happy I should be, if 1 knew Dumain 
 " was thou2:ht of in that si^h ! vet, whv 
 ^ should I wish it ; why should I wish 
 '^ to have Matilda as unhappy as mv- 
 '' self, in encouraf^insr a nassion that 
 '^ never can be consummated? Xo, ra- 
 '' ther let me wish she hated me, than 
 ^' that her gentle bosom should know
 
 102 
 
 ^ one moment's disquiet on my ac- 
 *' count. — Hate me! Good God! could 
 ** I bear to be hated by Matilda Mont- 
 ** fort?'^ 
 
 A DEEP and involuntary sigh escaped 
 from his breast, and discovered to Ma- 
 tilda that he was there. A crimsc|i 
 blush overspread her damask cheek, 
 andj beautiful as he had always thought 
 her, he never thought, her equal to what 
 she then appeared. 
 
 " I OUGHT to apologize, Matilda, for 
 *^ breaking in on your contemplation,'' 
 said he, " but I hope the cause, melan- 
 " choly as it is to me, will plead my ex- 
 
 " Good heaven! What do you mean ?*' 
 said Matilda.
 
 103 
 
 •* I HAVE been at the cottage, and, 
 " being disappointed in finding you 
 *' there, I came to seek you here/' con- 
 tinued he; " will you forgive me lor 
 •* disturbing your" 
 
 *' Forgive you, Dumainr" she said, 
 f what need of forgiveness, where no 
 ** offence is committed? Yet, I have 
 " cause to be offended wuth you too." 
 
 " O! Heaven forbid that ever Du- 
 ** main should give Matilda cause for 
 ** offence," cried he, interrupting her. 
 
 *' It is for making such a formal apo- 
 **^ logy, and calling my absence from the 
 '* cottage, the melancholy cause of your 
 " being here; I declare you frightened 
 *' me; I thought something melancholy, 
 '^ in reality, had happened."
 
 104 
 
 ** I COME, Matilda, to take leave of 
 *' you, previous to beginning my long 
 "intended journey, which is to me 
 *^ melancholy indeed; to bid you fare- 
 *^ well, perhaps, for ever, and, with you, 
 *' a lasting farewell to happiness/* 
 
 <« Yy jj Y will you indulge these gloomy 
 " ideas, Dumain?'* said she. " Hap- 
 ** piness and you, I trust, will long be 
 *' friends. I hope I shall see you re- 
 *' turn with renovated health, with re- 
 " novated spirits, gay and cheerful, in 
 '* full possession of the happiness you 
 " used to enjoy." 
 
 " Never, never,'' exclaimed he, with 
 a deep sigh* 
 
 *' When do you purpose setting out ?" 
 asked Matilda.
 
 105 
 
 *' To-morrow morning/' he replied, 
 
 ^^ Indeed, so soonr" she said; a sigh 
 steahng from her heaving bosom, the 
 parent to a blush that suffused her love- 
 ly cheek, which was succeeded by a 
 death-like paleness, that denoted she 
 was not indifferent to the information 
 she received. 
 
 "You are not well, Matilda," said 
 Dumain. 
 
 *' I SEE my father coming up the hill j 
 *' we will meet him," was the reply she 
 made. 
 
 By the time Montfort and they met, 
 she had recovered herself from the flut- 
 ter she had been put into, by the infor- 
 
 15
 
 106 
 
 niation of Dumain^s intention of so sud- 
 den a departure. He mentioned his 
 purpose of leaving the valiey the next 
 morning early, to commence his jour- 
 ney, when Montfort requested him to 
 spend that evening at the cottage. He 
 readily accepted the invitation, and 
 they turned back, to descend the brow 
 into the srarden. 
 
 t>' 
 
 As they were walking along, Matil- 
 da, wrapt in thought, had loosed the 
 little ribbon by which she held her 
 feathered captive, and he flew from her 
 hand. She uttered a scream of sorrow, 
 at the loss of her favourite bird, which 
 had perched upon a hawthorn, that over- 
 hung a craggy bank, of steep descent. 
 — Dumain ran towards the spot, and 
 caught hold of the ribbon 3 at the same
 
 107 
 
 time, the ground giving way under his 
 feet, he was precipitated to the bottom, 
 • a fall of some yards. He retained hold 
 of the ribbon, and brought the bird to 
 Matilda, who expressed her thanks to 
 him; but said, dearly as she loved the 
 bird, she would rather have lost it a 
 thousand times, than he should have 
 run such a risk. 
 
 Mont FORT perceived that Dumain 
 could not walk without difficulty, and 
 feared that he was much bruised. — 
 When they arrived at the cottage, he 
 complained of a soreness of the whole 
 of the side on which he had fallen ; as 
 he grew cool it increased, with a stiff- 
 ness in his limbs, that prevented him 
 using them. He was put to bed, and 
 a surgeon sent for, who said that
 
 108 
 
 he was considerably bruised, but he 
 hoped, that being plentifully blooded, 
 and the use of some fomentations, that 
 he would send, would prevent any sub- 
 sequent danger ensuing. He w^as, how- 
 ever, confined to his bed for some days, 
 before he could be moved, and to his 
 chamber for some weeks. 
 
 Mont FORT left no amusement un- 
 tried, to render less irksome Dumain's 
 confinement, conscious that his anxious- 
 ness to serve his daughter, in the reco- 
 very of her fugitive bird, was the cause 
 of what he suffered. He was, at length, 
 able to be moved,, during the day, into 
 another room. The gratification he now 
 experienced, in the beloved company 
 of his adored Matilda, much more than 
 repaid him, for all the pain he had un-
 
 109 
 
 dergone from his fall; and his only fear 
 was, that he should get well too soon, 
 and too soon be debarred the happiness 
 he now enjoyed. 
 
 He was, once more, able to breathe 
 the German flute, and they had a little 
 concert every evening, Montfort accom- 
 panying them on the violin, on which 
 instrument he was a proficient; Matilda 
 lending the aid of her charming voice, 
 made the harmony delightful. 
 
 Chess was an amusement that Mont- 
 fort was very fond of, and Dumain being 
 an excellent player, much of their time, 
 that was not spent in music, was passed 
 at that gam^. Matilda would some- 
 times take her father's place at the chess 
 board, and play an hour or two with
 
 110 
 
 the invalid, who ahuost thought that he 
 was in paradise, where he would have 
 been content to have continued, even at 
 the expence of the bodily inconvenience 
 he endured.
 
 Ill 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 There is a kind of character in thy life 
 That, to the observer, doth thy history 
 Fully unfold. 
 
 Shakespear, 
 
 'iTRiNG the time of Dumaln's con- 
 finement at the cottage, happened one 
 of the periodical days, on which twelve 
 h'ttle girls, the children of poor cot- 
 tagers in the valley, who were edu- 
 cated and clothed at Matilda's expence, 
 brought their month's work for her to 
 inspect; and brought their books also, 
 that she might judge of the progress 
 they had made in their learning. She
 
 1112 
 
 examined them all singly, praising those 
 whose attention and industry deserved 
 it; and exciting a spirit of emulation 
 in those who appeared to be backward, 
 either through want of application, or 
 diffidence in their own abilities, spur- 
 ring them to the utmost exertion of the 
 first, and bringing the latter into use, 
 where they only lay dormant in the 
 breast, for want of some genial hand to 
 draw them forth. After exhorting them 
 to be good girls, and, above all things, 
 after the worship of their Heavenly 
 Father, to be dutiful to their parents, 
 she gave each a small piece of money. 
 
 " Excellent Matilda!" ejaculated 
 Dumain. 
 
 The little children's bright eyes, lifted 
 up, with native innocence, to the face
 
 113 
 
 of their lovely patroness, smiling joy 
 and beaming gratitude, seemed, in elo- 
 quent silence, to repeat, " Excellent 
 '' Matilda!'* 
 
 She then asked them, separately, after 
 the health of their parents, and about 
 little local circumstances, that drew 
 from their artless lips answers of truth 
 and innocence. 
 
 To one she said, ^^ How are your fa- 
 
 " thcr and mother, Jennett ?'* 
 
 ^' My father has hurt his leg with an 
 ^ axe. Mademoiselle," said she, " and 
 * cannot work 3 and that makes my 
 ^ mother cry, and be ill, because she 
 ' can't get meat for my brothers and 
 ^sisters; but I will give her this mo- 
 ^ ney, and that will buy some.'*
 
 114 
 
 " And do you really mean to give it 
 " to her?" said Matilda. 
 
 *' Yes, Mademoiselle,'* answered the 
 little girl. 
 
 " You are a good child," said the 
 former; " but you may keep that your- 
 *' self, and I will try if I cannot get 
 " some more for your mother,'* 
 
 " But I will give her this to keep, 
 " for fear you should not be able to get 
 *^ any more," said the artless child. 
 
 " Well, my dear, if I should not be 
 " able to get what I wish, you may 
 ^^ give your mother your's." 
 
 As she dismissed her little flock, Du-
 
 lis 
 
 main could not help emphatically re- 
 peating, " Excellent Matilda !'* 
 
 Just at that moment Montfort came 
 in, when Matilda told him of the mis- 
 fortune that Jennett's father had met 
 with, and of the consequent distress of 
 his family. 
 
 " Here, my dear,'* said he, giving 
 her a purse, " go, and see the pooF pe% 
 *' pie, and if you can relieve them, do. 
 *' In the mean time, Dumain and I v^ili 
 *' have a game at chess." 
 
 Matilda quickly put oh her things, 
 and v^as soon down the valley, at the 
 cottage of the poor man. She found 
 his wife, the picture of despair, wring- 
 ing her hands, and crying o'er her help- 
 less infants, as they gasped for breads
 
 116 
 
 the father lying stretched in agonizmg 
 pain and sickness; straw his bed, and a 
 thin spare sheet his only covering. His 
 ghastly looks, his hollow eyes, and sunk- 
 en cheeks, proclaimed misery and want. 
 Poverty and need reigned throughout 
 this pitiable abode of wretchedness. — 
 His coarse strav/ bed, and a three-legged 
 stool, were the only articles of furni- 
 ture the hut contained, the rest having 
 been sold, to meet the craving wants of 
 nature. 
 
 Matilda emptied the contents of 
 a little basket she had brought, and 
 spread before their longing eyes, some 
 dressed meat and a loaf of bread, with 
 a flask of generous wine to cheer their 
 drooping hearts. She had the satifac- 
 -tion, before she left them, to find that 
 her charitable efforts were crowned
 
 117 
 
 With success, in the relief they afforded; 
 even, the poor sick man, when he saw 
 his children with eager joy satisfying 
 their gnawing wants, and no longer 
 heard their piercing cries of distress, 
 beamed a faint smile of heartfelt grati- 
 titude — all the thanks he had to pay. — 
 After leaving some of the money her 
 father had given her, with the mother 
 of this poor family, to buy some neces- 
 sary .articles of furniture, she departed, 
 first telling her, that she should pay her 
 another visit the next day. 
 
 MoNTFoaT and Dumain were still at 
 chess, when Matilda got back to the 
 cottage. She related the wretched si- 
 tuation in which she found the poor fa- 
 mily she had been to visit 3 and told her 
 father what she had done, who expressed 
 his perfect approbation. What were
 
 lis 
 
 Dumain's kleas, even, a slight observer 
 might easily have perceived, by his eyes^ 
 as they gazed on Matilda ; which shevir. 
 ed, more eloquently than words, what 
 passed in his heart. 
 
