Mathilda

Chapter 2

I now come to my own story. During the early part of my life there is

little to relate, and I will be brief; but I must be allowed to dwell

a little on the years of my childhood that it may be apparent how when

one hope failed all life was to be a blank; and how when the only

affection I was permitted to cherish was blasted my existence was

extinguished with it.

I have said that my aunt was very unlike my father. I believe that

without the slightest tinge of a bad heart she had the coldest that

ever filled a human breast: it was totally incapable of any affection.

She took me under her protection because she considered it her duty;

but she had too long lived alone and undisturbed by the noise and

prattle of children to allow that I should disturb her quiet. She had

never been married; and for the last five years had lived perfectly

alone on an estate, that had descended to her through her mother, on

the shores of Loch Lomond in Scotland. My father had expressed a wish

in his letters that she should reside with me at his family mansion

which was situated in a beautiful country near Richmond in Yorkshire.

She would not consent to this proposition, but as soon as she had

arranged the affairs which her brother's departure had caused to fall

to her care, she quitted England and took me with her to her scotch

estate.

The care of me while a baby, and afterwards untill I had reached my

eighth year devolved on a servant of my mother's, who had accompanied

us in our retirement for that purpose. I was placed in a remote part

of the house, and only saw my aunt at stated hours. These occurred

twice a day; once about noon she came to my nursery, and once after

her dinner I was taken to her. She never caressed me, and seemed all

the time I staid in the room to fear that I should annoy her by some

childish freak. My good nurse always schooled me with the greatest

care before she ventured into the parlour--and the awe my aunt's cold

looks and few constrained words inspired was so great that I seldom

disgraced her lessons or was betrayed from the exemplary stillness

which I was taught to observe during these short visits.[11]

Under my good nurse's care I ran wild about our park and the

neighbouring fields. The offspring of the deepest love I displayed

from my earliest years the greatest sensibility of disposition. I

cannot say with what passion I loved every thing even the inanimate

objects that surrounded me. I believe that I bore an individual

attachment to every tree in our park; every animal that inhabited it

knew me and I loved them. Their occasional deaths filled my infant

heart with anguish. I cannot number the birds that I have saved during

the long and severe winters of that climate; or the hares and rabbits

that I have defended from the attacks of our dogs, or have nursed when

accidentally wounded.

When I was seven years of age my nurse left me. I now forget the cause

of her departure if indeed I ever knew it. She returned to England,

and the bitter tears she shed at parting were the last I saw flow for

love of me for many years. My grief was terrible: I had no friend but

her in the whole world. By degrees I became reconciled to solitude but

no one supplied her place in my affections. I lived in a desolate

country where