“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 authorizes 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 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?”
“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