 ^' We must go on with our w^ork, my 
 *^ dear," said Montfort, *^ and complete 
 *^ what we have begun for this poor 
 *' family ; we must not leave them 
 ^^ till the father is again able to follow 
 ^ his occupation, to support his chil- 
 *' dren, and keep them from starving; 
 '' it is a work well suited to your incli- 
 '^ nation, and I leave the management 
 *' of it to you, Matilda." 
 
 '' Thank you, my dear father," said 
 she, *^ and I w^ill undertake it most 
 ^^ cheerfully, since you have already am- 
 •^ ply furnished me with the means."
 
 iI9 
 
 The next day, Matilda again visited 
 tlie poor man and his family, and found 
 the hut in a more confortable state,- 
 having got some better bedding for him 
 to lie on^ with a table and some chairs; 
 which, with the improved looks of the 
 good woman and her young ones, as 
 well as the serenity of mind that now 
 appeared in the sick man's countenance, 
 displayed an air of ease and comfort, 
 which afforded as much pleasure to their 
 benefactress, in being the instrument, 
 as to them in the enjoyment, of it. 
 
 Matilda called upon them almost 
 every day, till the poor man had reco- 
 vered from his hurt, and was again able 
 to work. Whenever he, or his wife, 
 met or saw Matilda, they invoked Hea- 
 ven to pour down its blessings upon 
 her, for rescuing him from a premature
 
 120 
 
 grave, and for being the means of sav- 
 ing his children from perishing through 
 want.- It is always pleasing to meet 
 with gratitude, and Matilda received 
 their thanks with satisfaction. But she 
 looked for, and enjoyed, payment of a 
 more exalted nature, for her benevo- 
 lence and charity — the smiles of an ap- 
 proving conscience — which, whilst it 
 told her she had done her duty, told her 
 she had done no more. 
 
 To many of these scenes of charity 
 and philanthropy Dumain was witness, 
 whilst he remained an invalid at the 
 cottage, and it was evident to him, that 
 many more were exercised in secret. 
 
 He w^as now nearly recovered from, 
 his bruises, and was enabled to take 
 short walks with Montfort and his
 
 121 
 
 daughter. The manner in which they 
 were met by their poor neighbours, who 
 called upon the Almighty to shower 
 down his blessings upon them, as they 
 passed, convinced him thaj: it was by 
 acts of the nature he had lately witness- 
 ed, that they had rendered themselves 
 so deservedly beloved, and almost ado- 
 red. 
 
 The more Dumain saw of Matilda, 
 the more he felt the necessity, however 
 reluctantly, of separating himself from 
 her. He had been sufficiently well 
 for some time, to begin his journey, 
 but he had not the courage to say, 
 " farewell.'* Not having any further 
 pretext to prolong his stay at the cot- 
 trge, he was now, however, resolved 
 to put in execution his long-determined 
 project, and to set out the next day.
 
 122 
 
 The many excelJent qualities that Du* 
 main possessed, had so endeared him 
 to Montfort, that it was with reluctance 
 he could bring himself to part with 
 him. ' But when he recollected, what 
 could not escape the observation of any- 
 one, the evident partiality that his 
 daughter and he had for each other, he 
 no longer hesitated. 
 
 After passing the evening in the 
 usual manner, in amusing themselves 
 and each other with their little concert, 
 Dumain took his leave of Matilda andv 
 her father, together. He chose this 
 method of parting, as he felt that he 
 could not venture himself alone with 
 the former, without betraying himself, 
 and causing' uneasiness to her. Mont- 
 fort inquired which way he meant to 
 travel, but he declared that he had not
 
 12S 
 
 thought of any particular route ^ that 
 his object being the restoration of his 
 heahh^ and having only that in view, 
 he did not mean to confine himself to 
 any plan, but to travel hovy, and where, 
 convenience, and particular circum- 
 stances, might point out. 
 
 He left the parlour with a heavy 
 heart; he had bidden farewell to Ma- 
 tilda; perhaps, a last farewell; he had 
 just seen her, for the last time, possibly. 
 He got into his chamber, and threw 
 himself on the bed, but sleep was fo- 
 reign to his eyes. After a restless night 
 he arose, and left the cottage. He tra- 
 velled the whole of that day without 
 stopping, and at night was many miles 
 distant. 
 
 • Matilda could not avoid discover- 
 er
 
 12i 
 
 ing, by the depression of mind she la- 
 boured under, for some time after Du- 
 main's departure, howgreat an interest 
 he had in her heart. Montfort, too, 
 had enjoyed his company so long, that 
 he ^Yas sensibly affected at the depri- 
 vation of it.
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their 
 last. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 'uRiNG the time that Dumain had 
 been confined at the cottage, Montfort 
 went very little out. He was induced 
 to this from a double motive, the atten- 
 tion that he conceived due to his guest, 
 and the sense of the impropriety of his 
 daughter and him being together too 
 much, without his presence; by which, 
 
 G3
 
 125 
 
 a passion that he saw raged with vio- 
 lence in the heart of Dumain, and was 
 gaining strength fast in that of Matilda, 
 might rise to such a height, that the ut- 
 most effort of resolution would not be 
 able to subdue it. He now, however, 
 went on his distant walks as usual j 
 sometimes visiting the castle of Saint 
 Aubyn ; sometimes mounting the rising 
 hill, or ranging through the flower- 
 fringed vale. 
 
 After one of these excursions, he 
 came home uncommonly heated, as if 
 from great exertion in walking, and 
 seemed unusually gloomy and grave. 
 He did not leave the cottage the next 
 day, but kept retired in his study. The 
 day after, a servant rode up to the door, 
 which Montfort observing, called Alice, 
 and, after talking with her, ordered her
 
 127 
 
 to open It. The servant stopped in con- 
 versation with her a few minutes, and 
 then rode away; after which, she went 
 into the study to Montfort, with whom 
 she was closeted for upwards of an 
 hour, Jacques being employed in the 
 garden. 
 
 MoNTFORT^s gloom and melancholy 
 now returned upon him, and he constant- 
 ly appeared lost in thought. Deep 
 sighs, as formerly, would break forth 
 from his agitated bosom, and he w^ould 
 pace the room with a now slow, now 
 hurried, uneven gait. This state of his 
 mind continued, without any abate- 
 ment of its violence. He would, how- 
 ever, at times, leave the cottage for an 
 hour or two, but generally avoided the 
 valley, going through the garden j and, 
 ascending Matilda's favourite bower.
 
 128 
 
 would walk for hours upon the hill 
 above. Here she would frequently ac- 
 company him, and, whilst he extended 
 his walk, would sit in contemplative 
 silence, on a moss-grown bank, or em- 
 ploy herself in nursing the plant that 
 Dumain had assisted her in tying to the 
 stick that supported it; her feathered 
 pet that he had recovered for her when 
 he received his fall, being her constant 
 attendant. 
 
 One evening, her father not having 
 returned to her at his usual time, she 
 ascended the slow-rising hill to look for 
 him; but, though the prospect was 
 open to her for a considerable distance, 
 she could no where behold him. The 
 sun began to draw fast towards the 
 western horizon, darting his setting 
 rays, with refulgent brightness, on the
 
 129 
 
 many-coloured bosom of the earth; 
 There, upon the rugged side of the 
 distant hill, whose top was wrapt in 
 cloulc-; here, upon the fruitful vale, 
 along whose bottom murmured the 
 translucent rill; there, on the verdant 
 meads, studded o'er wuth the rich cow- 
 slip, and lily white; upon the barren 
 moor of russet hue; upon the close-nipt 
 lawn, spotted with the sih^er fleece; 
 now, playing upon the chrystal surface 
 of the flowery lake; now, upon the 
 forest foliage of various tints, the pale 
 ash, the light coloured plane, the dark- 
 leaved oak, — the majesty of trees, — 
 whose lengthening shadows, stretching 
 to the east, proclaimed the quick ap- 
 proach of night. 
 
 Matilda, looking round, as far as 
 the eye could reach;, and not being able 
 
 G5
 
 130 
 
 to see any thing of her father, was return- 
 ing towards the cottage, and had nearly 
 got to the verge of the hilJ, leading into 
 the bower, when she found herself rude- 
 ly sei;':ed by the arm, by a man who 
 had concealed himself in a clump of 
 ever-green shrubs, out of which he 
 rushed, as she was passing. She gave a 
 loud scream, which fortunately reached 
 the ears of Jacques, as he was ascend- 
 ing the brow, in search of her, having 
 been sent by his master, who had got 
 back to the cottage by another route. 
 He ran with all his speed, to the 
 place from whence the noise proceeded 
 and saw her struggling with a man, 
 who was endeavouring to force her 
 along with him. Jacques, with one 
 blow well directed, laid him upon the 
 ground, and conducted his young mis- 
 tress in safety to the cottage, leaving*
 
 131 
 
 the rude assailant measuring his length 
 upon the turf. 
 
 After she had informed her fa- 
 ther of the escape she had had, ha 
 sent for Jacques into his study, who 
 remained with him a considerable time; 
 he then went, by Montfort's order, to 
 see if the ruffian who had assaulted his 
 daughter, remained in the state he had 
 left him. When Jacques arrived at the 
 spot, he found a quantity of blood lying 
 upon the ground, which had fallen from 
 the villain, but no signs of any human 
 being appeared. 
 
 Montfort's melancholy had seemed 
 to increase every day, for some tim$ 
 past; this second attempt on his daugh- 
 ter did not serve to allay it, but added 
 force to his already too strongjy rooted 
 
 G6
 
 132 
 
 distress. He was employed all even- 
 ing writing letters, and, after supper, 
 said, that he had some urgent busi- 
 ness, that called him to Paris; that the 
 letters he had been writing, were to 
 a lady, a former acquaintance of his, 
 who lived at some distance from the 
 cottage, who had, frequently expres- 
 sed a wish that Matilda might spend 
 a few weeks wuth her. He said, he 
 would send Jacques in the morning 
 with the letters, which were to inform 
 her, that he would now let his daugh- 
 ter accept her invitation, and pass the 
 time with her that he should be ab- 
 sent at the capital. 
 
 Jacques was dispatched early the 
 next morning; and, in due time, re- 
 turned with an answer, that the Coun- 
 tess .Viileroy would be happy to re-
 
 135 
 
 ceive Montfort and his daughter, and 
 to keep the latter at the castle, as long 
 as she could make it convenient or 
 agreeable to stay. 
 
 They now prepared for their Jour- 
 ney, and, in two days, Montfort had 
 arranged his matters, and was ready 
 to set out. Matilda being also ready, 
 the next morning was the time fixed 
 upon for their departure. 
 
 She could not think, of leaving the 
 vale, where she had spent so many hap- 
 py hours, without unfeigned regret; 
 but she hoped, that her absence would 
 be but of short duration, as her father 
 had told her, he did not expect to be 
 detained at Paris long. The day before 
 they left the cottage, she went down 
 the valley, to visit the little seminary
 
 134. 
 
 she had established, and to leave the 
 objects of her bounty and benevolence, 
 in a state in which they could not 
 suffer, if her absence should be pro- 
 tracted beyond the time she had at 
 present reason to expect. 
 
