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

by Eliza Parsons

  "But I am sure (she continued, seeing the cheeks of Floretta covered with blushes, while she trembled so she could not stand), you spoke without thought, or perhaps from an idea that the disclosure of the secrets you hinted at would have gratified me; but be assured, Floretta, that would not have been the case, for I early learned, my good girl, that pleasure could never be attained by acting contrary to truth and virtue; and I hope you either do or will in future believe the justness of that saying as firmly as I do."

  "Yes, that I shall to be sure, Mam'selle (cried Floretta, somewhat recovered from her confusion, and again raising her head). As you have said, Mam'selle, nothing indeed but an idea that I should have gratified you by revealing my lady's secrets could ever have tempted me to mention them."

  Madeline did not appear to doubt her, but said she would no longer detain her. Floretta therefore courtesied, and retired with great humility.

  Left to herself, Madeline reflected on all she had heard, and the more she reflected, the more she was astonished at it: to surmise how or by whom the Countess was distressed, was impossible.—"But to know the source of her grief could scarcely, I think, augment my regret for it (cried Madeline); alas! what an aggravation of my sorrow is it to know that the two beings I love best in the world, are oppressed by griefs which, by concealing, I must suppose they deem too dreadful for me to be acquainted with it."

  She continued in melancholy meditation till the whole castle was wrapped in silence. She then retired to bed; but her rest was broken and disturbed by distressing dreams; and she longed for the return of morning to chase away the gloomy horrors of the night. She arose at an earlier hour than usual, before any of the family, except some of the inferior servants, were stirring, and walked out upon the lawn to try if the freshness of the air and exercise would revive her spirits. A solemn stillness reigned around, and the dewy landscape was yet but imperfectly revealed; but by degrees its grey veil was withdrawn, and the stillness interrupted by the twittering of birds and the carol of the early peasant. Madeline sighed at the contrast she drew between the cheerfulness of the scene and the sadness of her own mind.

  "And oh, when (she cried as she saw the gloomy vapours of night flying before the beams of a rising sun), oh, when shall the clouds that involve my prospects be dispersed!"

  After walking about some time, she sat down beneath the shelter of the chestnut, where she and her friend had rested the preceding night; and as she looked at the opposite but distant mountains, she thought of Madame Chatteneuf and Olivia, who had fixed on this morning to commence their journey; and her regret at their departure was augmented by believing that their presence would have been a comfort and relief to the Countess.

  Full of the idea that they had already begun to ascend those stupendous precipices, which together they had so often viewed with mingled awe and veneration; she gazed upon them with a melancholy kind of pleasure, as if by doing so she could once more have beheld the travellers.

  She remained thus engaged, till Agatha called to her from a window, and informed her the Countess was up. She directly returned to the house, and, going up to the Countess's dressing-room, met her just as she was entering it.

  With the most anxious solicitude she enquired how she found herself. "Somewhat better," (the Countess replied). But whether the imagination of Madeline was affected by what Floretta had said the preceding night, or whether it really was the case, she thought there was no alteration in her countenance to support this assertion; the same look of languor and dejection prevailed; and she involuntarily repeated her enquiry with an earnestness that intimated the doubt she harboured, and hinted a wish of having a physician sent for.

  "I thank you for this kind anxiety about me, my dear girl (said the Countess); but I can with truth assure you I am better; and even if I was not, I should never think of sending for a physician; medical skill (continued she in a low voice), could be of little avail in my malady."

  "Ah! (thought Madeline) this is indeed a confirmation of all that Floretta told me; she gives me to understand by those words, that her malady is upon her mind;—would to heaven I could alleviate it!"

  They sat down to breakfast; the table was laid near an open window, from whence they inhaled the sweetness of the morning air, and beheld the dewy landscape gradually brightening to their view,—beheld along the forest glades the wild deer trip, and often turning, gaze at early passenger: grey smoke arose in spiral columns from cottages scattered about its extremity, painting the rural scene with cheerful signs of inhabitation: and soon the industrious woodman was beheld commencing his toil, and the careful shepherd driving his bleating flock along the grassy paths to taste the verdure of the morn, while on every side

  Music awoke

  The native voice of undissembled joy,

  And thick around the woodland hymns arose.

