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

by Eliza Parsons

  "When, on what account did she give that permission; (demanded de Sevignie, with yet greater quickness then he had before spoken) did she discover, or did you tell her that we had met."

  "I told her (said Madeline, with firmness, and looking steadily at him.) The Countess is my friend;—she is more. She is the guardian to whose care my father has consigned me, and concealment to her would be criminal. I told her we had met. I told her every circumstance of that meeting; every circumstance prior to it; I communicated every thought, I revealed my whole soul."

  "I admire your prudence," exclaimed de Sevignie, in an accent which denoted vexation, whilst the melancholy of his countenance gave way to a dark frown, and the paleness of his cheek to a deep crimson.

  "I rejoice at it, (cried Madeline) my friend will strengthen my weakness, will confirm my resolves, will give me a clue to discover the dark and intricate mazes of the human heart."

  Her language seemed to penetrate the soul of de Sevignie, he turned from her with emotion, then as abruptly turning to her again, "for what purpose (asked he) did the Countess give you permission to introduce me to her."

  "For the purpose—" Madeline paused, she had been on the point of saying, for the purpose of promoting our happiness, but timely checked herself. And ah, thought she at the moment, from the altered manner of de Sevignie, I cannot believe that his happiness could be promoted by the intentions of the Countess.

  "Tell me, I entreat, I conjure you," said de Sevignie, with earnestness.

  Madeline hesitated.—Yet 'tis but justice (she thought) to my friend, to de Sevignie himself, to confess her intentions; if the alteration in his manner is occasioned by finding the plan he recently conceived impracticable, the divulgment of her generous intentions will again set all to rights; catching at this idea, and flattering herself it was a just one, she briefly related the conversation which had past between her and the Countess; de Sevignie listened with fixed attention, but continued silent many minutes after she had ceased to speak, as if in a profound reverie; then suddenly raising his eyes from the ground he fastened them on her with an expression of the deepest melancholy, and thus addressed her:

  "Great (cried he) is my regret, greater than language can express, at being unable to avail myself of the high honour the Countess designed me; but though unable to avail myself of it; though unable to profit by her noble her generous intentions, my inability to do so, has not suppressed my gratitude for them.

  "Why, why, that inability exists, I cannot explain; but let me do myself the justice of saying, that candour would not err in putting the most favourable construction on it. In this moment, when declaring the renunciation of every hope relative to you, I would apologize for the presumption, the impetuosity, the inconsistencies of my conduct to you. Could I do so as I wish, but as that is impossible, I must, without pleading for it, cast myself upon the sweetness of your disposition for forgiveness. I often, before this period, declared I would never more intrude into your presence; I now solemnly repeat that declaration, for I am now thoroughly convinced of the folly of my former conduct, and he who is sensible of his error, yet perseveres in it, is guilty of weakness in the extreme; such weakness is not mine. In future, I mean to avoid every pursuit, to fly from every thought which can enervate my mind."

  His voice faltered, and a deep sigh burst from him. "farewell, Mademoiselle Clermont, (said he, after the pause of a moment) too long have I detained—too long have I persecuted you—with my last adieu receive my best wishes for your happiness, may they be more availing than those I formed for my own." He cast another lingering look upon her, then turning into a winding path, disappeared in a moment.

  Every flattering hope, every pleasing expectation of Madeline's, was again crushed, without the smallest prospect of their being ever more revived; like the unsubstantial pageants of a dream they faded, nor left a wreck behind. Oh, what a vacuum did their loss occasion in the heart of Madeline: at first, she almost fancied she had dreamt the conversation of the preceding night, and that it was only now, the illusions of that dream were flying from her. But by degrees, her thoughts grew more composed, and then every wild or soothing suggestion of fancy died away, and she began to reconsider the conduct of de Sevignie. His last words had not been able to make her think favourably of it. "No, (she cried) I am convinced, without some motive for doing so, which he durst not avow, he never would have with-held the confidence he was so kindly invited to repose in the most amiable of women. And yet—(she continued, after pausing some minutes) he with-held it, perhaps, not from having any improper motives to make him wish concealment, but because his sentiments were altered respecting me.—Though no, (she proceeded, after another pause) that could not be the case; 'tis impossible in one night so great an alteration could have taken place. 'Tis evident then, too evident, that a cause exists for concealment, which he either fears or is ashamed to acknowledge; and also, that his coldness this evening, sprung from a wish of trying his power over me, for they say neglect is the test of affection;—but de Sevignie, your artifice caused you no triumph, and never—never more, shall you have an opportunity of exercising it on me; like you, I will in future avoid every pursuit, fly from every thought which can enervate my mind."