 The next morning early, they got 
 into the cabriolet^ and departed from 
 the cottage. As they passed down the 
 valley, their poor neighbours lined the 
 road, invoking blessings from above 
 upon them, and praying for their quick 
 return. Among the rest that assembled, 
 were her children, as she called them, 
 who stood curtsying as they went by, 
 their little brimful eyes shewing the 
 pleasure and gratitude they felt at the 
 sight of their benefactress. 
 
 As they rode along the valley, MatiJ-
 
 135 
 
 da often turned her head to look at the 
 
 cottage, and the tufted bower behind 
 it, on the slope of the gently-rising hilJ, 
 where she had so frequently passed her 
 hours in calm and peaceful innocence. 
 She could fancy she heard the gentle 
 murmur of the rippling stream, that 
 ran along its base : nor was the dulcet 
 sound of Dumain's flute absent from 
 her thoughts^ or the shrubby plant he 
 had assisted her in fastening to its sup- 
 port; or the tremendous fall he got, in 
 pursuing in its flight her little fugitive 
 bird, which was now her companion 
 in the carriage; nor did she forget the 
 many happy hours that fall occasioned, 
 in the uninterrupted conversation of the 
 sick Dumain. 
 
 They now came to, and wound 
 round, the projecting brow of a curving
 
 136 
 
 mountain, and lost sight of the cottage 
 and the bowery and, after rising its 
 barren side, and reaching its summit, 
 desended again, losing sight of the val- 
 ley altogether.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Cast o'er yon trackless waste thy wond'ring eye. 
 
 Ogilvib, 
 
 i^s they receded from the valley, 
 Montfort's spirits improved ; but he did 
 not say any thing of the motive of his 
 journey to Paris, nor did Matilda, fear- 
 ful of giving him uneasiness, make any 
 inquiry concerning it. She contented 
 herself with indulging the hope her fa- 
 ther had inspired, that his stay there
 
 138 
 
 would not he long, and that her ab- 
 sence from the cottage would not ex- 
 ceed the time of his return. The ioter- 
 val, she was fearful, would feci tedious 
 to her, both on account of the want of 
 her father's conversation, which she had 
 been so long accustomed to, and which 
 she always listened to with filial de- 
 light; and from her wish to return to 
 the rural scenes she had just left. 
 
 At length, they came in- sight of 
 Villeroy Castle; as they approached it, 
 Montfort said, ^' You will find the 
 '^ Countess Villeroy a charming wo- 
 " man, my dear; if I could bear to be 
 '^ without the society of my dearest 
 " child, I don't know that woman un- 
 " der whose protection 1 would so soon 
 ^^ place her,"
 
 159 
 
 The carriage stopped at the castle 
 gates, and they alighted at the great 
 hall door 3 they were shewn into a su- 
 perb apartment, such as Matilda had 
 never before seen. The Countess soon 
 made her appearance, and received 
 Montfort with every demonstration of 
 sincere regard. He introduced his 
 daughter, who was recei^-ed in the 
 same kind manner, which stamped on 
 her tender heart a veneration and re- 
 gard for her noble hostess, even at the 
 first interview. 
 
 In the appearance of the Countess 
 Villeroy, there was a degree of majesty, 
 which was softened by a benignity of 
 countenance and easiness of manners, 
 which were sure to attract the attention 
 and the admiration of all who had the 
 happiness and honour of being num-
 
 140 
 
 bered among her acquaintance. She 
 was considerably above sixty years of 
 age, and enjoyed as good health as 
 most people at that advanced time of 
 life do. She was cheerful in her dispo- 
 sition, and possessed a heart in which 
 was stored benevolence and philanthro- 
 py. 
 
 ViLLEROY Castle was an ancient 
 building, of hewn stone, of great ex- 
 tent, and of great magnificence. It 
 had been the residence of the Counts 
 Villeroy, for near two centuries back, 
 the present possessor being the widow 
 of the last Count. It was situated at 
 the edge of a large forest, upon a gent- 
 ly-rising ground, surrounded by a close- 
 growing wood, coeval with the build- 
 ing, in which were vistas formed, that 
 opened to different views. Through
 
 141 
 
 this were seen the rugged Pyrenean 
 mountains, whose proudly-rising heads 
 were hid in snows. Through that, the 
 distant forest, whose sandy bosom was 
 diversified with the purple erica and the 
 prickly ever-blooming gorse. Here, an 
 expanded lake, from which could be 
 seen flowing a gentle stream, which 
 gradually increased to a grand and 
 rapid dver, on whose surface rode, with 
 noble pomp, the stately bark, freighted 
 with the vineyard's richest store, and 
 which the eye could trace through dis- 
 tant space, till it was embraced by the 
 Mediterranean sea. 
 
 It being late when they arrived at 
 the castle, and Matilda being fatigued 
 with her journey, she was, soon after 
 supper, shewn to her apartment. The 
 room was spacious, and, magnificently
 
 142 
 
 furnished i the hangings of the bed, 
 and the curtains to the windows, were 
 of the 'richest crimson satin, and the 
 covering of the bed of the same co- 
 loured velvet; the tapestry was of the 
 finest texture, and of the most precious 
 colours; looking-glasses were placed 
 between the windows, and reached 
 from the lofty ceiling to the floor. 
 
 Matilda viewed every thing with 
 astonishment. She was not only struck 
 with the magnificence that surrounded 
 her, but was also surprised at the free 
 and friendly manner with which they 
 had been received; as she had never, 
 before their sudden visit to the castle, 
 heard her father even mention the 
 Countess. Besides, it appeared strange 
 to her, that a man in his humble sphere 
 of life, should have acquaintance with
 
 143 
 
 one of her dignity and title, and that 
 acquaintance apparently the most inti- 
 mate. 
 
 She awoke in the morning, before 
 the sun had op'd the window of the 
 east; not being inclined to sleep, as 
 soon as he darted his bright rays o'er 
 the misty mountains' heads^ she arose, 
 took a book out of the closet adjoin- 
 ing her apartment, and sat dow^n to 
 amuse herself till she should be sum- 
 moned to breakfast. She. had not been 
 seated long, before, turning her eyes to 
 the window, she saw her father and 
 the Countess in earnest conversation, in 
 one of the avenues. Her father, she 
 thought, seemed uncommonly agitated, 
 and the Countess appeared to listen to 
 him with attention, and to reply with 
 animation. She thought it remarkable
 
 144 
 
 that they should be up, and walking 
 at that early hour, and that they should 
 be in such eager discourse; which she 
 could not help feeling some degree of 
 curiosity about, conceiving, as she did, 
 that it in some way related to the mys- 
 terious melancholy of her father's mind. 
 However, recollecting how he had re- 
 proved her before, for only hinting her 
 wish to be acquainted with the cause, 
 that she might lend her aid to remove 
 the effects of it, she determined not to 
 indulge the wish to seek any farther 
 into it, than he chose to inform her 
 of 
 
 After taking a tender farewell of 
 his daughter, as soon as breakfast was 
 over, Montfort set off for Paris. The 
 Countess, as was her usual custom, re- 
 tired for some time to her closet; and
 
 Matilda walked, to take a view of the 
 gardens and grounds, which she had yet 
 «een from the windows only. . 
 
 At the bottom of one of the avenues^ 
 «he turned into a narrow path, that led 
 to a grove, seated in a sequestered 
 glen, in which was a banqueting house, 
 built in the rotunda form; round which 
 ran a rippling streamlet, the approach 
 being over an arched bridge, that cross^ 
 ed Jt in front of the building. Fron> 
 the grove, following the meandering 
 course of the transparent brook, she 
 was led through the wood, by narrow 
 paths, till at once a large chrystal lake 
 stopped her progress. Here, sailing on 
 its glassy surface, the anxious fisherman 
 .spent hours in throwing, with dexterous 
 art, the well-imitated fly, or casting the
 
 146 
 
 meshy net, more laborious toil, his pa- 
 tience and his labour being crowned, at 
 last, with store of speckled trout and 
 golden tench. From the banks of the 
 lake, she turned into a walk, which 
 brought her into another avenue, that 
 led to the castle, where she found the 
 Countess just leaving her closet. 
 
 The carriage was soon after order- 
 ed, and they took an airing upon the 
 forest, over which were thinly scatter- 
 ed little straw-roofed cots, the habita- 
 tions of contented shepherds, who 
 watched all day their woolly charge, 
 and slept at night in innocence and 
 peace. At all of these humble dwel- 
 lings, as she passed, the Countess 
 stopped, with the most affable con- 
 descension, making inquiries after one
 
 147 
 
 who had been ill, and after another 
 whom she had not seen for some time, 
 endearing herself to all. 
 
 " You will, perhaps, be surprised, 
 " my dear'* said she, " to see one of 
 *' my rank make so free with these 
 ^^ humble cottagers; but, though the}» 
 ^[ are my vassals, dependant upon me, 
 *^ yet I cannot but feel that they are 
 *' fellow creatures; and, as long as they 
 " behave with honesty, and are faithful 
 " to the trust reposed in them, I think 
 " they have a kind of right to my boun- 
 " ty and to my protection.*' 
 
 '* Though I have always moved in 
 " a humble sphere, yet I always found," 
 said Matilda, " some lower than my- 
 " self, and some that were wretched 
 
 H2
 
 148 
 
 " through poverty and want; and those 
 '^ my father always taught me to feel 
 *^ for, and to consider as having a claim 
 " upon me for a part of the superfluity 
 " I possessed/* 
 
 " The precept was worthy your fa- 
 " ther's heart," said the Countess, ^' and 
 *^ I don't know a man that possesses 
 *' a better. He was always the pride 
 *' of his family; his acquaintance and 
 *^ his friendship were sought by all, 
 *^ when he mixed more with the w^orld 
 *' than he has done since the melan- 
 ** choly that is so deeply rooted in his 
 ** mind unfitted him for his former pur- 
 ^' suits/' 
 
 Matilda was in hopes that the 
 Countess would have said something,
 
 149 
 
 by which she might guess at the cause 
 of her father's melancholy; but here 
 the conversation ended, and, soon after, 
 the carriage drove up the avenue to the 
 castle. 
 
 HS
 
 ISO 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 It is the witness still of excellency, 
 
 To put a strange face on his own perfections. 
 
 $uakesvea1l. 
 
 Jl he Countess had an extensive cir- 
 cle of acquaintance, amongst whom she 
 visited very frequently; so that time 
 slipped away imperceptibly with Ma- 
 tilda; and when she had been at Ville- 
 roy Castle a month, and looked back, 
 she could scarcely think it possible. 
 There were balls and musical parties;
 
 151 
 
 in the latter of which, the Countess 
 touched the silver strings of the harp, 
 with a masterly hand, bringing out its 
 swelling notes with melodious harmony, 
 whilst Matilda enchanted every ear with 
 tlie sweetness and extent of her voice, 
 which was a constant theme of admira- 
 tion, as well as the exquisite judgment 
 with which she managed it. Nor was 
 her elegance less admired in the mazy 
 dance; whether she moved with dignity 
 and grandeur in the minuet^s slow steps, 
 or tripped it lightly, with agile toe, to 
 the cotillon's airy tune, she bore away 
 the palm. The Countess was compli- 
 mented much on the accomplishments 
 of her fair visitor, and took great plea- 
 sure in hearing her so much the subject 
 of praise; Matilda herself being the 
 only one who did not appear to be con- 
 scious of the superiority she held over 
 
 H4
 
 152 
 
 all who visited at the castle, which mo- 
 desty still added to her charms. 
 
