"But the wishes of Bertrand were too impetuous to comply with theirs; he rallied their fears, opposed their arguments, and returned, without delay, to England. The friends of Caroline; for her friends increased when fortune began to smile, now tried to detain her and her lover in England, as his parents had tried to detain him in France, till a more favourable season, but they tried in vain; the youthful pair dreaded no dangers, or rather overlooked the idea of any, in their impatience to quit a place which retarded the wishes of one, and brought continually to the mind of the other, a thousand cruel slights and mortifications. They accordingly embarked, elated with hope and expectation; the ship was bound to Normandy, near whose coast Bertrand had some friends settled, who promised, on his landing there, to accompany him to his father's house, in order to be present at his wedding; the weather continued favourable till they had nearly reached their destined port, when it suddenly changed, as if to mock their hopes, and teach the heart of man no certain felicity can be expected in this life. The sailors endeavoured to make for the shore, but in vain, the storm raged with violence, and after tossing about a considerable time the ship at length bulged upon a rock; the long-boat was immediately thrown out, though from the fury of the waves it afforded but little chance of deliverance: this chance, however, was eagerly seized—Bertrand calling upon every Saint in heaven to preserve her, bore the fainting Caroline into it, the sailors crowded in numbers after them, and it almost directly upset. The shock of that moment separated Bertrand and Caroline for ever in this world,—the waves cast him upon a rock, from whence, almost lifeless, he was taken up by some fisherman and conveyed to a hut; here his friends, whom the expectation of his arrival had drawn to the coast, discovered him. Their care, their assiduity, soon restored his senses—but with what horrors was that restoration accompanied,—the deepest moans, the most piercing, the most frantic cries, were all, for a long time, he had the power of uttering: he then insisted on being taken to the waterside, and here attention alone prevented his committing an act of desperation, by plunging himself amidst the waves which had entombed his love! one day and one night, he sought her on the "sea beat shore;" the second morning her body was discovered on the strand; but how altered, by the clothes alone it was known to be that of the Caroline he had lost. Kneeling on the earth, Bertrand solemnly vowed, by the chaste spirit of her o'er whose remains he wept, never to know another earthly love, but to devote the remainder of his days to heaven. His friends conveyed him and the body to his parents, who endeavoured to prevail on him to cancel his vow, but in vain, and as soon as the necessary formalities could be gone through, he took the religious habit.
"His parents, disappointed in their hopes relative to him—their hopes of seeing a little smiling race of his prattling about them, pined away, and were soon laid beside the bones of her, who had been the innocent cause of their trouble.
"Bertrand then gave up the house of his forefathers, and the greatest part of the fortune appertaining to it, to a near and distant relation; by this time the turbulence of his grief had abated, and he soon after became, by his benevolence and strict, but unostentatious piety, one of the most respected members of the community he had entered into: his story interested me, and on the death of the old monk, who had been my confessor and chaplain, I appointed him to those offices. But though time and reason have meliorated his sorrows, there are periods when all their violence is revived.
"When the rough winds of winter howl round his habitation, and bend the tall trees of the mountains by which it is surrounded, 'tis then the remembrance of past events swells his heart with agony; 'tis then he thinks he hears the plaintive voice of Caroline mingled in the blast, and fancies he beholds her shivering spirit stalking through the gloom, and beckoning him away.
"The wedding garments, which the pride and fondness of his mother prepared for his intended bride; the picture, which, on their parting in England, she gave him, he still treasures, as the hermit would treasure the relics of a saint. I have beheld them—I have wept over them—I have exclaimed within myself, as I have gazed on these mementos of lost happiness—'Oh, children of the dust! what folly to place your hopes, your wishes, on a world whose changes are so sudden; whose happiness, even while it appears in our view, even while we stretch out our arms to enfold it, flies never to return.'
