The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror)

by Eliza Parsons

  "You look fatigued, my son," said the Friar, "and I suppose must have wandered considerably out of your way to have arrived at this dwelling, seldom in the habit of receiving strangers."

  "I have indeed been wandering about," replied the other, "and with very little satisfaction to myself. To this house I was directed from a neighbouring convent; both houses are so remote, so impervious, even to the eye of curiosity, from the woods and deep valleys, that only a wretched fugitive, like myself, could possibly have found it."

  "If you are unhappy, my son, I am sorry for you, but yield not to despair; hope is implanted in the mind of man by our great Creator as the sweetener of life, and only one set of beings are excluded from that cordial drop in earthly pursuits."

  "And who are those?" asked Ferdinand.

  "Men and women devoted to a monastic life," answered the Father; "cut off from every worldly expectation, their hopes are founded in heavenly promises which can receive no disappointment but from themselves; they depend not on others; no earthly views can distract their attention from the one great object of their wishes: Happiness unalloyed by fears or doubts must inhabit the bosom of a religious man."

  "Most true," replied Ferdinand; "but that man must be detached from worldly cares, must have no dear connexions that twine about the heart; no wife, no children; no agonizing apprehensions for those he loves; no distracting doubts he cannot comprehend. The man who secludes himself from society, who can devote his days to religious duties only, must have a heart and mind at ease, ere he can embrace such a life as you have chosen."

  "Alas! my son, and does not religion hold out comfort to the afflicted?"

  "Undoubtedly, that is the rock on which we must erect the foundation of all our hopes and expectations both here and hereafter; but a monastic life I still aver, should be sought for only by those free from the ties that nature binds about the heart, and who have ceased to be solicitous for worldly objects."

  This conversation was interrupted by the entrance of another Friar, not so old as the one before him, in whose countenance Ferdinand discerned traits of benevolence and sensibility, his heart sprung to meet him, and involuntarily he arose as if to do him homage.

  "Father Joseph," said the former one, with a supercilious air, "you will see this traveller comfortably lodged, and then attend your duty:" Turning to Ferdinand, "Son, I shall see you to-morrow, and hold some further conversation with you." He withdrew.

  "You will follow me, my good brother," said Father Joseph, with an air of mildness, taking up the lamp. The other obeyed; he was conducted through an outer court into a very small chamber, about eight feet square, with a bed made in a niche of the wall, a table, on which stood a crucifix, and one stool. "May you rest in peace under the protection of Heaven!" said the Father, and was going to leave him.

  "Ah!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "and must you go? I feel a rising wish to be indulged with your company; must I repress it?"—"For the present I am obliged to leave you; but if sleep is not more desirable than conversation, I will return to you in half an hour. Go to bed, rest if you can, for I see you are overcome with fatigue." He retired, and left his companion with the pleasing hope of seeing him again. The countenance of this man beamed with mild complacence, and Ferdinand hoped from him to gather full information respecting the other convent, and possibly of the ruinous building where he had been so oddly received. Not to offend the Friar, he got into the bed, which was pretty hard, and very unlikely to lull him presently to sleep, he therefore anxiously watched for the approach of Father Joseph, who came when he had began to despair of seeing him.

  "I have complied with your wishes, son, and now tell me how I may serve you; I have one hour to spare." Ferdinand then briefly repeated the latter part of his story from the time his wife had left him, his reception at the old Castle, and his treatment at the convent. He concluded with saying, that all he wished for from his wife was, "an explanation of her letter, and a candid confession of her motives for withdrawing herself from the protection of her friends."

  "If (said he) as I suppose, you have communication with the convent, I beseech you to see my wife, tell her I will not force myself into her presence, let her but write to free me from my present doubts and inquietude, and I will obey her orders, and never intrude myself into any place she inhabits without her permission."