 Modesty, the brightest ornament of 
 the polished mindj sweetest charm of 
 female excellence^ adored quality, of 
 origin divine^ twin sister to heaven-born 
 chastity ! Modesty, pleasing to, and ad- 
 mired by all, places the possessor in ^ 
 station of proud pre-eminence, in every 
 eye but its own. Diffident of its own 
 accomplishments, it is, by the expe* 
 rienced and the discerning, ever court- 
 ed, ever honoured. Even assurance it- 
 self is obliged to allow the meed of 
 praise, and, in its lovely presence, to 
 fall back appalled. All elegance of 
 person, beauty in all its plenitude, be- 
 stowed by nature in her profuse st mood, 
 must shrink into insignificance, if not 
 disgust, when bereft of the radiant
 
 •charms of modesty. Bright, angelic 
 maid, sweet Modesty, hail! 
 
 Among the numerous visitors at the 
 castle, were Madame Lunelle and her 
 daughter, who were distant relations of 
 the Countess, and resided at Vivlers, 
 from which town Villeroy Castle was 
 only a few miles distant. Elinor Lu- 
 nelle w^as about ^latilda's age, of a 
 lively disposition, and elegant in her 
 manners, as well as beautiful in her 
 person. They very soon formed an 
 intimacy, which was succeeded by a 
 close friendship. The Countess, per- 
 ceiving the growing attachment be- 
 tween them, gave Elinor an invita- 
 tion to make some stay at the castle, 
 which was readily accepted by the 
 latter, to the no small pleasure of 
 Matilda. 
 
 Ha
 
 154 
 
 The two young friends would fre- 
 quently take a morning ramble, over 
 the forest's waste, or in the shady groves 
 around the castle ; or, sometimes, trace 
 the velvet banks of the transparent 
 stream, till they found themselves on 
 the margin of the pellucid lake, where 
 they enjoyed the cool breeze, that waft- 
 ed, in balmy streams, over its crispy sur- 
 face. 
 
 Matilda, one morning, drew her 
 companion some distance on the forest, 
 to visit one of the little huts, in which 
 a shepherd lived, w^hose wife was ill, 
 and whom she had before frequent- 
 ly visited. As they were rising a gen- 
 tle hill that led to the cot, they met 
 a chevalier on horseback, young and 
 handsome. He stopped, and spoke to 
 Elinor, and bowed gracefully to he«
 
 155 
 
 friend. Elinor blushed, and appeared 
 agitated. He accompanied them to the 
 shepherd's hut, when Matilda went in, 
 to see the sick w^oman, and soon re- 
 joined her companion and the chevalier; 
 who, having given his horse to his ser- 
 vant, walked with them to the bottom 
 of the avenue that led to the front en- 
 trance of the castle, when he took his 
 leave. 
 
 " He is a handsome young man," 
 said Matilda, as they ascended the ave- 
 nue, " he is an acquaintance of yours, 
 " I suppose, Elinor." 
 
 " I HAVE met him sometimes, at a 
 *' ball, and 1 have danced with him," 
 said she, " but have no intimate ac- 
 ^ quaintance with him."
 
 15S 
 
 " Ah !** said Matilda, '^ I perceive 
 " that he occupies a larger space in 
 " your heart than you are willing to 
 *' acknowledge; believe me, you may 
 *^ trust your friend, without any danger 
 *' of the secret going farther." 
 
 *' To be candid with you, Matilda, 
 '^ I own that the Chevalier Melun has 
 ^^ perfections in my eye, that surpass 
 *^ those of any other man I ever sawj 
 " but I have never thought of him in 
 *' a more serious light than as an in- 
 *^ different acquaintance, who never 
 ** gave me the least cause to suppose 
 *^ that he entertained the smallest par- 
 ^' tiality towards me." 
 
 *^ I THANK you for your ingcnuous- 
 ^« ness," said Matilda, ** but the blush 
 " that covered your cheek when he
 
 157 
 
 " first met us, told me as much before ; 
 " and, from what Httle observation I 
 " had an opportunity of making, you 
 " are not, I think, altogether so indiiFe- 
 " rent to him as you may imagine." 
 
 Elinor was going to reply, when 
 they saw the Countess approaching. 
 
 They went to meet her, and found 
 that she had sent a servant to look for 
 them^ that they might themselves re- 
 turn an answer to an invitation to a ball 
 at the Countess of G's — '^ However, 
 " as you could not be found, I have 
 ^^ ventured to answer for you in the 
 '^ affirmative,'* said she. 
 
 Matilda then told her, that she 
 had been to see the shepherd's sick 
 wife, accompanied by Elinor, and that
 
 158 
 
 she found her considerably better than 
 when she last saw her. 
 
 " Does she want any thing?" said 
 the Countess. 
 
 ** I THOUGHT a flask of wine would 
 " be serviceable to the poor woman, 
 " mnd I took one with me," replied 
 Matilda, " but I don't know that she 
 " wanted any thing else." 
 
 
 Thank you, my dear; I find that 
 your heart is, as it should be, open to 
 charity and alive to distress, and you 
 " cannot oblige me more, than to make 
 " use of any thing the castle affords, 
 " in the exercise of so praise-worthy a 
 *' pursuit." 
 
 They had now walked as far as the
 
 159 
 
 banqueting house, when the Countess, 
 landing herself fatigued, proposed that 
 they should rest themselves there, be- 
 fore they returned to the castle. This 
 building had never been used since 
 Matilda had been with the Countess, 
 and she had never been in the inside of 
 it, although she had very frequently 
 been in the grove in which it was 
 sequestered. They now crossed the 
 bridge, and entered the house, w^hich 
 w^as comprised of one large cirular room, 
 with a dome ceiling, and a music gal- 
 lery 3 and was surrounded with paint- 
 ings, chiefly portraits, among which was 
 ^one that Matilda could not keep her 
 £yes off: it was that of a young man, 
 richly dressed in embroidered clothes, 
 which, she thought, had a strong resem- 
 blance to her father.
 
 160 
 
 The Countess, seeing that her atten- 
 tion was fixed upon that portrait, said, 
 " That is the likeness of an ancestor of 
 " mine, and was taken when he was 
 " young; but he has long since been 
 " dead." 
 
 ^^ I COULD not help viewing the pic- 
 *^ ture with a kind of veneration, as 
 *' having a striking resemblance to one 
 " who is very near and dear to me," 
 said Matilda. 
 
 ** You mean your father, my dear,' 
 said the Countess. '' I have sometimes 
 " thought, that there is a faint like- 
 **' ness." After Matilda had examined 
 the rest of the pictures, the Countess 
 having recovered of her fatigue, they 
 returned to the castle.
 
 161 
 
 Matilda found letters had arrived 
 from her father, by which she was in- 
 formed, that he had been unexpectedly 
 disappointed by the absence of a per- 
 son from Paris, whom it was his wish to 
 see; and that he should, owing to that 
 circumstance, be detained some time 
 longer. 
 
 Though Matilda found herself happy 
 at the castle in the company of the 
 Countess and of Elinor, and the con- 
 stant round of gaiety they were in made 
 time flv svviftlv awav, vet she some- 
 times sighed when she thought of the 
 cottage, and of the happiness she had 
 experienced there. Sometimes, her 
 thou2:hts would w^ander to her shady 
 bower; sometimes, rise the hill above, 
 and then descend into the vale below. 
 Sometimes, her thoughts would trans*
 
 162 
 
 port her to her little seminary of children, 
 wondering how their improvement went 
 on. At other times, she would fancy her- 
 self at the close of evening, among the 
 awful, gloomy ruins of Saint Aubyn's 
 castle; then Vv'-ould stray over the meads, 
 among the fleecy charge of the watch- 
 ful shepherd, till she reached the hill 
 that led her back to her favourite 
 bower, where she would, in idea, stop 
 to view the shrubby plant Dumain and 
 she had fastened to its support; and 
 would then descend into the garden, 
 thinking she heard her father call to 
 her to play a favourite air on her dulcet 
 lute, accompanied by the sweetly-sound- 
 ins: notes of Dumain's German flute. 
 She sometimes indulged in these ideas, 
 but they were quickly dissipated by the 
 enlivening concert's music, or by the 
 merry, gay, fantastic dance ; scarcely a
 
 day passing without having visitors at 
 the castle, or visiting some of the neigh- 
 bouring families. 
 
 Madame Lunelle, wlio had been at 
 the castle for some time, nov^ took 
 leave of her noble relative ; after obtain- 
 ing a promise, that Matilda should pay 
 her a visit at Viviers before long, the 
 Countess fixing the time, when she 
 would accompany her and Elinor, for 
 a few days. 
 
 Matilda would have preferred the 
 society of the Countess, and of Elinor, 
 in a more private way, at the castle; 
 but, as she was only a visitor, she did 
 not object to any engagement that was 
 sanctioned by the approbation of her 
 kind and noble patroness; who appear- 
 ed to take a lively interest in every
 
 164 
 
 thing that could amuse and give plea- 
 sure to her lovely guest, for whom she 
 entertained the most sincere affection, 
 which she shewed at every opportunity 
 that occurred, and which bound Matil- 
 da still stronger to her than even the 
 kind reception she had at first met with. 
 Every day served to rivet closer the 
 mutual attachment and regard of each 
 t)ther.
 
 163 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Whom call we gay? That honour has been long 
 The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
 The innocent are gay. 
 
 COAVPER. 
 
 JL HE Countess took Matilda and Eli- 
 nor to the Countess of G's ball, agree- 
 able to invitation. There was a gay 
 crowd of fashion assembled, to join in 
 the merry dance. The Chevalier Me- 
 lun was there, and danced with Elinor^ 
 the Baron Longuaville led out Ma- 
 tilda.
 
 16& 
 
 The Baron was a man of fashion, not 
 only in his dress, his taste in which was 
 generally looked up to, but also in all 
 those acquirements which the licen- 
 tiousness of the age deemed necessary 
 appendages to a man who moved in the 
 higher circles of life, and which we 
 now should justly style libertinism and 
 debauchery. He was lively and enter- 
 taining in his conversation, and was 
 esteemed one of the best dancers of his 
 day. He was handsome and elegant in 
 his person, and had the appearance of 
 a much younger man than he was, be- 
 ing little under forty, but would not be 
 taken to be more than thirty. He was 
 captivated by his partner, whom, after 
 the dancing was over, he led into the 
 supper room, and seated himself by 
 her. He directed the whole of his 
 attention to her, during the remainder
 
 167 
 
 of the evening, and, when the company 
 parted, handed her to the carriage of 
 the Countess; of whom he begged per- 
 mission to pay his respects to her, and 
 her fair guest, at Villeroy Castle, the 
 next day. The Chevaher handed Eli- 
 nor to the carriage, and obtained the 
 same permission. 
 