  "Oh, how lovely is this scene! (said the Countess), this is Nature's hour for offering up her incense to the Supreme; and cold and unamiable indeed must be that heart which is not warmed to devotion by it. What real enjoyment do the children of indolence and dissipation forego by losing, in the bed of sloth, those moments when every blooming pleasure waits without: how cheering even to the soul of sadness itself, is the matin of the birds! how reviving to sickness or to languor this pure breeze, which, as it sweeps over tall trees of the forest, bends their leafy heads, as if in sign of grateful homage to the great Creator."

  "It is an hour which I particularly love indeed (cried Madeline), one in which some of my most delightful rambles have been taken; with my father I have often brushed the dews away, and on the side of some steep and romantic mountain, caught the first beams of the sun, and watched the vapour of the valley retiring before them."

  "Our friends (continued Madeline, after the pause of a few minutes), have ere this, I dare say, commenced their journey; by this time they have probably got a considerable way, and at this very moment perhaps may be sitting down to breakfast in the cottage of some mountaineer, attended by him and his family with assiduous hospitality; or else beneath the shadow of some cliff, o'er which the light chamois bound, and tall pines cast a solemn shade. Oh, how delightful must such a situation be!—how delightful, how elevating to the mind to be surrounded by the noblest works of nature,—by scenes which bring the heroes of other days to view!—how pleasing to listen to the soft melody of shepherds' pipes, to the bleating of his numerous flocks, intermingled perhaps with the lulling sound of waterfalls, and the humming of bees, intent on their delicious toil!"

  "You speak like a poet, Madeline," said the Countess, smiling.

  Madeline blushed at this observation, and wondered, when it was made, that she could have given such latitude to her imagination.

  Fatigued by talking, the Countess lay down upon a sofa after breakfast. This debility, in a mind so nervous and a frame so active as hers had hitherto been, gave the most painful apprehensions to Madeline; and, under a trifling pretext, she left the room in order to communicate them to Agatha, and enquire from her whether she did not deem some advise requisite for her lady.

  Agatha shook her head mournfully on hearing them; but relative to her enquiry, answered in the negative, saying that rest and quiet were all that was necessary for the Countess, "if those don't do her good (said she), nothing can."

  "Alas! (cried Madeline, as she turned from her), 'tis too true! 'tis sorrow that undermines her health, and medicine could not reach her malady. Oh! what, what is this sorrow which so dreadfully affects her,—which is so carefully concealed that even her most intimate friends know it not, for such I know Madame Chatteneuf and her daughter to be, and they, I am confident, are ignorant of it?"

  When she returned to the dressing-room, the Countess requested she would read to her; and thus employed, except at short intervals, when her ladyship made her pause to rest herself, she continued till dinner was served, at which the Countess was unable to preside; she grew better however in the evening, and again entered into conversation with Made
line.

  The discourse turned upon the time she had passed at V——; and the Countess now requested to hear a particular account of it. This was a request which Madeline, if she could, would gladly have declined obeying; for, in almost every amusement, almost every scene she had partaken of, or mixed in while there, de Sevignie was so principal an object, that to describe them without mentioning him, she feared would be scarcely possible; to mention him without emotion, she knew she could not; and to betray such emotion would be, she was convinced, to confirm in the Countess's mind the suspicions she knew she already entertained of her attachment to de Sevignie; and now to have them confirmed, now, when not a hope remained of their being ever more to each other than friends, she felt would be humiliating and distressing in the extreme.

  She attempted however to comply with the request of the Countess, but she faltered in her talk; and, by trying to omit what she wished to conceal, rendered what she would have told almost unintelligible.

