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?”
“What art thou going to utter?” said Isabella, trembling. “Recollect thyself, Matilda.”
“No, Isabella,” said the princess, “I should not deserve this incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a thought without her permission—nay, I have offended her; I have suffered a passion to enter my heart without her avowal; but here I disclaim it; here I vow to Heaven and her——”
“My child! my child!” said Hippolita, “what words are these? what new calamities has fate in store for us? Thou, a passion! Thou, in this hour of destruction!”
“Oh, I see all my guilt,” said Matilda. “I abhor myself, if I cost my mother a pang: she is the dearest thing I have on earth. Oh, I will never, never behold him more!”
“Isabella,” said Hippolita, “thou art conscious to this unhappy secret, whatever it is. Speak!”
“What!” cried Matilda, “have I so forfeited my mother’s love, that she will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? Oh, wretched, wretched Matilda!”
“Thou art too cruel,” said Isabella to Hippolita; “canst thou behold this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?”
“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms. “Oh, I know she is good; she is all virtue, all tenderness and duty. I do forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!”
The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda. Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that either father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born. Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it in either. She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him. This Matilda fervently promised; but Isabella, who flattered herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her friend, could not determine to avoid him, and made no reply.
“I will go to the convent,” said Hippolita, “and order new masses to be said for a deliverance from these calamities.”
“Oh, my mother,” said Matilda, “you mean to quit us: you mean to take sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal intentions. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear: will you leave me a prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent.”
“Be at peace, my child,” said Hippolita; “I will return instantly. I will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of Heaven, and for thy benefit.”
“Do not deceive me,” said Matilda. “I will not marry Frederic until thou commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?”
“Why that exclamation?” said Hippolita. “I have promised thee to return.”
“Ah, my mother,” replied Matilda; “stay and save me from myself. A frown from thee can do more than all my father’s severity. I have given away my heart, and you alone can make me recall it.”
“No more,” said Hippolita: “thou must not relapse, Matilda.”
“I can quit Theodore,” said she, “but must I wed another? Let me attend thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.”
“Thy fate depends on thy father,” said Hippolita: “I have ill bestowed my tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu! my child, I go to pray for thee.”
Hippolita’s real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscience she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an hourly burden to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation from her husband appear less dreadful to her, than it would have seemed in any other situation.
Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape. Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred’s suspicion from alighting on Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome’s life and character secured him from the tyrant’s wrath. Jerome was heartily grieved to discover his son’s inclination for that princess; and leaving him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important reasons for conquering his passion. Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental authority to submit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart. He had little curiosity to learn the friar’s reasons, and less disposition to obey them. The lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on him than filial affection. All night he pleased himself with visions of love; and it was not till late after the morning office that he recollected the friar’s commands to attend him at Alfonso’s tomb.
“Young man,” said Jerome, when he saw him, “this tardiness does not please me. Have a father’s commands already so little weight?”
Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having overslept himself.
“And on whom were thy dreams employed?” said the friar sternly. His son blushed. “Come, come,” resumed the friar, “inconsiderate youth, this must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast.”
“Guilty passion!” cried Theodore: “can guilt dwell with innocent beauty and virtuous modesty?”
“It is sinful,” replied the friar, “to cherish those whom Heaven has doomed to destruction. A tyrant’s race must be swept from the earth to the third and fourth generation.”
“Will Heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?” said Theodore. “The fair Matilda has virtues enough——”
“To undo thee,” interrupted Jerome. “Hast thou so soon forgotten that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?”
“Nor