 As they drove home, the Countess, 
 addressing herself to Matilda, said, 
 *' How do you like the Baron Longua- 
 " vijle, my dear?'* 
 
 " In the short time I have had the 
 " honour of knowing the Baron," said 
 Matilda, " it is not possible for me to 
 " form a just opinion; as far as I am 
 *^ able to judge, he seems a man of 
 *^ understanding, and a man of breed- 
 " ing/*
 
 168 
 
 " What think you of his person and 
 '^ manners?'* said the Countess. 
 
 '^ His person is certainly handsome/* 
 replied Matilda, " and his manners are 
 *' elegant, but there appears to me an 
 *^ officious boJdness in him, that I have 
 *' never been used to meet with, and 
 " v^hich seems to be the offspring of 
 "self-consequence, and confidence iJi 
 " his own superior attractions." 
 
 The Countess said, " There may be 
 '' some little allowance to be made on 
 *' that head ; he has so long been at the 
 ^' head of the beau mojide, and has so 
 *^ long been accustomed to have his 
 " taste flattered, that he may, insen- 
 " sibly, have acquired a confidence in 
 *' himself, which he otherwise might 
 " not have possessed."
 
 369 
 
 " True, Madame; but can it be less 
 " disgusting, because it may be par- 
 " tialJy accounted for?" 
 
 The carriage now stopped, and pre- 
 vented the Countess's reply. 
 
 The next morning, whilst Matilda 
 was walking out with Elinor, Baron 
 Longuaville arrived at Villeroy Castle; 
 He was shown into the saloon, and 
 shortly after was joined by the Coun- 
 tess. 
 
 After the usual compliments had 
 passed, and he was informed that Matil- 
 da was walking in the wood, he said, 
 " Pray, Madame, who is this bright 
 " luminary, that you have introduced, 
 '' to steal all our hearts? She is the 
 '^ most angelic creature I ever saw." 
 I
 
 17^^ 
 
 " She Is not an angel In her person 
 *' only/' said the Countess, " but the 
 " beauties of her mind correspond." 
 
 " Is her father a Chevalier?" said he. 
 
 ** Her father," replied the Countess^ 
 ** moves in a humble sphere of life, 
 " and resides in a distant province, be- 
 *' loved and adored by all who know 
 « him." 
 
 T«E Chevalier Melun's name was 
 announced, which prevented the Baron 
 from pursuing his inquiries. As the 
 young ladies were not returned, he pro- 
 posed to the Chevalier, with the per- 
 mission of the Countess, to join them 
 in their walk. They saw them at the 
 bottom of one of the long avenues, 
 down which they went to meet them.
 
 ITl 
 
 As they were approaching at a dis- 
 tance, Matilda said to her companion, 
 " I can't think where I have seen 
 " Baron Longuaville before last night, 
 " but I am certam I must have seen 
 *' him somewhere; his person struck 
 " me as one that was familiar to me, 
 ^^ the moment he entered the balJ- 
 '^ room. 
 
 The Baron and the Chevalier now 
 joined them, the latter, ent&ring into 
 conversation with Elinor, walked on, and 
 left^he Baron and Matilda a considera- 
 ble distance behind. Excepting some 
 common place compliments to her beau- 
 ty, which were lost upon her, their 
 discourse chiefly turned upon the enter- 
 tainment of the last evening. After 
 walking some time, she proposed re- 
 turning to the castle. As they wound 
 
 i2'
 
 1T2 
 
 round the shady bower, in which the 
 banquetting house stood, they were re- 
 joined by Elinor, and the ChevaHer. 
 
 " We have been looking for you, 
 *' Matilda," said the former, " and, not 
 " finding you in any of the walks, we 
 " went into the grove, thinking we 
 " should meet with you in your favour- 
 " itespot." 
 
 " Is the grove a retreat, that you are 
 " partial to ?'' said the Baron to Ma- 
 tilda. 
 
 " I THINK it very pleasant in the heat 
 ** ot the day," said she ; ** and, at 
 '* other times, when I have not the hap- 
 " piness of Elinor's company in my 
 " walks, I take a book and sit reading 
 " in it. I am fond of retirement when
 
 173 
 
 *' I read, which In that grove I can en- 
 " joy undisturbed ; as, not any noise 
 *^ ever approaches it, except the sweet 
 " notes of the tuneful birds, or the rip- 
 " pling of the stream that runs through 
 « it." 
 
 Having now reached the castle, the 
 Baron and the Chevalier, after paying 
 their respects to the Countess, took 
 their leave ; the former of whom, said 
 that he should avail himself of her kind- 
 ness, in presuming again to pay a visit 
 I to her chanmng protegee J to which, the 
 Countess replied, as politeness dictated 
 to her. From this time, the Baron was 
 a frequent visitor at Villeroy Castle, and 
 was very particular in his attention to 
 Matilda, who regarded him with an in- 
 difference, that any person, possessed of 
 less confidence than he was, would have
 
 174 
 
 looked tipon^ as a mark of her disap- 
 probation of his assiduities. 
 
 Matilda mentioned to the Couil- 
 less, the uneasiness she experienced at 
 the Baron's marked behaviour to her. 
 " Even, if I could bring myself to look 
 " upon him," she said, " as a man with 
 ** whom I could pass happily my future 
 " life, which I never can, it is impossi- 
 *^ ble that he can ever think of one in 
 ^ so inferior a station to himself, in an 
 " honourable point of view; it would, 
 '^ therefore, if it meets your approba- 
 ''^ tion, be a great satisfaction to me, 
 " and an ease to my mind, if a stop 
 ^* could, at once, be put to the particu- 
 ^* lar attention and assiduity, that he 
 ** pays to me/' 
 
 " I APPROVE your caution, my dear/*
 
 175 
 
 replied the Countess, " and I will take 
 " the first opportunity that presents 
 " itself, to speak to the Baron upon the 
 «* subject/* 
 
 Accordingly, the next time he 
 came to the castle, she gave orders, that 
 she should be informed of it, before he 
 saw Matilda. She addressed him seri- 
 ously, and told him that it was impossi- 
 ble not to see, that he paid that attention 
 to her young friend, which denoted 
 that he entertained thoughts concerning 
 her that went beyond those employed on 
 a mere acquaintance. She begged, that 
 he would desist from shewing such par- 
 ticularities to her, as it was, she imagin- 
 ed, impossible he could ever think of 
 marrying a woman, so much below him 
 in point of family and fortune; and, 
 she could not think so dishonourably of
 
 176 
 
 him, as to give way to the supposition 
 that he had any other views: besides, 
 if he had, he must be aware of the in- 
 sult it would be offering to her, under 
 whose present protection Matilda was. 
 
 He owned, that to a common mind, 
 ihe argument she had made use of, 
 wouJd have great weight; but, he was 
 above the censure of the world, his 
 rank and situation in life being, he 
 thought, a sanction for any step that he 
 might take, to please his own inclina- 
 tion ; and, if he thought her charming 
 guest deserving of being his wife, he did 
 not see any right the world had, to call 
 in question the exercise of his own dis- 
 cretion. This reply had the effect iti 
 was designed to have, that of lulling the 
 suspicions of the Countess, whilst he 
 the better played a game he had in coiy
 
 177 
 
 templation, with the devoted object of 
 his desires. 
 
 The Baron continued his visits at Vil- 
 leroy Castle, and redoubled his atten- 
 tions to Matilda, who received them 
 with a cold civility, the effect of the re- 
 spect she bore for the Countess, which 
 told her, that she ought to behave with 
 politeness to him. 
 
 However difficult it was to her, to 
 put on a drssembling behaviour, she saw 
 it was now necessary, and she solaced 
 herself with the hope of her father's 
 speedy return from Paris, to put an end 
 to the Baron's persecution of her 
 
 15
 
 17* 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The richest scenVy, and the loveliest forms* 
 
 C0WPER> 
 
 A HE Baron called one morning at thfe 
 castle, and found that the Countess and 
 her two young friends, were gone to 
 spend a few days with Madame Lu- 
 nelle, at Viviers ; he followed them, 
 and being previously acquainted with 
 Madame, frequently visited her, and was 
 invited to a ball she gave, to the great
 
 179 
 
 mortification of Matilda, who had hoped 
 to have been freed, at least for a time, 
 from his disagreeable assiduities. 
 
 The Baron generally resided upon an 
 estate, in a distant part of the province, 
 and was only occasionally in this neigh- 
 bourhood, to take the diversion of sport- 
 ing. The house he had here was si- 
 tuated near the foot of the Cevennes 
 mountains, a country abounding in 
 game of every description ; and, being 
 only a hunting box, was too small to 
 accommodate a numerous assembly, 
 which reason he had given as an excuse 
 for not inviting the CountesS Villeroy, 
 and her fair guests before. He now, 
 however, issued cards of invitation to a 
 rural masked fete, he determined to give 
 in his gardens, which were very exten- 
 sive, laid out in a style of supeiior taste
 
 180 
 
 and were well adapted to that purpose. 
 Of course, the party at Madame Lu- 
 nelle's received cards. Matilda would 
 gladly, if she had known how, have de- 
 clined the invitation, but it was not pos- 
 sible to be separated from her party, 
 and she was obliged to accept it. 
 
 On the appointed evening, the com- 
 pany assembled, habited in tnotley 
 dresses. Here, one supporting the cha- 
 racter of the austere friar, with cowl on 
 head, and hempen girdle round his 
 w^aist, counting his beads as he walked 
 along ; there, a butterfly fop, with span- 
 gled coat, and feathered hat, talking his 
 airy nothing in every female ear, that 
 would stop to listen to his empty chat; 
 here, the many-coloured hero, frisking 
 about with agile step, and wielding his 
 •word of lath, shewing his dexterity to
 
 181 
 
 the admiring crowd ; there, the Grand 
 Turk, with his high turban'd front, and 
 pellisse ot richest texture, inhaling 
 through the friendly tube, the pungent 
 perfume of the Indian herb, emitting 
 from his mouth aspiringclouds of curling 
 smoke. Troops of gay Savoyards mix- 
 ed with the merry crowd, whilst those, 
 whose active days were past, in dominos 
 attired, stood as spectators to view the 
 busy scene. Matilda was habited as a 
 nun, and Elinor as a lady abbess, at- 
 tended by chevalier Melun, as father 
 confessor, ; 
 
 In the center ©f the gardens was a 
 spacious lawn, with an orchestra,^ erect- 
 ed for the purpose, in the midst of it, 
 filled with musicians, who playe-d on in- 
 struments of various kinds — the shrill 
 clarion, the dulcet flute, the deep-toned
 
 182 
 
 organ. From the lawn, on every side, 
 were wide avenues planted with trees of 
 many sorts — the proud cedar, the stately 
 elm, the branching chesnut, — whose 
 meeting tops formed a grove of enchant- 
 ing beauty, studded with variegated 
 lamps, that seemed to vie in number 
 with the stars, with w^hich heaven's high 
 arch is fretted. The avenues commu- 
 nicated with each other by many wind- 
 ing paths, cut through the thick-growing 
 wood, which were also illuminated 
 with lamps, in pendent clusters, of many 
 colours, placed in great profusion, so 
 that the gardens were a scene of blaz- 
 ing splendor. 
 