  The striking of the castle clock now reached her ear, and she hastily walked to the chateau; alarmed on finding the usual supper hour over, least she should by her long stay, have again given uneasiness to the bosom of her friend.

  On reaching the chateau, a servant informed her, that the Countess was in her dressing-room: slowly Madeline ascended to it; she felt ready to sink with confusion at the idea of the mortifying explanation she must make to the Countess. "She will think (cried she) that I have hitherto been the dupe of my own fancy; and that de Sevignie, but in my own imagination, has been amiable." She paused at the door for a minute, from a vain hope that by so doing, she should regain some composure.

  "Well, (said her friend, smiling as she entered) I find, Madeline, by your long stay, that you could not withstand the pleasures of a tête-a-tête; but where is the Chevalier de Sevignie, (she continued, on seeing Madeline shut the door) were you afraid to bring him, least I should rival you."

  "He is gone, Madam," answered Madeline, in a faint voice, as she sat down on the nearest chair, unable any longer to support herself.

  "Gone! (repeated the Countess, in a tone of amazement) but bless me, my dear, you look very pale, are you ill."

  "No madam," Madeline attempted to say, but her voice failed her, and she burst into tears.

  "Gracious heaven! (exclaimed the Countess, rising, and going to her, ) you terrify me beyond expression. Madeline, my love, what is the matter."

  "Nothing, madam, (replied Madeline) only, only, (sobbing as if her heart would break) that I think, I believe—the Chevalier de Sevignie, is not quite so amiable as I once imagined."

  "Try to compose yourself and speak intelligently my dear, (said the Countess) for I cannot support, much longer, the fears you excite." The tears she shed somewhat relieved the full heart of Madeline; and the Countess taking a seat by her, she was able in a few minutes, to relate the conduct of de Sevignie, and acknowledge the sentiments it had inspired her with.

  "His behaviour is strange, is inexplicable, indeed (said the Countess) and I perfectly agree with you in thinking, that he is an unworthy character; too undeserving to have an effort made to solve the mystery which he has wrapped himself in; had he any sensibility, had he any nobleness, he never would have wounded your innocent, your ingenuous heart as he has done. Had he respected, had he regarded you properly, he never would have regretted your making me your confidant; that regret confirms my belief, notwithstanding his solemn protestations of seeing you no more, that he still entertains designs concerning you; designs, I am sorry to shock your nature by saying so, of a dishonourable nature. Should he therefore, again throw himself in your way, as I apprehend, shun him, I entreat, I conjure you, my Madeline; as you value your happiness, your honour, the peace o
f your friends, the esteem of the world."

  "Ah, madam, (cried Madeline) I hope you do not doubt my resolution;—my tenderness is wounded, my pride is roused, and thinking as I do of him, could I now permit an interview with de Sevignie, I should be lessened in my own eyes."

  "I do not doubt your resolution, my love, (replied the Countess, kissing her cheek) and I beg you to excuse the caution, the unnecessary caution of age. (She now expressed her pleasure at not having written to Clermont, since things had taken so different a turn from what was expected.) I rejoice to think, (continued she) that he will not know how unworthy de Sevignie was of the kindness he showed him."