"Oh, Madeline! as Bertrand has shown me the ornaments designed for his Caroline, and told me their hapless tale, while the big tear of tender recollection and poignant regret has rolled down his cheek, I could only quiet the strong emotions of my heart, by saying, like the holy man himself:
"'Father of heaven! thy decrees must surely be for the wisest purposes, else thou wouldst not thus afflict thy creatures; thy will, therefore, not our's, be done.' The sorrows of Bertrand (resumed the Countess, after pausing a minute) were heightened, by thinking himself accessary to them, in consequence of not regarding either the supplications of his parents or friends for postponing his voyage till a more settled season: so true is it, that those who yield to impetuous passions, will sooner or later have reason to repent doing so."
The mind of Madeline was insensibly calmed, and drawn from its own cares by the discourse of the Countess; for the precept of wisdom, the tale of instruction is ever pleasing to the children of virtue.
But with that quick transition of feeling, so peculiar to the youthful mind, she felt, with returning composure, a kind of distaste to a world, which daily experience convinced her teemed with calamity.
Soon after the Countess had concluded her little narrative, she requested Madeline to take her lute—a request, which Madeline attempted not to refuse. In the present state of her mind sad or solemn strains were alone congenial to her feelings, and she selected a hymn to the Supreme Being, celebrating his goodness, and the happiness prepared for those hereafter, who patiently support the trials of this life. Just depressed by a conviction of its sufferings, Madeline derived a kind of divine consolation from words, which gave so consoling an assurance of their being rewarded. At first her voice was weak, and her touch faint and tremulous; but by degrees, as if animated by the subject, her voice regained its strength, and her hand its steadiness; and high on the swelling notes her soul seemed ascending to that heaven, whose glories appeared opening to her view, when a deep sigh, or rather sob, suddenly startled her. Her hand involuntarily rested on the strings, o'er which it was lightly sweeping, and she cast an eager glance towards the Countess. How great was her surprise—her consternation, to see her fallen back, pale, and weeping in her chair. The lute instantly dropped from Madeline, and starting up, she instinctively flung her arms round her benefactress, exclaiming, "Good heavens! Madam, what is the matter." Then, without waiting for a reply, she was flying from the room for assistance, when the voice of the Countess made her stop.
"Return, my dear, (said she, raising herself on her chair) I am now better. It was only my spirits were overcome. Your solemn strains awoke in my mind recollections of the most painful nature; the hymn you were playing was a favourite of my lord's. The evening preceding the illness which terminated his life, as pale and languid he sat by me in this very room, he requested me to play it for him; his words, his looks, while he listened, as afterwards considered by me, have since convinced me that he knew his end was approaching, and that he fixed on this hymn as a kind of requiem for his departing spirit. In that light I have ever since regarded it."
Madeline shuddered; she thought there was a ghastly paleness in the countenance of the Countess. "Oh, Madam! (said she), why did you not prevent my playing it?"
"Because, my love, (replied the Countess) though it pains, it also pleases me. I am now better (she continued), and will retire to the chapel for a little time."
"Ah! Madam, (said Madeline), permit me to accompany you tonight, for perhaps you may be again taken ill."
"No, my love, (cried the Countess), there is no danger of my being so. I thank you for your kind solicitude about me, but I cannot let you come with me; my composure
I know will be perfectly restored by visiting the chapel. Tell Floretta, therefore, to bring me my scarf."—Madeline obeyed, but with a repugnance she could not conquer,—and the Countess wrapping it about her, departed, assuring Madeline she would hasten back to supper, and would then expect to find her cheerful.
Madeline, left to herself, strolled out upon the lawn. It was now the dusky hour of twilight, and solitude and silence reigned around. Her thoughts, no longer diverted by conversation, again reverted to past subjects, and deeply ruminating on them, she continued to walk till it grew quite dark: she then returned to the castle, and not finding the Countess in the room where they had parted, she rung for a servant, to enquire whether she was yet come back; the man replied she was not. Her long stay, after promising to return so soon, filled the mind of Madeline with terror, lest her delay should be occasioned by a return of her illness: and going directly to Agatha, she communicated her apprehensions to her, and entreated her to accompany her to the monastery—an entreaty the faithful creature readily complied with.
CHAPTER V
The wand'ring breath was on the wing to part,
Weak was the pulse, and hardly heav'd the heart.