 In different parts, booths were fixed, 
 where cold meats, with the choicest 
 fruits and wines, were dealt out with a 
 lavish hand, by servants whom the Ba»
 
 105 
 
 ron had placed there for that purpose. 
 — These booths were some of them, 
 formed of the boughs of trees, bent 
 down from the trunk to the ground, and 
 plaited together with full-blowing wood- 
 bines, and sweet-scented jessamines in- 
 tertwined, making a delightful bower 
 of rural simplicity. Others were built 
 of rough-hewn wood, whose sides were 
 covered with moss, and roofs with straw, 
 making, in appearance, the humble 
 shepherd's cot, and giving to the be- 
 holder, an idea of the content and peace 
 that usually inhabit those lowly dwel- 
 lings. 
 
 In different parts were clumps of 
 cver-greens, which, with the eglantine, 
 and the blushing rose, lent their assist- 
 ance to the numerous groves of citrons.
 
 184 
 
 and of oranges, some in bloom, and 
 others with pendent fruit upon their 
 branches, to fill the ambient air with 
 fragrant perfume ; the humble pansy, 
 the vc^lley's lily, and the spicy pink, 
 with which the borders were well 
 stored, afforded also their sweet-scented 
 aid. 
 
 In one part a fountain pl?yed, with a 
 pleasing melancholy murrnuimg sound, 
 emitting the liqukl element in abundant 
 streams, which fell into a reservoir that 
 emptied itseJf over its rugged margin, 
 into a depth below, forming a cascade 
 of grandeur, and of beauty. 
 
 The motley group, in parties travers- 
 ed the garden's vast extent ; sometimes^ 
 ranging through the sweet-scented
 
 185 
 
 groves of oranges and of citrons, whIcK, 
 lighted by the lamps of various colours, 
 appeared like enchanted ground; then,, 
 visiting the bowered, and cot-like 
 booths, or darting, with agile swiftness, 
 through the winding paths. Whilst 
 some were viewing the rude grandeur 
 of the falling cascade, others were trip- 
 ping it lightly in fantastic mazes on the 
 velvet lawn, to the music's enlivening 
 sound. 
 
 In the midst of these scenes of gaiety, 
 and of mirth, a cry of murder was heard 
 from a distant part of the gardens. The 
 company flew towards the place from 
 whence it proceeded, and saw a man, 
 habited as a capuchin friar, weltering in 
 his blood upon the ground ; but, be- 
 fore any of them could get up to him^
 
 186 
 
 he was surrounded by a group of mask- 
 ers, and borne away. Upon looking 
 round them, they saw at no great dis- 
 tance, a female, habited as a nun, lying 
 senseless on the floor. Melun, and 
 Elinor, who now came up, instantly re- 
 cognized her to be Matilda. After a 
 considerable time spent in making use 
 of proper applications, she came to her- 
 self, and was supported to the Coun- 
 tess's carriage ; in which, accompanied 
 by the Chevalier and Elinor, she was 
 conveyed to Madame Lunelle's, where 
 she and the Countess had been some 
 time, having left the Baron's early, and 
 were w^aiting in expectation of their 
 young friends arriving, before they re- 
 tired to rest. 
 
 This tumult in the gardens, which
 
 put an end to the festivity of the even- 
 ing, was owing to a rude attack made 
 upon Matilda. 
 
 There was one of the masks, habited 
 as a capuchin friar, who had haunted 
 her all the evening, never speaking, but, 
 always keeping close to her. She en- 
 deavoured to avoid him, by mixing in 
 ihe most crowded groups, but to no 
 purpose, as he still followed her. She 
 ^ould not help shewing uneasines by 
 her manner, which was observed by a 
 tall elegant young man, in the dress of 
 a hussar, who asked her to dance. — 
 She readily accepted his offer, in hopes 
 that it would relieve her from the in- 
 truding friar; and more so, as she 
 thought she knew his voice, which 
 convinced her that he must be some
 
 188 
 
 one of the numerous visitors she had 
 seen at Villeroy Castle, and that, if there 
 should be occasion for it, she might 
 expect the protection of a friend in 
 him. 
 
 Matilba and he joined the dance, 
 and the friar seemed to have given 
 up his pursuit Being rather heated 
 with the exercise, her partner recom- 
 mended an orange, and a glass of 
 wine to her, which they went to pro- 
 cure atone of the booths; and, just as 
 they were turning into one of the wind- 
 ing paths, as being the nearest road to 
 the lawn, where they meant to resume 
 their dancing, they heard a low voice 
 saying, " That's her, do as I ordered 
 ^' you," and she was immediately seized 
 by two men. Her partner instantly drew
 
 189 
 
 his sword in her defence. The men, 
 alarmed at the glittering steely let go 
 their hold, and ran away. 
 
 At that moment, the friar again made 
 his appearance, and drawing from un- 
 der his gown a weapon, attacked the 
 young hussar with great fury, but was 
 soon obliged to give way to superior 
 strength and skill, and fell, covered with 
 wounds, senseless to the earth. The 
 two men who had before fled at the 
 sight of a naked sword^ now returned 
 with a number more, all in masks, and 
 bore the body away, the young hussar, 
 at the same time, suddenly disap- 
 pearing. 
 
 It would be naturally imagined, that 
 the Baron, who had shewn such marked
 
 19^ 
 
 attention to Matilda, would have called 
 upon her the next day, to have expressed 
 his sorrow and concern, at the insult 
 she had met with -, but that day, and 
 the next passed without seeing him, op 
 receiving any message of inquiry from 
 him ^ and, when the Chevalier Melunr 
 called upon him, to pay his respects, h© 
 was informed that he had set off the 
 morning following they>7e,for his estate 
 that he usually resided at^ at some dis» 
 tance. 
 
 Matilda was ia hopes that she 
 should have seen her protector, to have 
 thanked him for the part he acted Ivh 
 her favour, but she was disappointed ; 
 she remained ignorant to whom it was, 
 .^he w^as so much indebted, conjecture 
 2iot ev^n lending its aid toward a dis-
 
 191 
 
 covery; nor was it known who the 
 person was in the dress of a friar, who 
 had received from him, the chastise- 
 ment due to the crime he had com- 
 mitted, or whether he recovered frora^ 
 his wounds or not.
 
 192 
 
 CHAPTER XVII, 
 
 isly true love is grown to such excess, 
 I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth. 
 
 SflAKESPEAH. 
 
 -A.S Matilda, and Elinor, were walking 
 one evening on the banks of the river, 
 they heard, among the rocks, the sound 
 of the german flute, at a small distance 
 from them. Upon listening attentively 
 to the notes, Elinor thought the air that 
 was played, one of the most beautiful 
 she had ever heard, and, expressed her-
 
 i93 
 
 self to that effect, adding, ^^ Don't you 
 " think it charming, Matilda?'* 
 
 " Yes," said she, faltering in her 
 voice, and the colour in her cheeks com- 
 ing and going alternately. At that mo- 
 ment, the Chevalier joined them. 
 
 " We have been listening to a sweet 
 ** air, played upon the German flute," 
 said Elinor, " do you know the musi- 
 *' cian, Melunr'* 
 
 " He is a particular friend of mine," 
 said the Chevalier, " and I have just left 
 *^ him behind this rock." 
 
 The flure breathed out again its soft 
 notes, and the sound approached them. 
 Matilda was agitated; she recollected 
 in the music, the same air that Dumain 
 
 K
 
 194 
 
 had composed; and which, the last time 
 she heard it, was played by him, on 
 the bowery hill side, behind the eot- 
 tage. 
 
 '* My friend is coming this way/' 
 said Melun. 
 
 Matilda lifted up her eyes, expect- 
 ing to see Dumain, as, she did not sup- 
 pose the tune she had heard, could be 
 played by any body but him. It was 
 not Dumain, but a stranger. Matilda 
 felt disappointed. 
 
 The Chevalier introduced him by the 
 name of Chatillon, and said, " the ladies 
 *^ have been admiring the air you play- 
 *^ ed. Monsieur." 
 
 " The ladies do me honour," said he.
 
 195 
 
 bowing, " it is a tune that I have a great 
 *' partiality for, not only on account of 
 *' the sweetness of the music, but also 
 *' in remembrance of him that gave it 
 
 « me/* 
 
 ^' Do I know him?" said the Che- 
 valier. 
 
 " I don't think you do," replied 
 Chatillon. " I met him at Montpelier, 
 " about a month since, where he went, 
 " like me, for the restoration of his 
 " health. The air perfectly agreed with 
 " me, and I recovered from the effects of 
 " the illness I had experienced, but 
 " poor Dumain received no benefit from 
 *' it." 
 
 " Does he remain at Montpelier?" 
 stam ered Matilda. 
 
 K 5
 
 ,196 
 
 *^ No, we both left it at the same 
 *• time; when I returned home, and he 
 "■'^ intended to travel from place to place, 
 " to try what change of air, and climate 
 '^ would do for him; but I fear much, 
 " that his disorder is too deeply rooted, 
 " for him ever to recover.'* 
 
 The Chevalier, and Elinor willing to 
 enjoy each other's conversation without 
 interruption, dropped behind; and left 
 Matilda to be escorted home by Mon- 
 sieur Chatillon. 
 
 From him she learned, that when he 
 went to Montpellier, he found Dumain 
 there, where he had been some time be- 
 fore; that his health, he thought, was 
 better than when he first saw him, but 
 he seemed to have something, that hung 
 heavy upon bis mind, which, he was
 
 1^7 
 
 fearful, had taken too deep hold upon 
 him, for him to get the better of. 
 
 Matilda endeavoured to check her- 
 self, whenever she gave way to the 
 thoughts of the happy hours she had 
 spent in Dumain's society, at the cot- 
 tage, since it had been declared, both 
 by him, and her father, that fate had 
 placed an insuperable bar to that love 
 being crowned by consummation, which 
 every action of his life, told her he en- 
 tertained for her; and,, which she could 
 not deny, she felt for him. " Yet," 
 she cried to herself, " surely, something 
 ^^ may be allowed to friendship!" 
 
 She arrived at home, some time be- 
 fore Elinor, who, with the Chevalier 
 had extended their walk, till the purple 
 shade of evening was drawn o'er the 
 
 K3
 
 198 
 
 light of day, and nought was heard 
 around, but the nightingale's sweet 
 notes, and the gentle zephyr rustling 
 through the leaves. The pale moon's sil- 
 ver beams, and the music of the melodi- 
 ous vocal chorister of the woods, with 
 the soft whispers of the balmy breeze, 
 attuning the heart to love, Melun poured 
 sweet tales of tender import into the 
 ear of Elinor, who, with chaste and de- 
 licate ingenuousness, gave him her pro- 
 mise to be his ; owning that he had long 
 been master of her affections. Their 
 conversation, as may be imagined, was 
 more than commonly interesting to them 
 both, and they did not perceive how 
 time passed away. So " silver sweet 
 " sound lover's tongues by night," and 
 so much were their thoughts engaged 
 in pleasing innocent delight, that they 
 were surprised, when they got home, to
 
 199 
 
 find that the supper hour was passed, 
 and that the family was waiting for 
 them. 
 