  "Your story is very strange (observed Father Joseph) and I fear you will obtain no satisfaction; I have no power to serve you: Our Superior, whom you have been with, is the only one that visits the convent; the order is one of the severest in all Germany: Ours is much more relaxed, yet we can derive little advantage from the indulgence allowed us, because our situation precludes all chance of society, and Father Ambrose only admitted to visit the convent, to which he is confessor. As your wife is in that retirement, be assured she is dead to you. Those that enter that house seldom return again to the world."

  "Distraction!" cried Ferdinand; "but my child, they cannot keep my child from me!"—"At a certain age she may make her own election: Mean time you may represent the case to the Bishop, that is all you can do, having taken sanctuary in the bosom of the church, and the child being at this age more immediately under the care of its mother; at present, you cannot oblige her to resign it." Observing that Ferdinand appeared overwhelmed with vexation, he went on.

  "The building you have mentioned, so buried from all observation, was once, I have heard, a most superb mansion, inhabited by one of the Bavarian family, who marrying an heiress of a Suabian Baron, came into the possession of that estate which has long fallen into decay, nor did I ever hear that it had been inhabited these twenty years. On the other side it joins with the black forest, and has been always understood, from its being desolated in one of the late wars, and never repaired, uninhabitable ever since; the house must be in ruins, and the grounds round it barren and uncultivated. Who the person or persons can be that reside there I have no idea, and indeed I should suppose it can afford no accommodations for any other than banditti."

  "Or the sons of misery," cried Ferdinand, "such are neither delicate in their accommodations, nor fastidious in their choice of situations; all places are alike to the wretched, and I hope to-morrow I shall be admitted as an inmate."

  "And I hope not," returned Father Joseph. "My son, you are very young, let not the first disappointment in your calculations of happiness induce you to renounce the world. You have been wrong, perhaps, in your first selection of the means to attain it. Man has but little prescience, and that little is often ill-directed. Consider your present troubles as a chastisement for some misconduct, some rash actions resulting from the impetuosity of youth; receive the correction with humility, but give not way to despair. Believe me, there is no merit in retiring from the world; society has its claims not incompatible with your sacred duties; on the contrary, duty towards God, and duty towards your brethren, is equally commanded and inculcated. A young man may have a thousand opportunities of doing active service to his fellow creatures, and of promoting the cause of religion and virtue. Retirement suits not with the ardour of youth; let me advise you therefore to resume your situation in life, whatever it may be, to scan over your past actions with discrimination and impartiality; you will then discover the errors that have impeded your expectations of happiness; you will chalk out for yourself a new path, and the end will be mental tranquillity, and the never-fading satisfaction of having been beneficial to the extent of your abilities towards the less fortunate and happy."

  "And is this," cried Ferdinand, 'the language of a man detached from the world, this the advice of a holy Father, to expose a fluctuating disappointed heart to the allurements and dissipations that tempt, in a hundred pleasurable shapes, the mind of youth, and lead him into vice?"

  "It is the language of truth and reason," answered Father Joseph, with energy, "it is the advice of dear-bought wisdom and experience. Man was not intended for a solitary being, and a young man, who flies from the world because he has indulged delusiv
e hopes, and formed expectations that in the nature of them must at one time or other receive a severe check, who neglects the duties he has it in his power to perform, and by a rash and ill-judged misanthropy, shuns mankind to give up his mind to despair; believe me, such a man is a pusillanimous wretch, who deserts his post, and by his cowardice and impatient spirit, lays up for himself bitter repentance, and never-ending regret, that will mix itself in his most earnest devotions, render those acts of religion, which should communicate joy and cheerfulness to the mind, cold, gloomy, and mechanical; whilst the good, the active, the benevolent mind, performs his sacred duties with delight, from conviction and choice diffuses blessings to all around him, and by precept and example animates others to the practice of religion and virtue, which his conduct renders both easy and pleasant."

  "If I may judge from the expression of your countenance," said Ferdinand, "your advice is not the declamation of an unimpassioned man, who has forsaken the world from choice, but the warnings of a feeling heart, desirous of saving others from equal regret and misery with himself."