  Madeline sighed deeply at those words, the violence of offended pride was abated, and in this moment of decreased resentment, an emotion of softness again stole o'er her heart, and made her regret having exposed de Sevignie, by her own animadversions, to the still severer ones of the Countess. She regretted, because from this returning softness she was tempted to doubt his deserving them, and to impute the inconsistencies of his conduct, to difficulties too dreadful perhaps to relate; and she shuddered at the idea of having, in addition to his other misfortunes, drawn upon him the unmerited imputation of baseness; but from this idea, torturing in the extreme, reflection soon relieved her, for when she re-considered his conduct, she could not help thinking he deserved that imputation.

  "Yet is it possible, (she cried to herself) that de Sevignie, he who appeared possessed of the nicest delicacy, the most exalted honour, the steadiest principles of rectitude; is it possible that he can be unamiable? Alas, why cannot I doubt it still;—but no, let me rather rejoice than regret not being able to do so; rejoice, that passion no longer spreads a mist before my eyes: to endeavour to doubt his unworthiness now, would be to try and blind my reason, and weaken my resolves."

  But notwithstanding what she said, she still fluctuated between resentment and tenderness, candour and distrust,—alternately acquitted, alternately condemned him.

  With the utmost gentleness, the Countess tried to sooth and steal her from her sorrow; she did not, like a rigid censor, chide her for weakness in indulging it. She knew what it was to have the projects of youthful hope overthrown; the anguish which attends the shock of a first disappointment, and that time must be allowed to conquer it. That time, aided by reason, would heal the wound which had been given to the gentle bosom of her Madeline, she trusted and believed.

  On retiring to her chamber, Madeline could not suppress her tears at the contrast she drew between her present feelings and those of the preceding night; and again she began to fancy de Sevignie more unfortunate than unamiable; when suddenly recollecting her resolution of expeling this idea, she hastily tried to divert her thoughts from it.

  "That we are separated, I am assured, (cried she) and to ascertain whether I have reason to esteem or condemn him, (though soothing perhaps to my feelings to think the former) can now be of little consequence to me."

  CHAPTER IV

  Ah where is now each image gay

  The hand of Fairy fancy wove,

  The painted spring, elizium gay

  The babbling rill, the cultur'd grove.

  Her night was restless and unhappy.

  "Ah, (sighed she) how differently did I imagine it would have ended." Pale, trembling, dejected, the very reverse of what she had been the preceding morning, she descended to the breakfast parlour, where her melancholy was, if possible, increased by observing the Countess's, who either from sympathy for her, or from a return of her secret uneasiness, or perhaps from a mixture of both, appeared languid and dejected. She tried, however, to appear cheerful but the efforts she made for that purpose were too faint to succeed, and unable either to beguile her own sadness, or that of her young companion, the day wore heavily away. As they sat, at its decline, by an open window in one of the parlours, and beheld the sun sinking behind the western hills, a deep and involuntary sigh heaved the bosom of Madeline, at reflecting, how very different her feelings were now, from what they had been on the same hour the preceding evening.

  The Countess interpreted her sigh, and taking her hand, pressed it between her's. "My dear Madeline! (she exclaimed) my sweet girl, it grieves my heart to see you thus depressed. Your present disappointment, I allow, is great; but reflect, and let the reflection compose your mind: how much greater it would have been, how much more poignantly you must have felt it, had you married de Sevignie, and then, when too late, found him to be the worthless character you are now apprehensive he is.

  "Few there are, my dear Madeline, whose situations, however bad, might not be rendered worse; we should therefore try not to deserve an augmentation of calamity, by bearing that inflicted with resignation.

  "Why calamity is the prevalent lot of humanity—why our virtuous hopes are so often overthrown—why the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; both reason and religion teaches us will be explained hereafter; in the mean time, let no disappointment, no vicissitudes, however painful and unmerited we may consider them, ever tempt us to doubt, or to arraign the goodness and wisdom of that Being, from whose hand proceeds alike the cup of good and evil.

