The Castle of Otranto
which she wished she had put to the other overnight. Matilda reflected
that Isabella had been twice delivered by Theodore in very critical
situations, which she could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was
true, had been fixed on her in Frederic’s chamber; but that might have
been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of both. It
were better to clear this up. She wished to know the truth, lest she
should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella’s lover.
Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed an excuse from
friendship to justify its curiosity.
Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her suspicions.
Both Theodore’s tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged; it
was true—yet, perhaps, Matilda might not correspond to his passion; she
had ever appeared insensible to love: all her thoughts were set on
heaven.
“Why did I dissuade her?” said Isabella to herself; “I am punished for my
generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be; I have deceived
myself; perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld each
other; it must be some other object that has prepossessed his
affections—if it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not my
friend Matilda—how! Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man, who
rudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and that at
the very moment in which common courtesy demanded at least expressions of
civility. I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this
becoming pride. Man is false—I will advise with her on taking the veil:
she will rejoice to find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her
that I no longer oppose her inclination for the cloister.”
In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart entirely to
Matilda, she went to that Princess’s chamber, whom she found already
dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm. This attitude, so
correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella’s suspicions,
and destroyed the confidence she had purposed to place in her friend.
They blushed at meeting, and were too much novices to disguise their
sensations with address. After some unmeaning questions and replies,
Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight? The latter, who
had almost forgotten Manfred’s passion, so entirely was she occupied by
her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape from the
convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening,
replied—
“Martelli brought word to the convent that your mother was dead.”
“Oh!” said Matilda, interrupting her, “Bianca has explained that mistake
to me: on seeing me faint, she cried out, ‘The Princess is dead!’ and
Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the castle—”
“And what made you faint?” said Isabella, indifferent to the rest.
Matilda blushed and stammered—
“My father—he was sitting in judgment on a criminal—”
“What criminal?” said Isabella eagerly.
“A young man,” said Matilda; “I believe—I think it was that young man that—”
“What, Theodore?” said Isabella.
“Yes,” answered she; “I never saw him before; I do not know how he had
offended my father, but as he has been of service to you, I am glad my
Lord has pardoned him.”
“Served me!” replied Isabella; “do you term it serving me, to wound my
father, and almost occasion his death? Though it is but since yesterday
that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not think I
am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness of
that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel any
affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my
being. No, Matilda, my heart abhors him; and if you still retain the
friendship for me that you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest
a man who has been on the point of making me miserable for ever.”
Matilda held down her head and replied: “I hope my dearest Isabella does
not doubt her Matilda’s friendship: I never beheld that youth until
yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have
pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour
uncharitable resentment against one, who I am persuaded did not know the
Marquis was related to you.”
“You plead his cause very pathetically,” said Isabella, “considering he
is so much a stranger to you! I am mistaken, or he returns your
charity.”
“What mean you?” said Matilda.
“Nothing,” said Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda a hint of
Theodore’s inclination for her. Then changing the discourse, she asked
Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre?
“Bless me,” said Matilda, “did not you observe his extreme resemblance to
the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice of it to Bianca
even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on, he is the very
image of that picture.”
“I do not much observe pictures,” said Isabella: “much less have I
examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done. Ah?
Matilda, your heart is in danger, but let me warn you as a friend, he has
owned to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was
the first time you ever met—was it not?”
“Certainly,” replied Matilda; “but why does my dearest Isabella conclude
from anything I have said, that”—she paused—then continuing: “he saw you
first, and I am far from having the vanity to think that my little
portion of charms could engage a heart devoted to you; may you be happy,
Isabella, whatever is the fate of Matilda!”
“My lovely friend,” said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist a
kind expression, “it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it; I am
persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me to
interfere with yours.”