  The Countess saw and pitied her distress; she pitied, because she guessed the source from whence it proceeded. She was now more convinced than ever, from the dejection of Madeline, her confusion, and a few involuntary expressions that dropped from her, that all hope relative to de Sevignie was over, and, since terminated, she meant not to enquire concerning him, certain as she was that that termination was owing to no impropriety in the conduct of Madeline, or in his either, else she would not thus regret it. Time and kind attention, she trusted, would heal the wound which disappointed affection had given to the bosom of her youthful friend.

  By degrees she turned the conversation to one more pleasing to her; and they both parted after supper with more cheerfulness than perhaps either had expected.

  The next morning Madeline had the exquisite pleasure of meeting her beloved protectress at breakfast, with a greater appearance of health and spirits than she had witnessed the preceding day.

  No attentions which could contribute to render this change a permanent one, were wanting on the part of Madeline; her assiduities were indeed unremitting, and the Countess received them with every indication of gratitude. A week saw her restored to her usual looks and serenity; and thus happily did the storm which had threatened the peace of her friends and family, appear overblown.

  Occupied by attention and anxiety about her friend, Madeline, during her indisposition, had had no time to ruminate over past scenes; but now that her recovery allowed her more leisure, they arose in gloomy retrospection to her view. She saw herself deprived of all those hopes which had hitherto cheered her mind, assured, almost solemnly assured, that her destiny and de Sevignie's could never be united; and sad and solitary in the extreme she anticipated her life would be after such a disappointment, for de Sevignie she considered as her kindred spirit, and could not hope, or rather deemed it utterly impossible, she should again meet with one so truly congenial to her own.

  Another week elapsed without any thing material happening, during which the Countess heard from her daughter; she gave the letter to Madeline to read, and the vivacity with which it was written, and the assurance it contained of her own health and happiness, clearly proved that Madame D'Alembert was entirely ignorant of her mother's late illness and disquietude.

  The wonder of Madeline was increased at finding she concealed this disquietude even from her daughter. Surely, she thought, its source must indeed be painful when she thus hides it from those who are most interested about her.

  In vain she tried to assign some cause for it in her own mind; the more she thought upon it, the more impossible she found it to conjecture from what or from whom it proceeded, and that she never would know, she was convinced; and now that she saw her friend had (apparently at least) overcome it, her curiosity was somewhat abated.

  In about ten days after Madame D'Alembert's letter, she received one herself from Olivia (as did the Countess from Madame Chatteneuf), written in the most lively and affectionate manner, and containing a particular account of their journey over the Alps, their reception from her aunt, who was not quite in so declining a state as they apprehended, and the amusements they partook of at Verona.

  She concluded by charging Madeline to write immediately; and said she expected to hear from her all that had happened in and out of the chateau since her departure, and particularly whether she had since seen de Sevignie. "But that you have, I cannot doubt (she added); and, jesting apart, believe me, my dear Madeline, I hope to learn from you that every little uneasiness which lurked in your mind, and his, is removed by the mutual acknowledgment of a passion which, to the penetrating eyes of friendship, it was evident you entertained for each other. Blush not, my dear; the secret which friends discover is guarded by them as sedulously as their own; and, should concealment be necessary, be assured of mine. But I will not harbour an idea that it is; no, I will not believe that de Sevignie will be contented with the mere possession of your heart:—ere this, perhaps, preparations are making; ere this, perhaps, the happy knot is tied; if so, accept my sincerest congratulations; every one who regards you, will congratulate you and themselves on such an event; for the wife of de Sevignie must, if not her own fault (which can never be your case), be completely happy."

  Madeline's whole soul felt agitated as she read those lines; since hopeless, she was distressed that her attachment should be known; and she sighed with the heaviest sadness at the contrast which she drew between her present feelings, and what they would have been, had her friend's conjectures relative to de Sevignie and her been just.

  She felt shocked at the idea of being asked to show this letter (which she had read in her own chamber) to the Countess; but that lady, perhaps from surmising some of the contents, gave not the smallest intimation of a wish to read it.