  "Think not, (she continued) as too many perhaps might do, that I preach what I do not practise; or, that my lessons are those of a woman, who herself, untried by disappointment, can exhort others to that submission which she never knew the difficulty of acquiring. This, believe me my dear Madeline, is not the case; I know what it is: when we extend our hand for the rose to gather the thorns—when we open our bosom to hope, to admit despair—when we bask in the sunshine, to be surprised by the storm, and have it burst with fury o'er our unsheltered heads."

  "Oh, from every adverse storm may you be sheltered!" exclaimed Madeline, with uplifted eyes.

  As she spoke, Father Bertrand, confessor to the Countess, and officiating priest to her household, stopped before the window: he belonged to the community which has been already mentioned, and frequently rambled at the close of day from his convent, to the wild solitudes of the wood surrounding the chateau. He was upwards of sixty, and one of those interesting figures which cannot be viewed by sensibility without pity and veneration; his noble height still gave an idea of what his form had been, when unbent by infirmity; and that form, like a fine ruin, excited the involuntary sigh of regret for the devastations time had made upon it. His hairs were white, and thinly scattered over a forehead, more deeply indented by care than age; and the sad, the solemn expression of his countenance, denoted his being a son of sorrow, and proved his thoughts were continually bent upon another world, where alone he could receive consolation for the miseries of this.

  "How fares the good ladies of the castle this evening," cried he, leaning upon his staff, as he stopped before the window.

  "Why not so well, father, (replied the Countess) but that we might be better; here we are, like two philosophers descanting upon the vanities of life; and when women talk philosophy, the world says, they must either be indisposed or out of temper."

  "Well, I shan't pretend to contradict what the world says, (cried the good man, smiling) nor since so well employed shall I longer interrupt you, ladies."

  The Countess asked him to come in and take some refreshment, but he refused, and after chatting a little longer, rambled away to the wildest parts of the wood.

  "The story of Father Bertrand, (said the Countess, as he retired) is a striking proof to all that know it, that we should never be too eager in the pursuit of our wishes. As it is short, and rather applicable to what we have been talking about, I will relate it.—

  "He was son to a gentleman of good family, but still better fortune, who lived in the vicinity of this chateau: the large patrimony he was to inherit, made his parents anxious to give him such an education as should teach him to enjoy it with moderation and elegance.

  "After learning every thing he could learn in his native country, he was sent abroad to improve himself by visiting various courts, and acquiring that knowledge of men a
nd manners, which is so requisite for those destined to mix in the great world, and which in a fixed residence it is almost impossible to obtain. In the course of his travels he paid a visit to England; and here, in a small town in that kingdom, he became acquainted with a young lady, who at an early age was left an orphan and a dependant on an old capricious aunt, whose only motive for keeping her in the family, was, that on her she could vent that spleen and ill-nature which no one else would bear from her. The fair orphan and Bertrand frequently met each other at different houses; and the beauty of her person, the soft dejection of her manner, and the patient sweetness with which she bore her situation, soon gained a complete conquest over his heart; nor did hers retain its liberty.

  "The declaration of his attachment Bertrand would have accompanied by an offer of his hand, had not duty and respect to his parents prevented his taking such a step without their knowledge and approbation: he wrote to them for their consent; but instead of receiving it, he received a pressing entreaty to return home immediately; and also an acknowledgment from them at the same time, that they could not bear the idea of his marrying a foreigner and a protestant, as was the lady he paid his addresses to. Bertrand did not attempt to write again, or disregard their entreaty; his duty to them, and his consideration for his own happiness, prompted him to return home without delay, for he knew their hearts, and was convinced, when he once pleaded his cause in person, he would not be refused: calming the disquietude of Caroline by this assurance, and pledging to her vows of unalterable love and fidelity, he embarked for his native country, and as he expected, succeeded in his suit. It was then the depth of winter, and his parents dreading his undertaking a voyage in that inclement season, conjured him to defer, till the ensuing spring, going to England for Caroline, whose marriage they insisted on having celebrated in their own house, from an idea, that if their son was married according to the forms of her church, (which they knew would be the case if his nuptials took place in her country) some heavy calamity would befall him in consequence of that circumstance.