'Pardon me, my lord,' said Julia, blushing, 'suffer me to'--'I am not
easily deceived, madam,' interrupted the duke,--'your conduct can be
attributed only to the influence of a prior attachment; and though for
so young a lady, such a circumstance is somewhat extraordinary, I have
certainly no right to arraign your choice. Permit me to wish you a
good morning.' He bowed low, and quitted the room. Julia now
experienced a new distress; she dreaded the resentment of the marquis,
when he should be informed of her conversation with the duke, of whose
character she now judged too justly not to repent the confidence she
had reposed in him. The duke, on quitting Julia, went to the marquis, with whom he
remained in conversation some hours. When he had left the castle, the
marquis sent for his daughter, and poured forth his resentment with
all the violence of threats, and all the acrimony of contempt. So
severely did he ridicule the idea of her disposing of her heart, and
so dreadfully did he denounce vengeance on her disobedience, that she
scarcely thought herself safe in his presence. She stood trembling
and confused, and heard his reproaches without the power to reply. At
length the marquis informed her, that the nuptials would be solemnized
on the third day from the present; and as he quitted the room, a flood
of tears came to her relief, and saved her from fainting.
Julia passed the remainder of the day in her closet with Emilia. Night
returned, but brought her no peace. She sat long after the departure
of Emilia; and to beguile recollection, she selected a favorite
author, endeavouring to revive those sensations his page had once
excited. She opened to a passage, the tender sorrow of which was
applicable to her own situation, and her tears flowed wean. Her grief
was soon suspended by apprehension. Hitherto a deadly silence had
reigned through the castle, interrupted only by the wind, whose low
sound crept at intervals through the galleries. She now thought she
heard a footstep near her door, but presently all was still, for she
believed she had been deceived by the wind. The succeeding moment,
however, convinced her of her error, for she distinguished the low
whisperings of some persons in the gallery. Her spirits, already
weakened by sorrow, deserted her: she was seized with an universal
terror, and presently afterwards a low voice called her from without,
and the door was opened by Ferdinand. She shrieked, and fainted.
On recovering, she found herself supported
by Ferdinand and Hippolitus, who had stolen this moment of silence and
security to gain admittance to her presence. Hippolitus came to urge a
proposal which despair only could have suggested. 'Fly,' said he,
'from the authority of a father who abuses his power, and assert the
liberty of choice, which nature assigned you. Let the desperate
situation of my hopes plead excuse for the apparent boldness of this
address, and let the man who exists but for you be the means of saving
you from destruction. Alas! madam, you are silent, and perhaps I have
forfeited, by this proposal, the confidence I so lately flattered
myself I possessed. If so, I will submit to my fate in silence, and
will to-morrow quit a scene which presents only images of distress to
my mind.' Julia could speak but with her tears. A variety of strong and
contending emotions struggled at her breast, and suppressed the power
of utterance. Ferdinand seconded the proposal of the count. 'It is
unnecessary,' my sister, said he, 'to point out the misery which
awaits you here. I love you too well tamely to suffer you to be
sacrificed to ambition, and to a passion still more hateful. I now
glory in calling Hippolitus my friend--let me ere long receive him as
a brother. I can give no stronger testimony of my esteem for his
character, than in the wish I now express. Believe me he has a heart
worthy of your acceptance--a heart noble and expansive as your
own.'--