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

by Eliza Parsons

  "I never thought to supplicate pity, or sue for any favours, but nature, all-powerful, subdues both pride and hatred. My child! Baron, save my child, spare its wretched mother this bitter climax of sorrow." He was interrupted, the child called for drink, the small portion I had brought was quickly gone. Again Eugenia exerted her eloquence, her tears. I heard her unmoved, and turning from them, "Now then, wretches, you can feel, now you know what it is to mourn as I have done; may the loss of your dearest hopes revenge my injuries."

  I returned to my apartment exquisitely gratified. The following night I repeated my visit; there, on her bed of straw, lay the once captivating Eugenia, pale, dishevelled, her voice choked with sighs and tears, her late beautiful child consuming by a fever, and gasping for life, the Count stretched on the bare ground in silent agony, incapable of assisting those objects so dear to him! O, what a luxury of revenge!

  When I drew near, before the mother could speak, the child extended its feeble hand, "Water, water, mamma!" Eugenia started, hastily reached to take the jug; her weak and tremulous hand, too eager to grasp the prize, dropped it between us! She shrieked, "O misery! O, Baron! Water, for the love of Heaven some water!"

  "You have had your allowance, you must suffer for your own heedlessness."

  With an air of distraction she crawled to my feet: "If you wish that Heaven should pity you in your last moments, now, now show mercy to the wretch before you; save my child, procure me instant relief, see life quivering on its parched lips! Oh! God, for me it suffers! Baron, Baron, save the innocent!"

  She sunk back on the damp ground; the Count groaned with anguish, and dashed his chains with rage. The child again feebly called for drink; she sprung up, "O, inhuman, merciless monster, worse than a savage beast! Thou wearest a human form, cannot our misery content thee? This agonizing sight!" She turned her eyes on the child, it was that moment seized with convulsions; its struggles, and the wild screams of the mother, made me shudder. I quickly hastened from the scene, which however gratifying to my wished-for vengeance, gave a temporary shock to my soul, that I was obliged to shake off by recalling to my memory the wrongs I had endured from a faithless, ungrateful woman.

  That night and the following day I passed in steeling my heart against all supplications, and acquiring fortitude to bear the wild reproaches of a frantic mother, I doubted not but that the child was dead, and I anticipated the pleasure I should feel in seeing her wretchedness complete.

  At the accustomed hour I entered the dungeon. The Count fixed his stern and haggard eye upon me with a look that penetrated me with horror: He spoke not a word. I advanced, and beheld Eugenia seated by her child, which lay, as I expected, dead. She spoke not, nor raised her head at my approach. "There is your allowance, (said I) and I will remove this object from your view." She seized the body, and turning up her face with a significance of woe inexpressible, a wildness in her eye, though sunk deep in her head by sorrow.

  "Prepare the bed (said she) and I will follow; but my arms only shall convey my child, it sleeps sweetly now. Yes, yes, my love, your grand sire now relents; your birth-day shall be kept with splendour. Pray let us have a soft pillow, let us have music, the soft notes shall waft us to Heaven;—come, give me some food, I can eat now under this glorious canopy."—I saw her reason was disturbed, that grief had distracted her. She took the bread, and eat with eagerness; it was the day on which I gave them an allowance of wine; she drank it freely, talking wildly all the time, yet not with any violence.

  My heart smote me, I went back to the Count: "Barbarian! (exclaimed he) now triumph, my child! the poor lost Eugenia!" His voice faltered, large drops fell upon his face. He dried them up, then looking steadily on me: "Whilst that dear unfortunate angel lives, I must exist; I receive this wretched sustenance for her sake; in its own good time Heaven will release us from thee, cruel, merciless wretch!"—But why should I repeat the ravings of a man in his situation? It is sufficient to say, that his insults, his impotent threats, roused me from that lethargy of soul, into which the incoherent language of Eugenia had plunged me, and turned my momentary remorse into fury: In the bitterness of passion I swore, that if Eugenia died, I would inflict unheard of tortures on him; and should he escape my power, then his mistress should feel the severest vengeance that I could devise. Worked up to madness by the agitations of my mind, I scarce remember what passed between us, nor did I ever pass a night so replete with horror as the succeeding one.