  "You have observed justly, I will not deny," answered the Father: "Many are the victims in this house to pride, impatience, and avarice, sacrificed by their friends, or driven by the impetuosity of their own passions. Some there are doubtless from choice and the purest motives, but these last are comparatively few; a monastery therefore I do not recommend, nor a residence with that solitary being, whoever he may be, that inhabits those stately ruins; even this desultory mode of gratifying your curiosity, rambling among uninhabited and almost impassable hills and valleys, can benefit neither yourself, nor others, may subject you to much inconvenience, perhaps to certain dangerous situations, you do not apprehend: Once more then I recommend you to seek an active life, and an occupation that may diversify your thoughts, and engage your attention. Good night, reflect on what I have said, and may Heaven direct you for the best; I will see you again after morning service."

  "You have observed justly, I will not deny," answered the Father: "Many are the victims in this house to pride, impatience, and avarice, sacrificed by their friends, or driven by the impetuosity of their own passions. Some there are doubtless from choice and the purest motives, but these last are comparatively few; a monastery therefore I do not recommend, nor a residence with that solitary being, whoever he may be, that inhabits those stately ruins; even this desultory mode of gratifying your curiosity, rambling among uninhabited and almost impassable hills and valleys, can benefit neither yourself, nor others, may subject you to much inconvenience, perhaps to certain dangerous situations, you do not apprehend: Once more then I recommend you to seek an active life, and an occupation that may diversify your thoughts, and engage your attention. Good night, reflect on what I have said, and may Heaven direct you for the best; I will see you again after morning service."

  The good father having withdrawn, left Ferdinand overwhelmed with a variety of contending emotions, whether to profit by, or disregard the advice he had received:—whether he should yield to the dictates of prudence and experience, or follow the lead of his own inclinations. Sleep at length overtook him before he had settled the point, and, hard as his bed was, fatigue threw him into a profound repose, from which he started on the entrance of Father Joseph. "I come only to inform you," said he, 'that you are expected by Father Ambrose, breakfast is prepared for you, hasten therefore to attend him."

  "How!" cried Ferdinand, "do you leave me? I thought to have had a further conversation with you."

  "I am forbidden to indulge it, and have received a reprimand for being so long in your room last night: I may just whisper you, that the passions of mankind are the same in all places, and in all situations; jealousy, envy, and avarice, prevail as much in monasteries as in palaces, they pervade in the most profound retirements, and lead to the most despicable actions and sentiments. Adieu, may Heaven preserve you." Ending those words, he darted from the room, and left Ferdinand to follow.

  On entering the apartment he had quitted the preceding evening, he found Father Ambrose alone, refreshments before him, and having inquired of the other his name and rank in life, he began to launch forth in the praise of a monastic life, as the only asylum from trouble and pain; that abstracted from the world, its hopes and fears, the holy Fathers fixed their thoughts on things above, where no cares or disappointments could attend their hopes or desires. He harangued so long, and so eloquently on the subject, that, had not the advice of Father Joseph guarded his mind from the fascination of the picture of contentment held to his view, it is more than probable that Ferdinand, under the impression of his present vexations, might have been induced to end his travels, and have fixed himself for life in that solitary mansion; but already pre-possessed, the avenues to his heart were closed, and the eloquence of the Superior was exerted in vain: He heard him, however, with complaisance, but alleged absolute necessity for his departure, as an excuse for not embracing that plan of life so calculated to insure happiness. He added, 'that it was by no means improbable, but that he should return, and have the pleasure of visiting the community for a longer time, if he might hope for admission."