 Madame Lunelle had Invited Mon- 
 sieur Chatillon to sup with them 3 the 
 Chevalier, of course stopped. After 
 their repast, the Countess proposed that 
 they should adjourn into ihc music- 
 room. Matilda took up her lute, whilst 
 Elinor brought out the swelling notes 
 from the harp's harmonious chords, ac- 
 companied by Chatillon, on the soft- 
 breathing flute, and by Melun, on the 
 deep-sounding organ. Matilda was de- 
 sired by the Countess, to sing a favou- 
 rite air that she mentioned, which she 
 accompanied upon her lute, and per- 
 formed in her usual masterly style; after 
 which she received the compliments 
 of the party, on the exquisite taste, and 
 
 K4
 
 200 
 
 execution she displayed. Chatillon, who 
 was himself a perfect master of music, 
 was quite enraptured. Before they part- 
 ed, he told Melun, that he thought Ma- 
 tilda was more than human, that it was 
 impossible so much beauty, with the 
 rare accomplishments of the mind she 
 possessed, should be centred in any, un- 
 der a divine being. 
 
 Ckatillon became every day more 
 enamoured of her^ he was ever form- 
 ing little parties of pleasure on her 
 recount. Sometimes, to sail upon the 
 l)osom of the majestic Rhone, whose 
 waves rolling in transparent streams, 
 washed the walls of the town. Here 
 he would breathe soft music from his 
 German flute, sounding more sweet, 
 from the repercussion from the river's 
 lofty rocky banks 3 w^hilst Matilda, and
 
 201 
 
 Elinor would alternately touch the 
 strings of the lute, and accompany the 
 music with their charming voice 3 Me- 
 lun, at the same time, bringing from 
 the shrill hautboy, the clear and vibrat- 
 ing notes. In the noon-tide heat, they 
 would land on the opposite shore, and 
 range through the bowery woods, shel- 
 tered from the sun's scorching rays; and, 
 returning to their barge, as his heat de- 
 creased, would glide gently along the 
 stream, and reach the town, as he sunk 
 into the Atlantic Ocean. Sometimes, 
 they would, after sailing down the 
 rolling waves, leave the river to view 
 the antiquities in the neighbourhood ; — 
 the ancient amphitheatre at Nismes; 
 and near it, the temple of Diana; and 
 also, le pont du Guards of these tiers of 
 arches; serving as an aqueduct, and 
 
 KS
 
 202 
 joining the aspiring tops of two rugged 
 mountains; stupendous monument of 
 Roman skill and ingenuity. 
 
 Excursions such as these, and many 
 other plans of pleasure, was Chatillon 
 constantly promoting, whose only aim 
 was amusement for Matilda. She saw 
 his intention, and was uneasy at it, as 
 she felt it impossible ever to entertain 
 for him, more than friendship. She 
 wished for an opportunity to present 
 itself, by which she might, with pro- 
 priety, and without hurting his feelings, 
 put an end to hopes that could never 
 be realized. That opportunity, she saw, 
 could not be forced, and that it could 
 only proceed from him; she, therefore, 
 determined to seize it with avidity, 
 whenever it should offer.
 
 203 
 
 The Countess Villeroy now signified 
 her intention to return to the castle, and, 
 to take Elinor along with her, as she 
 thought it would be cruel to part Ma- 
 tilda and her, between whom such a 
 disinterested friendship existed. The 
 Chevalier Melun had also a general in- 
 vitation; which, it is reasonable to sup- 
 supose, he would readily avail himself 
 of, to be in the company of the object of 
 his affections. 
 
 The Countess, and. her two young 
 friends, left Madame Lunelle, and ar- 
 rived safe at the castle. Here Matilda 
 found letters for her, from her father ; 
 she was disappointed in the contents of 
 them, which she expected would in-, 
 form her of his intention, speedily ta 
 return from Paris; instead of which.
 
 204 
 
 they told her, that the same cause that 
 before delayed him, still existed, and 
 that it might be a month, or perhaps 
 two, or even three, before it was re- 
 moved. 
 
 Although the Countess's kindness, 
 and attention to her were unbounded; 
 and her partiality towards Elinor so 
 great, she could not avoid sighing, when 
 she recollected the cottage, and the 
 charming rural scenes that surrounded 
 it, with the native innocence of the in- 
 habitants of the vale, and the many 
 cheerful hours she had passed there. — 
 She also longed for the valued society 
 of her father, from whom she had never 
 before been parted, even for a day, since 
 she had the power of recollection. — • 
 However, she solaced herself with the
 
 205 
 
 idea, that his absence was unavoidable, 
 and that, though the period of its du- 
 ration, to look forward to, appeared 
 long, yet that time passed quickly away ; 
 particularly time like her's, passed in the 
 company of valued friends.
 
 206 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 f Be absolute for death; cither death or hfe 
 Shall thereby be the sweeter. 
 
 Shakespear. 
 
 -A. SHORT time after their return to the 
 castle, the Countess met with an acci- 
 dent of a most serious nature. As she 
 had been upon one of her charitable vi- 
 sits, among her poor tenantry, one of 
 the horses became restive, and so ungo- 
 vernable, that he was entirely above the
 
 207 
 
 management of the coachman. He 
 plunged, reared, and kicked, in so vio- 
 lent a manner, that he at last overturn- 
 ed the carriage, in which was the Coun- 
 tess alone, who was so much bruised, 
 that she was taken out for dead. She 
 was conveyed to the castle, and a sur- 
 geon immediately sent for, who dressed 
 her bruises, and opened a vein^ but de- 
 clared that he dreaded the w^orst con- 
 sequences. She continued in a state of 
 insensibility for two days, not taking the 
 least notice of any body about her; the 
 third dav, she recovered her recollec- 
 tion, only again to lose it, in the delirium 
 of a fever. The surgeon desired that a 
 physician might be called in, who, when 
 he arrived, said, if matters did not soon 
 take a favourable turn, that dissolution 
 must ensue.
 
 208 
 
 Matilda watched by her bed-side 
 incessantly, nor could she be persuaded 
 to leav^e the rooin, even to take the ne- 
 cessary repose that exhausted nature re- 
 quired 5 but, throwing herself in an 
 arm chair, would get a few minutes 
 slumber, which w^as no sooner begun, 
 than anxiety for the Countess broke 
 it. 
 
 The delirium, at length, subsided^ 
 but the doctor said, that he did not con- 
 sider the danger by any means to be 
 over: that the fever was not at all 
 subdued, and that his patient was so 
 w^eak and exhausted, he feared life was 
 ebbing apace. 
 
 Now the Countess had recovered her 
 recollection, she became sensible of the
 
 209 
 
 dangerous situation she was in. She 
 begged the doctor would not deceive 
 her, but inform her candidly, his opin- 
 ion of what the result of her disease 
 might be. 
 
 " I don't pretend" said she, ^^ to 
 " look upon death with apathy, as some 
 " would presumptuously make the 
 " world beheve they do; yet, trusting 
 " in an all-merciful God and Redeemer, 
 *' I can view the awful change ap- 
 " proach, without dismay; and can, 
 " with resignation, yield my soul into 
 *' his hands, when it shall please him to 
 '^ call for it, however soon; I, there- 
 " fore, beg you will not deceive 
 " me.'* 
 
 By the doctor's reply, she plainly un- 
 derstood that his opinion was, she could
 
 210 
 
 not long survive the present moment. — ' 
 She desired all her attendants to leave 
 the apartment, for a short time, as she 
 wished to be alone a few minutes with 
 Matilda. 
 
 . When every one had retired, except 
 Matilda, the Countess said to her, " Do 
 ** not weep, my dear girl, but listen 
 *' with attention to the important tale 
 " I have to tell ; imjportant to you, im- 
 " portant to your dear father, but more 
 *' important still is it to another. — Oh ! 
 '' I well remember the day on which 
 
 " but I faint — I am sick — call 
 
 " in," and she sunk upon her pil- 
 low. Matilda rang the bell for assist- 
 ance, and, after some time, recovered 
 her .from the fit into which she had 
 fallen; but she was so weak, that she 
 could not speak. The physician being
 
 f 11 
 
 sent for, arrived just as she came to 
 herself. He requested that she would 
 not hurry her spiiits, by any exertion; 
 as, being kept quiet, was the only chance 
 for her recovery. After seeing some 
 medicines he had prescribed for her ad- 
 ministered, he left her, desiring, that 
 if any alteration took place, he might be 
 instantly sent for. 
 
 Matilda could not be prevailed 
 upon to leave the room, but sat by the 
 bed side, the whole of the night. She 
 thought she heard the Countess breathe 
 louder than usual; soon after a still si- 
 lence reigned; she whispered the maid, 
 that she feared all was over, and gently 
 opened the curtains, when she discover- 
 ed that the object of her anxiety had 
 dropped into a quiet sleep, calmness
 
 212 
 
 and placidity beaming in a smile from 
 her countenance. 
 
 The Countess continued in this tran- 
 quil sleep, for about two hours, and 
 when she awoke, was considerably re- 
 freshed. When the physician came in 
 the morning, he was surprised, to find 
 his patient so easy, and that the fever had 
 considerably abated; he expressed his 
 hopes, that she would procure another 
 hour or two of rest, the next night, in 
 which case, he said, he should be war- 
 ranted in giving a favourable opinion 
 of what the result might be. After 
 writing his prescription, he took his 
 leave for the present. 
 
 In the course of the day, the Coun- 
 tess said to Matilda, '' I find that my
 
 213 
 
 *^ strength is so exhausted, I cannot go 
 
 " through the narrative, that I began 
 
 " yesterday, but, must refer your father 
 
 ^' and you, to a manuscript, which, 
 
 " when I am dead, you will find in my 
 
 " escritoir folded up, and superscribed 
 
 " with his name; that will inform 
 
 " you, of what I am unable to do by 
 
 ** speech/* 
 
 The next night, the Countess again 
 got some refreshing sleep, and in the 
 morning, the fever having nearly left 
 her, the doctor said he had sanguine 
 hopes. From this time she gradually 
 mended; and, in a few days, she was 
 pronounced out of danger. The phy- 
 sician now discontinued his daily visits, 
 calling only occasionally, whilst the sur- 
 geon attended regularly every day, to 
 dress the bruises she had received, which
 
 214 
 
 iwere still so bad, as to prevent her 
 moving without assistance. 
 
 The whole of one day had nearly- 
 passed over, without the surgeon making 
 his appearance. The Countess became 
 very uneasy, from the pain she expe- 
 rienced, owing to the dressings remain- 
 ing too long on, without being renew- 
 ed. At last, he came, and apologized 
 for not being there at his usual hour; 
 he said, that he had been called upon, 
 to attend a consultation of medical and 
 surgical practitioners, on the case of a 
 person, w^ho v/as almost at the point of 
 death, the effect of some wounds he 
 lately received, by an assault in the 
 night; and the distance was so great, 
 being in the Ccvennes mountains, he 
 could not get back so early as he 
 wished.
 
 215 
 
 The Countess had no doubt, but this 
 wounded person was the friar, who had 
 haunted Matilda at Baron Longuaville's 
 fite^ and who had met with his wounds, 
 in his attempt to force her from the 
 young hussar, her partner. She inquir- 
 ed of the surgeon, who the wounded 
 man was; but she was answered in an 
 ambiguous kind of way; which shewed, 
 that he knew him, but was not willing, 
 for some cause or other, to disclose his 
 knowledge to any other person; the 
 Countess could not, therefore, gain the 
 information she wanted..
 