  The following night I found Eugenia still the same, cheerful and melancholy by turns, but all recollection of her situation entirely lost. Sometimes she talked of her father, her child, her dear Count, as if all were present with her; then looking on me she would scream, and call for help, "a ruffian was going to murder her!" But, as during those paroxysms she walked swiftly backward and forward to the extent of her chain, I seized a moment, when her back was turned to drag the dead object of her sorrows from the dungeon to an outer hole, where I had left the corpse of Agnes. She soon missed her child, and uttered the most piercing cries, cries which froze me with terror, and which I saw no way to silence but by rough measures: I seized her by the arm, and drawing a dagger, which I always carried by my side:

  "Woman! (I exclaimed, in a voice and with an action equally menacing) woman, cease these screams, be composed and silent, or this weapon shall be buried in your bosom." She shrunk and trembled; she, who had heretofore braved death, and defied my power, now shuddered with affright, and threw her eyes wildly round, as if imploring succour. Having succeeded in terrifying her, I placed her on the bench, again threatening her with death if she repeated her cries.—She sat still as death, her eyes fixed, her limbs trembling. I turned from her to quit the dungeon: "Stop, miscreant (said the Count) stay and end our miseries, give us the death you threaten, destroy both, and I will thank you!"

  "Death! (I replied) No, that would rob me of my vengeance; you shall live to curse the hour you ever saw my wife; now revel in her company, now enjoy a teté à teté at my expense, and boast your triumph over Baron S***."

  Without waiting a reply I left him. It is now eight years since this event took place. Eugenia continues in the same hopeless state, yet blessed in some degree that she is very seldom sensible of her miserable situation, except when I appear before her, she then utters the wildest lamentations; but on threatening her with a whip or stick she shrinks down and is silent. The Count evidently struggles to preserve his life for her sake, for hope I think must long since have forsaken him; he perseveres in a sullen silence, and my treatment of them has been uniformly the same. Time has not extinguished my hatred, nor glutted my vengeance; my death must forerun theirs; then, and not till then, will their sufferings end. How strong is the passion of love, but how much stronger the desire of Revenge!!

  Memorandum,

  I have lost my boy in a consumption: I have, through the kindness of the farmer, procured an elderly man, whose poverty renders solitude preferable to want. I envy his happiness, for he has peace of mind!!

  A stranger, calling himself Ferdinand, has discovered this place; his society may be useful and comfortable.—No! he is a poor humane, pusillanimous wretch; he is fit for the world, he shall go.

  The End of the Memoir.

  CHAPTER IV

  Ferdinand perused the manuscript with eagerness, and an increasing curiosity that would not admit of an interruption until he had gone through the whole.—When the memoir was concluded, he sat for some time motionless, overcome with astonishment, and scarcely believing there could have existed a man who had for years cherished in his bosom such a diabolical passion for revenge, and such a persevering cruelty. He shuddered with horror when he reflected on the situation of those unhappy victims, and the fate they must have experienced, had not Providence conducted him to the Castle previous to the old Baron's death.—His own misfortunes appeared light in the balance, when weighed against the uncommon miseries the Count and his Eugenia had sustained; and the heart-felt delight at being the instrument to d
eliver them, at that moment seemed to overpay all the sorrows which had conducted him to that wretched habitation.

  Francis, whose youth appeared to be renovated by the enjoyment of society, exerted himself to make all the accommodations in his power to afford ease and pleasure to Ferdinand and his guests, not having the least idea that they were the owners of the Castle; fortunately it was the day on which the farmer regularly came for orders, and to his great surprise he had a demand for such luxuries as had long been unasked for there. Francis mentioned the death of his old master, and that his heir was now arrived, and desired to see him.

  It was not without some reluctance that the man ventured inside the gates, for a thousand ridiculous stories had been promulgated in the village sufficiently strange to terrify a weak and ignorant mind; but Francis, who knew the stimulative to a selfish disposition, held out such hopes of advantages to himself in being serviceable to his young master, that self-interest predominated over fear, and the man was at length persuaded to appear before Ferdinand. He was then informed that the old Gentleman being dead, it was necessary to have proper measures taken for his funeral, and the farmer was requested to send such persons as would be useful on the occasion. This he promised to do, and also to bring a young woman to attend the sick Lady.