  The zealous Father, eager to make a proselyte of a young Nobleman, greatly approved of his design, and assured him of a hearty welcome. Ferdinand felt half inclined to have mentioned Claudina, but not much pre-possessed in his favour, nor desirous of being then detained from visiting the solitary, who had permitted his return, he repressed the sentiment of confidence half rising to his lips, and rose to take leave, with grateful thanks for his hospitality. When conducted to the grate, he saw Father Joseph in company with some others; a general salute only passed between them, but their eyes spoke much cordiality towards each other.

  CHAPTER XII

  Ferdinand now hastened to the Castle in the wood, and knowing the way, he pierced through its intricacies that to a stranger seemed impassable, and in much less time than he expected was at the gates. He hastily pulled the bell, which, to his infinite vexation, broke off in his hand; for having been so long useless, it had been eaten out with rust, moved with difficulty the preceding day, and now, by a second pull, snapped to pieces. Exceedingly disconcerted, he began to apprehend that he should gain no entrance; fortunately the solitary man, who had expected him, being walking in the court, heard the faint sound, which the jarring of the wires occasioned, and instantly appeared at the little wicket. Ferdinand was agreeably surprised at his sudden appearance. "You see me returned (said he) anxious to cultivate your acquaintance, and in your conversation blunt the keen edge of my own calamities."

  "Enter (said the solitary) I have expected you, curiosity is so strongly implanted in the mind of man that I scarcely doubted of your return." They passed through the first court, and walked round the wall of the second to a small postern door; on advancing towards it, he added, "Having once permitted you a free entrance, my confidence shall not be a partial one." He then opened the door which led to a handsome colonnade fronting the great gates that were boarded up, and excluded it from being seen in the outer court. They entered a large hall, round which run a gallery supported by pillars that led to the apartments above stairs; but the painting was almost effaced by the damp, the pillars entirely discoloured, some of them decayed and crumbling to pieces, threatening the destruction of the gallery they supported, and indeed the whole bore the appearance of total neglect. The solitary opened a door at the farther end of the hall, and conducted his guest into what he called his library, for as such it seemed to have been intended; but the glasses in many places were broken, the books all tumbling in disorder, and so covered with dust, that they were scarcely discernible. A few old-fashioned velvet chairs, once of crimson, but changed by the damps, two tables, with a writing desk of a very particular old-fashioned construction; a large dog that lay before a great wood fire, and seemed by age rendered almost incapable of moving, though he growled at the stranger; a sword, and a pair of pistols, that hung against the wall, comprised the whole furniture of this
room.

  Being seated, the solitary inquired of his success at the Convent. Ferdinand related his reception there, and at the Friar's monastery; adding, "You see my wife will afford me no sort of satisfaction, and her message is as extraordinary and inexplicable as her whole conduct."

  The old man sighed deeply: "I pity you (said he) not for your present disappointment, but because you are young, and must feel, poignantly feel, the stings of ingratitude, and the destruction of those sanguine hopes of happiness you had figured to yourself in an union with the object of your choice, and who, I have little doubt of pronouncing, has proved unworthy of your attachment."

  "How! (exclaimed Ferdinand) do you believe my wife is criminal?"

  "Hath she not confessed as much?" replied the other.

  "Impossible!" said Ferdinand, "she had no acquaintance, no man visited her, in my absence she resided with my brother, who lived very retired; impossible she could wrong me."

  "Cease to torment yourself with conjectures that cannot be elucidated; one day or other be assured every thing will be explained.—Yes (continued he, raising his voice) time and accident develops the darkest schemes, the machinations of the wicked will be detected, and, if to know the worst, your imagination can form, will afford any degree of ease, doubt not but that you will one day be satisfied; 'till then, try to repress your anxiety, and revere that command so extraordinarily delivered; try to forget that you have a wife existing, for she has declared 'she is dead to you.'"

  Ending these words he stamped on the floor, and presently a man, old and feeble, entered the room.—"Bring some bread and wine."

  "Strange! (thought Ferdinand) this man said he was not the master, yet he seems to command; he drinks no wine himself, yet keeps it here, for whom then, when he lives thus solitary? Or is there another person here who is the master?"