Letter XII.[1] Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian, Cosenza

I rise from a bed, which you have surrounded with the severest misfortunes, to address myself to you in this billet. It is in vain, that in conformity to the dull round of custom, I seek the couch of repose, sleep is for ever fled from my eyes. I seek it on every side, but on swift wings it flits far, very far, from me. It is now the dead of night. All eyes are closed but mine. The senses of all other creatures through the universe of God, are steeped in forgetfulness. Oh, sweet, oblivious power, when wilt thou come to my assistance, when wilt thou shed thy poppies upon this distracted head!

There was a time, when no human creature was so happy as the now forlorn Matilda. My days were full of gaiety and innocence. My thoughts were void of guile, and I imagined all around me artless as myself. I was by nature indeed weak and timid, trembling at every leaf, shuddering with apprehension of the lightest danger. But I had a protector generous and brave, that spread his arms over me, like the wide branches of a venerable oak, and round whom I clung, like ivy on the trunk. Why didst thou come, like a cold and murderous blight, to blast all my hopes of happiness, and to shatter my mellow hangings?

I have often told you that my heart was not tough and inflexible, to be played upon with a thousand experiments, and encounter a thousand trials. But you would not believe me. You could not think my frame was so brittle and tender, and my heart so easily broken. Inexorable, incredulous man! you shall not be long in doubt. You shall soon perceive that I may not endure much more.

How could you deceive me so entirely? I loved you with the sincerest affection. I thought you artless as truth, as free from vice and folly as etherial spirits. When your hypocrisy was the most consummate, your countenance had then in my eye, most the air of innocence. Your visage was clear and open as the day. But it was a cloak for the blackest thoughts and the most complicated designs. You stole upon me unprepared, you found all the avenues to my heart, and you made yourself the arbiter of my happiness before I was aware.

You hear me, thou arch impostor! There are punishments reserved for those, who undermine the peace of virtue, and steal away the tranquility of innocence. This is thy day. Now thou laughest at all my calamity, thou mockest all my anguish. But do not think that thy triumph shall be for ever. That thought would be fond and false as mine have been. The empire of rectitude shall one day be vindicated. Matilda shall one day rise above thee.

But perhaps, St. Julian, it is not yet too late. The door is yet open to thy return. My claim upon thy heart is prior, better every way than that of donna Isabella. Leave her as you left me. It will cost you a repentance less severe. The wounds you have inflicted may yet be healed. The mischiefs you have caused are not yet irreparable. These fond arms are open to receive you. To this unresentful bosom you may return in safety. But remember, I intreat you, the opportunity will be of no long duration. Every moment is winged with fate. A little more hesitation, and the irrevocable knot is tied, and Spain will claim you for her own. A little more delay, and this fond credulous heart, that yet exerts itself in a few vain struggles, will rest in peace, will crumble into dust, and no longer be sensible to the misery that devours it. Dear, long expected moment, speed thy flight! To how many more calamitous days must these eyes be witness? In how many more nights must they wander through a material darkness, that is indeed meridian splendor, when compared with the gloom in which my mind is involved?

Do not imagine that I have been easily persuaded of the truth of your infidelity. I have not indulged to levity and credulity. I have heaped evidence upon evidence. I have resisted the proofs that offered on every side, till I have become liable to the character of stupid and insensible. Would it were possible for me to be deceived! But no, the delusion is vanished. I doubt, I hesitate, no longer. All without is certainty, and all within is unmingled wretchedness.

* * * * *

St. Julian, I once again resume my pen. I was willing you should be acquainted with all the distress and softness of my heart. I was willing to furnish you with every motive to redeem the character of a man, before it were too late. Do not however think me incapable of a spirited and a steady resolution. It were easy for me to address a letter to the family of Aranda, I might describe to them all my wrong, and prevent that dreaded union, the thought of which distresses me. My letter might probably arrive before the mischief were irretrievable. It is not likely that so illustrious a house, however they may have previously condescended to the speciousness of your qualities, would persist in their design in the face of so cogent objections. But I am not capable of so weak and poor spirited a revenge.

Return, my lord, yet return to her you have deserted. Let your return be voluntary, and it shall be welcome as the light of day to these sad and weeping eyes, and it shall be dear and precious to my soul, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. But I will not force an unwilling victim. Such a prize would be unworthy of the artless and constant spirit of Matilda. Such a husband would be the bane of my peace, and the curse of my hapless days. That he were the once loved St. Julian, would but aggravate the distress, and rankle the arrow. It would continually remind me of the dear prospects, and the fond expectations I had once formed, without having the smallest tendency to gratify them.