  After the farmer's departure, Ferdinand more closely examined the papers in the cabinet where he had found the manuscript, to see if the deceased had held any correspondence, or to find by what means he had acquired money for his support during the twelve years he had resided in that solitary mansion; but his search was attended with no gratification to his curiosity, farther than the discovery of near three hundred crowns in a private drawer, and the deeds and papers belonging to the estate Count Zimchaw had bequeathed to him, which appeared very extraordinary, and unlikely to be found there: The more he reflected on the memoir, and conduct of the Baron, the greater was his astonishment that any mind could indulge the horrid passion of revenge to such a degree, as to render him indifferent to every pleasure and convenience in life, to undergo the most painful of all situations, an outcast from society, dead to the world, to family, fortune, and friends, solely to inflict punishments upon others, which from habit must, he thought, have long since ceased to afford the smallest degree of gratification to his vindictive and cruel disposition. His sudden death, under such a frame of mind, made Ferdinand shudder, and was, he thought, a severe retribution for his uncommon cruelties.

  Anxious to hear the story of the Count and Eugenia, he flattered himself sleep would restore them to a comparative degree of strength, and enable them to relate their "eventful history."

  Frequently, during the course of the evening, Ferdinand went to the doors of their apartments to listen if they were awake, and at length he heard the Count moving, upon which he entered the room. The Count extending his hand, pressed his deliverer's to his lips: "The voluptuary in his highest enjoyments," said he, "never experienced the luxury I have felt this day. O, Sir! to conceive the misery I have endured is impossible, nor can language describe it. To the goodness of Heaven (who strengthened me to bear, what must appear almost incredible for a human creature to suffer) I owe the preservation of my senses, and the enjoyment, the exquisite delight of this blessed hour. To you——."

  "Not a word to me, my dear Sir," cried Ferdinand, interrupting him; "I have simply performed a duty the poorest and most ignorant of mankind would have done as well had they been in my place. I rejoice to see you thus refreshed, and I hope the Lady will feel equal benefit from a few hours sleep."

  "The poor Eugenia!" exclaimed the Count, with a deep sigh, "great and unparalleled have been her woes; for years, Sir, she lost her reason, and all sense of her miseries, and to that state I doubtless owe her life, which must otherwise have sunk under the oppressive recollection of past scenes, and continued miseries. 'Tis not many months since that her dreadful malady took a sudden turn, and that was occasioned by an accident which I feared would have been her death.

  "Walking one day pretty quick, the sudden check of the chain threw her down with such force, that she struck her mouth and nose violently, and bled to an alarming degree. Unable to afford her any assistance, judge what were my feelings to behold her in that situation! She rolled towards the straw, and at length fainted; that temporary death, which I thought a conclusive stroke, by stagnating the powers of life, I believe caused the bleeding to stop, and in a short time, to my infinite surprise, for I could scarcely be said to feel joy, she showed signs of returning life, and what was still more unexpected, the first words she faintly uttered convinced me that her senses and reason were also wonderfully restored. She continued very weak, and now and then rambled a little for several days, and even to the day of our deliverance she never saw our tormentor enter the dungeon without a temporary deprivation of her reason, by shrieking most violently as he approached to lay down our food; nor do I believe the inhuman wretch ever had an idea of her being at all recovered from the melancholy situation she had fallen into through his barbarity.

  "I hope her present refreshing rest will be of equal service to tranquillize her mind, and restore her to some degree of strength."

  "I hope the same," replied Ferdinand, "and have already spoken to a person to procure an attendant for her; mean time you must be content with our services."

  The Count made the warmest acknowledgments, and entreated the assistance of Francis to dress him: "My arms," said he, "have so long been confined, that the muscles are stiffened, and will be some time, I fear, before they are relaxed so as to enable me to help myself."—Ferdinand withdrew to send Francis, who was but an awkward valet de chambre; however, he helped on his clothes, and assisted him to the parlour, which they were obliged to darken, the Count's eyes not being able to support the glare of light after having been so many years in a visible darkness.