As they proceeded thither, Agatha expressed her regret at her lady's persevering in visiting the chapel. "She is there, (said she) encompassed by the dead, and remote from human aid, if such should be required; often and often have I shuddered at the idea of the dangers to which she exposed herself by going thither alone; and often have I taken the liberty of entreating her not to do so, but without effect: she has a particular pleasure in its solitude, and in praying where not only the bones of her ancestors, but those of her husband and children rest."
"I own (cried Madeline) I am surprised she can go, at the lonely hours she does, to so dreary a place, which appears to me surrounded by every thing that can appal the imagination."
"For my part (exclaimed Agatha) nothing in the world could tempt me to do so;—Lord! I should be scared out of my very senses by apprehension, if I stopped a few minutes in it after it was dark. Holy Virgin! (cried she suddenly, as they advanced down the valley) protect us;—nothing but love for my lady could tempt me to go on, this place is so frightful."
Madeline could not wonder at the terror she betrayed; the scene was calculated to inspire it, and she felt a degree of it herself:—on either side the mountains rose in black masses to the clouds, and the wind issued from their cavities with a hollow sound, that had something particularly awful in it, whilst the ravens screamed horribly from the trees which waved about their feet. Madeline began to regret not having procured the protection of one of the men, but that regret, with the fears which excited it, she concealed from her companion; both, however, were too much disturbed to continue to converse; and in silence they reached the monastery, and were just turning into it, when the figure of a man, standing beneath a broken arch, near the entrance, caught their eyes; both started, and Agatha, who, from being foremost, had a better view of him than Madeline, instantly exclaimed, but without withdrawing her eyes from him, "The Lord defend my soul! what brings you hither?" She received no reply however—the man who had neither noticed her nor her companion till she spoke, started at the first sound of her voice, and, after surveying them for a moment with a look of affright, precipitately fled down the valley.
"Oh, my lady! my dearest lady! (exclaimed Agatha) some evil, I fear, has befallen her."
"Oh, heavens! (cried Madeline, trembling so she could scarcely stand) what evil do you apprehend? who is that stranger? why, if he knew you, as I suppose he did from your knowing him, did he fly from you?"
"Because he is a villain," (replied Agatha, as she rushed into the chapel followed by Madeline, whose terror and amazement were beyond language to express.) The moon then at its full, aided by the twilight of summer, gave a full view of the interior of the chapel; and as they entered it, they beheld another man darting out of a small door opposite to them. Madeline involuntarily caught the arm of Agatha, and both pausing, strained an eye of agony and terror after him: they paused however but for a moment; for a deep groan reaching their ears, made them hastily rush up the aisle from whence it proceeded, where, with feelings too dreadful to relate, they beheld their friend, their benefactress, lying stretched before the monument of her husband, apparently lifeless, and a small stream of blood issuing from her side. A shriek of mingled grief and horror burst from Madeline, and, unable to stand, she sunk beside her and clasped her trembling arms around her. Agatha, though equally afflicted, was not so much shocked as Madeline; for from the moment she beheld the stranger whom she had addressed outside the chapel, she had from secret reasons of her own been almost convinced, on entering it, she should behold a sight of horror. From being in some degree prepared for it, she was in some degree collected; and kneeling down, soon discovered that her lady still breathed, and trusted, that from the small quantity of blood which issued from it, her wound was not of a very dangerous nature. She now called upon Madeline to assist her in staunching it, ere she went to the castle for some of the servants to assist in carrying her thither.
The almost fainting senses of Madeline were recalled by her voice, and starting up, she wildly demanded if the Countess lived.
"Thank heaven! she does," said Agatha.
Madeline dropped upon her knees in a transport of joy. "Gracious heaven! (she exclaimed) receive my thanks. (Then hastily rising) had I not better fly to the castle (said she) for assistance."
"First help me to bind her wound (cried Agatha). Madeline was habited in a lawn dress; she now instantly tore it from her waist, and giving it to Agatha, supported the head of the Countess upon her bosom, while a bandage was bound round her. The motion of raising her and binding her wound, served to bring the Countess to herself; as she regained her sensibility, with a deep groan, and without opening her eyes, she extended her hand, and made a feeble effort to push away Agatha, exclaiming as she did so—
"Murderous ruffian, forbear! 'tis not in mercy to me, but to your unnatural employer I ask you to spare my life; for never will peace or joy revisit his heart, if my blood rests upon his head."