This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda; and jealousy that for
a moment had raised a coolness between these amiable maidens soon gave
way to the natural sincerity and candour of their souls. Each confessed
to the other the impression that Theodore had made on her; and this
confidence was followed by a struggle of generosity, each insisting on
yielding her claim to her friend. At length the dignity of Isabella’s
virtue reminding her of the preference which Theodore had almost declared
for her rival, made her determine to conquer her passion, and cede the
beloved object to her friend.
During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter’s chamber.
“Madam,” said she to Isabella, “you have so much tenderness for Matilda,
and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched house,
that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you to
hear.”
The princesses were all attention and anxiety.
“Know then, Madam,” continued Hippolita, “and you my dearest Matilda,
that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days,
that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred’s
hands into those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps inspired
with the thought of averting our total destruction by the union of our
rival houses. With this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord,
to tender this dear, dear child to Frederic, your father.”
“Me to Lord Frederic!” cried Matilda; “good heavens! my gracious
mother—and have you named it to my father?”
“I have,” said Hippolita; “he listened benignly to my proposal, and is
gone to break it to the Marquis.”
“Ah! wretched princess!” cried Isabella; “what hast thou done! what ruin
has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for
Matilda!”
“Ruin from me to you and to my child!” said Hippolita “what can this
mean?”
“Alas!” said Isabella, “the purity of your own heart prevents your seeing
the depravity of others. Manfred, your lord, that impious man—”
“Hold,” said Hippolita; “you must not in my presence, young lady, mention
Manfred with disrespect: he is my lord and husband, and—”
“Will not long be so,” said Isabella, “if his wicked purposes can be
carried into execution.”
“This language amazes me,” said Hippolita. “Your feeling, Isabella, is
warm; but until this hour I never knew it betray you into intemperance.
What deed of Manfred authorises you to treat him as a murderer, an
assassin?”
“Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess!” replied Isabella; “it is not
thy life he aims at—it is to separate himself from thee! to divorce thee!
to—”
“To divorce me!” “To divorce my mother!” cried Hippolita and Matilda at
once.
“Yes,” said Isabella; “and to complete his crime, he meditates—I cannot
speak it!”
“What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?” said Matilda.
Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech; and the recollection of
Manfred’s late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard.
“Excellent, dear lady! madam! mother!” cried Isabella, flinging herself
at Hippolita’s feet in a transport of passion; “trust me, believe me, I
will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield
to so odious—oh!—”
“This is too much!” cried Hippolita: “What crimes does one crime suggest!
Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue. Oh! Matilda, this
stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, I
charge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!”
“But you are my mother too,” said Matilda fervently; “and you are
virtuous, you are guiltless!—Oh! must not I, must not I complain?”
“You must not,” said Hippolita—“come, all will yet be well. Manfred, in
the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps
Isabella misunderstood him; his heart is good—and, my child, thou knowest
not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is
stretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck! Yes,” continued
she in a firmer tone, “perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all;
I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of
me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the
remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince!”
“Thou art as much too good for this world,” said Isabella, “as Manfred is
execrable; but think not, lady, that thy weakness shall determine for me.
I swear, hear me all ye angels—”
“Stop, I adjure thee,” cried Hippolita: “remember thou dost not depend on
thyself; thou hast a father.”
“My father is too pious, too noble,” interrupted Isabella, “to command an
impious deed. But should he command it; can a father enjoin a cursed
act? I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father? No, madam, no;
force should not drag me to Manfred’s hated bed. I loathe him, I abhor
him: divine and human laws forbid—and my friend, my dearest Matilda!
would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own
mother—I never have known another”—
“Oh! she is the mother of both!” cried Matilda: “can we, can we,
Isabella, adore her too much?”
“My lovely children,” said the touched Hippolita, “your tenderness
overpowers me—but I must not give way to it. It is not ours to make
election for ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide
for us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have
determined. If the Marquis accepts Matilda’s hand, I know she will
readily obey. Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my
child?” continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of
speechless tears—“But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a
word against the pleasure of thy father.”
“Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to you!”
said Matilda. “But can I, most respected of women, can I experience all
this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought from the
best of mothers?”