  The Gentlemen partaking of some refreshment, and having stationed Francis at the door of the Lady's apartment, the Count addressing Ferdinand, "Doubtless, Sir," said he, "your curiosity must be sufficiently excited to know our extraordinary story, and if you'll pardon the frequent pauses which weakness may oblige me to make, I will endeavour to gratify you."

  Ferdinand then mentioned the manuscript, which, he said, "had already acquainted him with every thing subsequent to Count Zimchaw's arrival at the house of the late Baron, except the Lady Eugenia's escape from him, and her story until the Baron discovered them in the Castle."

  "What a mind of determined cruelty must that man have possessed," exclaimed the Count, "who could sit calmly down and commit his diabolical deeds to paper! I hope, for the sake of human nature, there exists not such another monster; but I have always observed, that it is dangerous to let a single passion engross the mind, it generally tends to the most violent excesses; the love of such a man as Baron S*** must be furious, and meeting with a disappointment which equally wounded his pride, produced that implacable hatred which settled in a stern and cruel revenge, the gratification of which, like Aaron's rod, swallowed up every sentiment of humanity. Poor wretch! I can pity him, for his death, in such a frame of mind, disarms resentment."

  CHAPTER V

  "I will briefly relate to you those events with which you are unacquainted. My father and the late Count Zimchaw were neighbours, and once good friends. Eugenia and myself, at an early period in life, felt a mutual attachment, which death only can dissolve. There was nothing to impede the progress of our affections; age, circumstances, and the approbation of our parents, gave a sanction to our love, and we arrived at an age, when it was determined upon, that in a very few months our marriage should take place. Alas! what revolutions may occur in a short space of time to overthrow the best formed plans for happiness! One evening the two Gentlemen entered into a conversation on the war, on the conduct of the Ministers in the Imperial Court, and such other topics as frequently produce disputation from different opinions. My father had retired from Court in disgust; he thought himself ill-treated, and his services neglected;
he spoke therefore with some acrimony, and much warmth against the measures adopted for carrying on the war; Count Zimchaw, formerly a moderate man, having, by his interest not long before, procured a handsome establishment for his nephew, felt himself called upon to be the champion in defence of his friends: Their dispute was carried on for some time without personal resentment; but unhappily growing animated on both sides, they forgot the ground of their first argument, and turned every thing into intended insults on each other; they lost sight of friendship, and even good manners, and had not some company unexpectedly entered the room, it is more than probable the sword would have terminated the dispute. Every effort was used by their mutual friends to bring about a reconciliation, but they had gone too far on both sides to make any concessions; they parted with an avowed hatred to each other, and in the same hour Eugenia and myself were commanded to avoid all future intercourse with the respective families, and never to converse or see the object of our dearest affections more.

  "Eugenia, who held the commands of a parent in the utmost veneration, promised implicit obedience, though her heart and spirits sunk under the effort, and she fell dangerously ill. Almost distracted with her situation and my own, I exhausted myself in fruitless endeavours to restore harmony between our fathers: I left nothing unsaid or undone to soften their resentments; but the remembrance of their long friendship only served to increase their animosity to each other, and the asperity with which both the one and the other accused his opponent, could neither be forgiven or forgotten. I wrote to my dear Eugenia; I conjured her 'not to give me up a sacrifice to her father's resentments, to consider that we were not amenable for their unjust quarrels, nor could compulsatory obedience be any virtue, where the commands were cruel and unjustifiable.' In short, I omitted no arguments I could adduce to over-rule the resolution she had taken to obey her father. Her answer was short but decisive: 'She never would marry, much less encourage a clandestine correspondence, contrary to the commands of her father; and as there existed no hope that his consent would coincide with her wishes, she conjured me, if her peace was dear to me, from that hour to cease all further desire of an intercourse between us, which could only be productive of misery to both; that her promise was already given, and her fixed resolution taken at the same time, that if not permitted to be my wife, I might assure myself she would never be the wife of another.'