  But though her fears respecting it were removed by this silence, her dejection continued. The surmises of Olivia hurt and embarrassed her; and she feared, when she declared their fallacy, that she should be regarded as a slighted object; and to pride, youthful pride, perhaps no idea could be more mortifying.

  To complete her sadness, the Countess seemed relapsing into melancholy; and, though they both conversed, conversation in both appeared but as the faint effort of feeling to try and beguile the sadness of each other.

  The efforts she made to converse during the day were painful in the extreme; and when the Countess retired in the evening, as was her usual custom, to the ruined monastery in the valley, for the purpose of prayer and meditation, Madeline hastily threw a scarf around her, and went out upon the lawn, as if she had feared a longer continuance in the house would subject her to society, which, in the present agitated state of her mind was irksome to her.

  END OF VOLUME ONE

  VOLUME TWO

  CHAPTER I

  ———————Witness ye Pow'rs

  How much I suffer'd, and how much I strove.

  -DRYDEN

  The evening was far advanced when Madeline went upon the lawn. It was now the dusky hour of twilight, when the glow worm " 'gan to light his pale and ineffectual fires" amongst the tangled thickets of the forest, and the vespers of the birds and the toils of the woodman had ceased. The beetle had now commenced its droning flight, and the owlet her sad song from the ivy mantled turrets of the castle, intermingled, or rather lost at times, in the hoarse and melancholy cries of waterfowl returning to the little islands on the lake, across which came the hollow sound of a distant convent bell.

  Madeline stood some minutes upon the lawn as if to enjoy sounds, which by suiting, soothed the dejection of her mind; but the kind of pleasing trance into which they lulled her, was of short continuance; all the perturbed thoughts which anxiety and attention about the Countess had, during the day, in some degree dissipated, soon returned with full power; and as she cast her eyes on the bleak and distant mountains, fancy, torturing fancy presented de Sevignie to her view, a sad and solitary wanderer about them. His head unsheltered, exposed to the unwholesome dews of night; his ideas unsettled, perhaps wandering after
her, who like himself was a child of sorrow.

  wrapped in melancholy meditation, heedless almost whither or how far she went, she now wandered down a lonely and romantic path, which led along the margin of a lake to a stupendous mountain that terminated it: in this mountain were numerous cavities, some of which had been formed into agreeable summer retreats by the Count and Countess de Merville; the foremost of these was a spacious grotto, whose sides and roof were formed of rugged stone, ornamented by beautiful crystalline substances, which sparkled in the rays of the sun, that sometimes pierced through crevices in the roof like the finest brilliants; its floor consisted of smooth pebbles curiously inlaid, and its arched entrance was nearly overgrown by a thick foliage of ivy, whose dark green was enlivened by the bright tints of several wild flowers: while thick around the myrtle, the laurestine, and the arbutus, reared high their beauteous and fragrant heads, stretching their fantastic arms through its crevices: immediately above them rose a wood of solemn verdure, which reached half way up the ascent; the rest of the mountain was rocky and bare of vegetation. The beauty and sweetness of the shrubs; the lovely prospect it commanded of the lake and skirting woods, and the solemn shadows cast upon it by the trees above, rendered the grotto a delightful place for retirement.

  ———————In shady Bower,

  More sacred or sequester'd tho' but feign'd,

  Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph,

  Nor Fauns haunted.

  From this cavity, through an irregular but not inelegant arch, formed by a chasm in the rock, was an entrance into another, in the centre of which a deep and spacious bath had been contrived many years back, which was constantly supplied by the cold limpid streams of the mountain; this bath, like the grotto, received its only light from apertures in the roof, from whence wild shrubs hung in fantastic wreaths; and about it were smaller caves that answered the purpose of little dressing-rooms; but those caves, the bath, and grotto, had been long neglected: for since the death of the Count, who had constantly resorted to them for health and pleasure, the Countess had never been able to bear the idea of approaching them. Her desertion confirmed the superstitious stories, which had long been in circulation amongst the servants and peasantry, of their being haunted by some of the former inhabitants of the chateau; nor would one of them venture near the mountain after sun-set, for almost any consideration.