The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to
be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though
under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the
young man gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections,
and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse that
night. They separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of
ceremony and fewer of affection than had passed between them since their
childhood. If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater
impatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a
situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions
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.