 216 
 
 CHAPTER XIX, 
 
 Cold tearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
 
 Shakespear. 
 
 HE Countess was now able jto be 
 moved to another room; she was re- 
 covering fast from the effects of the ac- 
 cident she had met with, and was, in a 
 short time, able to walk about. Ma- 
 tilda and Elinor, both of whom had vo- 
 luntarily confined themselves with their 
 sick patroness, had now leisure again
 
 217 
 
 to enjoy the fresh air. The Chevalier 
 
 Melun, who had been prevented seeing 
 
 the latter, as often as usual, during the 
 
 illness of the Countess, now again paid 
 
 her frequent visits, often accompanied 
 
 by Chatillon, who was in expectation 
 
 of seeing Matilda r but in that he was 
 
 disappointed ; as, when Elinor was with 
 
 the Chevalier, her friend always made a 
 
 point of remaining with the Countess, 
 
 that she might never be left by both at 
 
 one time. 
 
 One evening Matilda took a walk to 
 the grove, in which she sat, her thoughts 
 being occupied by the recollection of 
 past scenes, till the shades of dusky 
 night began to approach with hasty 
 strides, before she was aware that it had 
 got so late. As she was retiring from it.
 
 218 
 
 into the narrow path that led to the ave- 
 nue, she was alarmed with the sound of 
 voices, in the direction that she had to 
 go, before she could reach the castle. — 
 She found they approached the place 
 she was in j and, before she could get 
 out of the way, they -were close to her. 
 She screamed aloud, and fainted. — 
 When she came to herself again, she 
 found herself supported by a man, whom 
 the darkness of the evening prevented 
 her from distinguishing the features of. 
 She feared she was in the power of an 
 enemy, and was near relapsing into the 
 same state she had just recovered from, 
 when she found, by his voice, that it 
 was Chatillon, in whose arms she had 
 been. He told her, that he had accom- 
 panied Melun that afternoon, in his 
 visit to Elinor, in hopes of the happi-
 
 219 
 
 nessof an interview; but, being disap- 
 pointed, he had strolled into the wood, 
 and wandered about, till darkness came 
 suddenly upon him; that he was going 
 to his horse, which he had left with his 
 servant, at a little distance, when he 
 heard her scream, and, at the same 
 time, saw a man and a woman run to- 
 wards the castle, with all the speed they 
 could. He said, he hastened to the 
 spot, and was just in time, to save her 
 from falling to the ground, by catching 
 her in his arms. 
 
 Matilda thanked him, for the 
 prompt assistance he had afforded her; 
 at the same time she acknowledged, 
 that from the persons who had alarmed 
 her, being a man and woman, and run- 
 ning towards the castle when she scream* 
 
 L2
 
 220 
 
 cd, that she had let fear get the better 
 of reason, otherwise, she would have 
 been convinced, before she gave way 
 to it, that they had the inclination to 
 do her harm; being, as she now sup- 
 posed, two of the domestics, who had 
 walked down the avenue, for no other 
 purpose, but to enjoy the private con- 
 versation of each other. 
 
 Chatillon agreed with her in the 
 probability of her supposition, and ad- 
 ded, " But why will the lovely Ma- 
 " tilda run any risk, by being alone in 
 *' the wood so late? Methinks, that 
 ^' ever-valued life, should be guarded 
 ** with more than common care. — 
 " Guard it according to its value, 
 " and what care can be too great for 
 •^ it?"
 
 221 
 
 " I AM obliged to you/* said she, 
 " for the apprehension of ill you fQQ]^ 
 " and the regard you express on my ac- 
 " count, but I cannot think there is 
 *' any danger so near the castle.'' 
 
 ** Call not my solicitude/'^ said he, 
 " by so cold a name ,as regard — yes, it 
 *^ is regard 3 but, oh, God, how refined 1 
 " Refined into pure and ardent love. 
 " O, charming Matilda! might I be 
 " permitted ." 
 
 " I CANNOT hear you on this strain," 
 
 said she, interrupting him : ^^ I respect 
 
 *• and esteem you, as a friend, and feel 
 
 ^^ flattered by the kind partiality, with 
 
 ". which you view any trifling accom- 
 
 *' plishments I may be possessed of.— - 
 1-3
 
 222 
 
 " The esteem that I entertain for you, is 
 " calJed forth by a sense of your merit, 
 " which all must acknowledge, w^ho 
 " know you^ but beyond that es- 
 *' teem, it is impossible that I can ever 
 
 ** O ! SAY not so, but let me hope 
 
 '* If you wish to oblige me, you will 
 " not pursue the subject," said she, 
 interrupting him again; " nay, if 
 " you do not wish me to avoid your 
 " company, you will never again men- 
 *^ tion a theme, upon which, it is im- 
 *' possible I can ever hear you.*' 
 
 She spoke the last sentence in 
 so peremptory a tone, that Chatillon
 
 223 
 
 could not add another word. They 
 walked toward the castle, in deep si- 
 lence, which was only broken by the 
 heavy sighs, that escaped from his 
 bosom. 
 
 They had not gone far, before they 
 were met by a servant, whom the Coun- 
 tess, being uneasy at her long absence, 
 at so late an hour, had sent to look for 
 Matilda; Chatillon then wishing her a 
 good night, went to mount his horse. 
 
 . She found the Countess alone, who 
 said, *^ I have been very unhappy on 
 " your account, my dear, why do you 
 *' stay out so late?" 
 
 Matilda told her, how she had been 
 surprised, by night coming so suddenly 
 
 L4
 
 224 
 
 upon her in the grove, and how she had 
 been alarmed in her road from thence 
 to the castle, by the sound of voices; 
 and mentioned the presence of Chatil- 
 Ion, and their subsequent conversation, 
 "which she thought it was her duty to 
 inform the Countess of, placed under 
 her care as she was, in the absence of 
 her father. 
 
 "You acted perfectly right,'' said 
 the Countess; " the stop that you have 
 " put to any farther hopes in Monsieur 
 " Chatillon, was dictated by prudence. 
 *' Even if you had felt a partiality for 
 " him, it would have been highly im- 
 " proper to have indulged it, without 
 " first having the approbation of you? 
 " father." Elinor now entering the 
 room, the conversation dropped.
 
 225 
 
 At night, when the maid who at- 
 tended upon Matilda, was lighting her 
 to bed, she said, " I am sure, as how, 
 " Mademoiselle, I am very sorry, that 
 '' Peter and I frightened you so much 
 " to-night, in the avenue. But, we 
 " neither of us did not know that it was 
 " you; for we thought, when we saw 
 *' something all in white, that it was a 
 *' ghost, and we ran off as hard as our 
 " legs could carry us, and came into the 
 ^' hall, pale and almost fainting; when the 
 " rest of the servants laughing at us so, 
 ** Peter plucked up courage to deter- 
 " mine to see what sort of a ghost it 
 " was; and, was just going out when 
 '' he was met by Nicholas, who said, 
 *Vhe had been sent to look for you; 
 ^' and, that you and Monsieur Chatillon 
 ^■' were walking up the avenue; we
 
 226 
 
 " then both of lis said that you must 
 
 *' be the ghost/' 
 
 *' What made you think of a ghost?"" 
 asked Matilda^ '* do you think there 
 " are any such things?** 
 
 " La I Mademoiselle, why, don't 
 ^* you believe in those there things?'* 
 
 " No, nor ever shall, till I see 
 *^ one.** 
 
 " If you had seen, and heard what I 
 " have. Mademoiselle,'* continued the 
 talkative maid, " you would not have 
 *^ so much unbelief/V 
 
 *' What have you seen and heard ?'* 
 said Matilda.
 
 227 
 
 " Last Innocent's day was two years 
 '* — no, I believe It was three years — 
 " it was very dark, that I remember, for 
 ** I could not see my hand, when I held 
 " it up before me, me and a fellow- 
 " servant, had been at a merrimaking; 
 ** and, as we were coming home at 
 *' night, just past the grove, we heard 
 " the rattling of a chain, and something 
 '^ ran against us both, and was very 
 " near knocking us down ; and, all at 
 '* once, we saw a great white thing walk 
 " before us. We were so frightened, 
 ** that we did not know how we got to 
 " the castle; but get there we did, 
 " somehow or other, more dead than 
 '^ alive. I remember, Denis would not 
 " believe we had seen a ghost, but that 
 ^' it was the great mastiff dog that had 
 "** broke loose; but I knew better;
 
 228 
 
 surely, says I, I knows a ghost from a 
 
 *' dogT' 
 
 Matilda having now no further 
 occasion for the services of the maid, 
 her volubihty was put an end to, and 
 she left the chamber, after again apolo- 
 gizing, in her way, for the alarm Peter 
 ^nd she had caused in the avenue. 
 
 Matilda was pleased that an op- 
 portunity had occurred, for her to speak 
 the sentiments of her mind to Chatil- 
 lon; which, she hoped, would be the 
 means of preventing him mentioning 
 again the subject of his passion; and 
 would cause him to give up the thoughts 
 of an object, that could not possibly 
 be ever attained by him, and by in- 
 dulging which, he must entail disqui-
 
 229 
 
 etude on his mind, which it might be 
 difficult to overcome. She hoped his 
 good sense, of which he had a great 
 share, would prevent that, and that 
 his fruitless passion, would cease to 
 give either him or her, any farther un- 
 easiness. 
 
 With these ideas, she laid her head 
 upon her peaceful pillow, invoking 
 sleep to seal her eye-lids with refreshing 
 rest. 
 
 " Come kind Sleep, nature's sweet 
 " restorative, that bearest on thy pinions 
 '^ healing to the wearied mind of restless 
 " man ! Come, with thy recreative influ- 
 '* ence, and lend thy opiate aid to drive 
 " away corroding care ! Pour thy balmy 
 " breath into my wakeful breast, and
 
 2S0 
 
 '•' banish every gloomy thought ! Throw 
 *' thy magic spell o'er niv scattered 
 ** senses, and dissolve them into obli- 
 *^ vial suspension! Bind my wander- 
 ^* in^ ideas in silken chains of drowsy 
 " rest, that I may hail the coming mom, 
 " with a grateful soul, for the ease thy 
 ^* bounty hast imparted ! 
 
 " Night, dun night, is ruling now 
 " with ebon swav: thick lowerin^r 
 " clouds cover heaven's high expanse: 
 ** the hollow blast whistles through the 
 " desolate arches, with melancholy m.ur- 
 *^ murs: the rain beats with violence 
 " against the stone-buik walls; or, the 
 *' snow drives in volumes, through the 
 " .murky air. All nature is enveloped 
 ** in obscurit}- and gloom! Darkness 
 ** reigns uncontrouledj upon her raid-
 
 231 
 
 " night throne: all is sad and joyless! 
 " Burt thou, kind Sleep, openest wide 
 " thy comfortable arms, and bringest 
 ^•' us hi gratitude and gladness, through 
 " the dismal vale, to the bright light of 
 " the ever-cheering luminary, that gilds 
 '' the orient morn! Sweet Sleep, na- 
 *' ture's dearest friend, hail ! 1 1" 
 
 E^'D OF VOL. I,