The sight was too much for poor Matilda, she sunk fainting into a chair; Joseph was frightened out of his wits; he flew down as fast as possible, and returned with water, he bathed her face and hands and she revived.
'O, Joseph!' cried she, 'the lady - the dear lady! what is become of her in such bloody hands?' 'The Lord only knows,' answered he, looking with terror towards the closet. Directed by his eye Matilda. arose and walked to the door; the key was in it; she unlocked it, and was about to enter, when casting her eyes on the floor, she saw it was all over stained with blood, dried into the floor - she started, and involuntarily retreated, but Joseph, who had looked round said, 'You may enter, madam, nothing is here.' With trembling steps, she entered the closet, her heart beating with terror; it was a large light closet, with a very high window, grated like the other, hung with dark green stuff; two stools covered with the same, and a large wardrobe in it. On the floor was plainly mark'd the shape of a hand and fingers traced in blood, which seemed to have flowed in great quantities. 'Good heavens!' cried she, 'some person was doubtless murdered here too.' 'Intended to have been murdered,' answered Joseph, wiping his eyes, 'but thank God she escaped then.' He said no more. Matilda, extremely terrified, hastened out of the closet, when the poor creature on the bed met her eyes. 'O, Joseph!' exclaimed she, turning with horror from the scene, 'what is to be done with this unfortunate woman?' 'Dear, my lady, I can't tell; I have neither strength to dig a grave, nor can I carry her down.' 'It is plain,' said Matilda, 'the wretches who have carried of the lady, murdered the servant to prevent discovery.' 'I fear,' cried Joseph, 'my turn will be next - my mouth will be stopt from the same fear.' 'God forbid,' said Matilda; 'but as I have now no hopes of finding the lady, and it will be dangerous to entrust another person with the secret, I think, Joseph, if we can find a small trunk or chest, to fill it with the linen and necessaries your lady offered me, and convey it to one of the rooms in the other wing; I will write a line and leave it on the table: yet, on second thought, it will be useless, should she escape, she can never think of coming here again: we will therefore lock and bolt up every door; you can take the keys of the places below to your own kitchen, and now and then come through the passage to see if all is safe.' Poor Joseph, with a heavy heart, agreed to this.
They had now stayed some time, and thought it best to separate and meet again after dinner: they gladly left these horrid rooms, and returned by different ways to their own habitation.
When Matilda came to her apartment, the terror of her mind was unspeakable; all she had seen, all she had heard crowded upon her remembrance, and gave her the most horrible ideas. She could not think Joseph's fears unreasonable if he was supposed to be in the secret, his life was not safe, and in his fate the whole family might be involved: 'What can I - what ought I to do?' cried she, shedding a torrent of tears, 'no friend to advise me, no certainty of a place to receive me, if I go from hence, and a probability, that, if I stay, I may be murdered; - what a dreadful alternative is mine!' After giving free vent to her tears, she endeavoured to compose her mind, by addressing the Almighty Power to protect her.
Sweet are the consolations which religion affords! In all our difficulties and distresses, when supplicating the Supreme Being with fervor and a perfect reliance on his goodness, we feel a resignation and confidence, that enable us to support present evils, and look forward with hope to happier days. Such were the feelings of Matilda: she rose from her knees with serenity; she recovered resolution and firmness; 'I will not despair,' said she, 'the Almighty will preserve a friendless orphan, unconscious of guilt, that relies on his protection.' She dried up her tears, and met the family as usual.
When dinner was over, she returned to the library; Joseph soon joined her, they went down to the deserted parlour, Matilda could not help shuddering: Joseph found a trunk, the drawers were opened, and she took out such necessaries of every kind as she thought she must want, yet left plenty behind. In one drawer she found a purse, with a good deal of money in it; here she hesitated; the lady had told her she would supply her, yet she knew not to what amount: Joseph persuaded her to take the whole, 'Be assured, madam, my dear lady will never return,' cried he. After much hesitation and reluctance, she at length divided it, and then taking a pen and ink, she took an inventory of the clothes and money, with an acknowledgement to repay it when able, and locked it in the drawer with the purse.
Having packed up those few things she had selected, and requested Joseph would take it, by and bye, to a room near hers, she said, 'I cannot be easy under the idea, that the poor woman above should lie there to decay; is there no way to place her in a decent manner?' After some pause Joseph said, 'there is a large chest in the back-kitchen, with old trumpery in it, if I take them out, perhaps we might get the body there, but I fear I have not strength to bring it down.' 'Let us see the chest first,' replied Matilda, 'and then we will consider of the other.' She followed him into the back-kitchen, saw the chest, and its contents were soon tumbled into one corner. 'Now, Joseph,' said she, 'I will assist you to bring the body down.' 'You, my lady!' cried he, staring at her. 'Yes,' rejoined she; 'let us go up.' She led the way and he followed; having unlocked and entered the room she could not help shuddering; yet took more observation of the gloomy apartment than she had been enabled to do in the morning; and recollecting what she had heard about inscriptions; she got upon a chair, and from thence to a kind of window seat very high from the ground: standing on this she examined the window; it looked out towards a sort of battlement, which surrounded the back part of the castle, the north wind blew full upon it, the only prospects were the walls and distant mountains. On the window she saw several lines apparently cut with a diamond; in one place she read,
I am dumb, as solemn sorrow ought to be;
Could my griefs speak, my tale I 'd tell to thee.
In another place these lines were written;
A wife, a mother - sweet endearing ties!
Torn from my arms, and heedless of my cries;
Here I am doomed to waste my wretched life,
No more a mother - a discarded wife.
And again, in another place,
Would you be happy, fly this hated room,
For here the lost Victoria meets her doom
O sweet oblivion calm my tortur'd mind
To grief, to sorrow, to despair consigned.
Let gentle sleep my heavy eye-lids close,
Or friendly death, the cure for all our woes,
By one kind stroke, give lasting sure repose.
Several other lines, expressive of misery though not of poetical talents, were written in different places, that proved the unhappy writer sought to amuse her painful ideas by her melancholy employment.
Poor Matilda, concluded the wretched victim to some merciless man was sacrificed in that closet where the hand was deeply imprinted in blood on the floor; she viewed it with horror, and getting down from the window; as Joseph had wrapt the body in the counterpane which lay on one side; he tried to lift it, and found the weight less than he expected, 'I can carry it myself, my lady,' and crept out of the room with it. Matilda, shutting the door hastily, followed him. They deposited the unfortunate woman in the chest, which was fastened down, and without speaking a single word returned to the parlour: here Matilda burst into tears, her resolution and spirits began to fail; the scenes she had witnessed, added to her own distresses, were indeed sufficient to wound and terrify a stouter heart than this young creature's; little acquainted with the calamities of life, she had flown from approaching danger, without the least idea of the miseries she might encounter in her journey! Joseph sympathized in her sorrow, and waited without speaking 'till she grew more composed: 'Come, dear lady, let us leave this sorrowful place; I will take some oil and trim the lamps, for I shall come here every day, though, God knows, with very little hope of ever seeing my dear mistress again.' Matilda, opprest and languid, rose from her chair; he followed her with the box to the apartment next hers, and having deposited it, returned to lock up the doors and trim the lamps in the passage, assuring her he would call daily at the post to seek for letters, as all came directed to him.
She