"Oh! my friend, my more than mother, (exclaimed Madeline, pressing her cold cheek to the yet colder one of the Countess) no murderous ruffian is now near you."
The Countess sighed heavily, and opening her dim eyes, looked round her some minutes before she spoke, as if doubting the reality of what she saw; then in a faint voice, but one that evidently denoted pleasure, she cried, "Great and glorious Being, I thank thee—I shall not die far from those I love, beneath the cruel hand of an assassin."
"Dearly shall he, who raised that hand against you, rue his crime! (exclaimed Agatha); I know the villain—I discovered his accursed confidant near the chapel, and I will bring him to punishment, though my own life should be forfeited by doing so."
"Mistaken woman, (said the Countess in a hollow voice) how would you avenge me? is it by exposing to infamy and death those more precious to me than life—by giving to my heart a deeper wound than my body has sustained?
"This spot I will not quit!—no aid will I receive—on this cold marble will I die—except you promise to give up such an intention—except you swear, solemnly swear, within those consecrated walls, never to divulge to mortal ear the author of my injuries."
"My dearest lady, (cried Agatha, terrified by her expressions), though to see vengeance executed on the wretch who attempted to take away your life, would rejoice my very soul, I will do but what you please; I will promise what you wish."
"Swear then!" exclaimed the Countess.
"I do, (replied Agatha) by all my hopes of happiness here and hereafter, to lock within my heart, from every human ear, all I know concerning this black transaction."
"And you, Madeline (resumed the Countess), must do the same."
"She knows not (said Agatha, interrupting her lady) by whom the atrocious deed has been committed."
"Thank Heaven! (cried the Countess) even from her,
though I might confide in her prudence, I would conceal him—conceal my having a relative, who, from self-interest, could be tempted to take away my life. But Madeline, my love, (continued she, looking at her) will you not quiet my troubled heart by the assurance I desire, from every being, I except not even your father; you must conceal my wound being occasioned by premeditated treachery; you must, like Agatha, to all my household, to all who shall enquire concerning it, declare it owing, as I myself shall do, to some unknown and wandering ruffian."
"Hear me swear, then, (said Madeline with energy) by every thing precious to me in heaven or on earth never to disclose what you have desired me to conceal."
"Enough," cried the Countess in a weak voice; and the next instant, as if overcome by the exertions she had used, she fainted away.
"Fly, my dear young lady, (said Agatha to Madeline) our efforts to recover her without other assistance will be vain."
Madeline started up, and walked with hasty steps halfway down the aisle; she then paused—paused from the most horrible suggestions of fear. "Should the murderers return—(cried she, gasping for breath at the very idea)—should they return before assistance can be procured, and complete their dreadful design; or should they be still lurking about the chapel, will they not seize me as I go for that assistance, and sacrifice me to their own safety!"
In an agony of fear—an agony which took from her all emotion, she leaned against a pillar;—a deep groan from the Countess in a few minutes roused her from this situation. "Oh heavens! (she exclaimed, rushing forward) she expires through my means. (She instantly quitted the chapel)—If I die, (said she, as she did so) I die in the cause of friendship." A cold dew hung upon her temples, and she could scarcely drag her trembling limbs after her; every yard, almost, she involuntarily stopped to listen, and to cast her fearful eyes around: ready at the first intimation of danger, to retreat to the walls of the monastery. But she received no such intimation, and when she came within sight of the garden, her courage revived; her strength returned with her courage, and, like an affrighted lapwing, she then almost flew to the house, and, scarcely touching the ground, rushed into the servants' hall. A figure as terrific as the one she now exhibited, they had never, either in reality or imagination, seen; her face was pale as death, her hair dishevelled, and her clothes torn and stained with blood. She attempted to speak, but her voice died away inarticulate; in about a minute she made another effort, and, in a voice so hollow, that it seemed issuing from the very recesses of her heart, exclaimed, "Fly!—your lady—there's murder in the chapel!"
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 294