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

by Eliza Parsons

  "May Heaven only prosper me (cried Madeline) as I keep inviolably from her knowledge the injury you received."

  "Excuse my betraying a doubt of your doing so (resumed the Countess), after the solemn promise I have already received from you to that purpose; my fears for her urge me even to unnecessary caution. Oh! Madeline, great as was the pleasure I ever derived from your society, 'tis now heightened by considering you in the light of my child's comforter;—you will console, you will strengthen her, you will reconcile her to my loss."

  "Impossible! impossible!" exclaimed Madeline, in the fullness of her heart, and bursting into tears.

  "Ah! Madeline (said the Countess, affected by her emotion), do not embitter moments like these by a sorrow which will destroy all the hopes I entertained of your being a consoler to my child."

  "May every event (cried Madeline, sinking on her knees), may every event (with uplifted hands) which could place her in want of consolation, be far, far distant from her. But should such an event now happen, Oh! may Heaven grant me power equal to my inclination to give it to her!"

  "After my death," proceeded the Countess.

  "Oh! Madam (interrupted Madeline), do not talk of it—you stab me to the very soul by doing so."

  "Rather rejoice than grieve to hear me do so (said the Countess); how much more dreadful, at the very moment when I stand, perhaps, upon the brink of the grave, to find me trembling, shrinking at the idea of dissolution! I have always tried to act so as to be prepared for it; I have always prayed, that I might be composed when it approached—might be able, in the last extremity of nature, to hold out my hands to my Creator, deprecate his wrath, and implore his mercy. Oh! my love, but for the precious ties I have still remaining, I should welcome it as a release from a world that teems with troubles. But I will not, by perpetually reverting to those troubles, cast a cloud over the youthful prospects of my Madeline."

  "Alas! (thought Madeline) they are already clouded."

  "Life (resumed the Countess) is a chequered scene, and, by a proper performance of our duties, we may enjoy many comforts in it; 'tis the use we make of those comforts, and the manner in which we support their loss, that fixes the peace or misery of our last moments. Oh! happy are they (continued the Countess, while a faint spark of animation was rekindled in her eye), Oh! happy are they, who can review their past conduct without regret! who can think, to use the language of a poet of a sister country, that when their bones have run their race, they may rest in blessings, and have a tomb of orphan's tears wept over them.

  "But to resume the subject you interrupted.—After my death, Madame D'Alembert, I am sure, will seek retirement; and the retirement of this chateau I am confident she will prefer to that of any other place, should Monsieur D'Alembert permit her to remain in it. Till more happily settled, I hope, and believe, your father will allow you to be her companion whenever she visits, and while she continues in it alone; for your society, I am convinced, will ever prove a source of comfort to her. But remember, I never desire you to be her companion, except she is without the company of Monsieur D'Alembert: and believe me, my Madeline, I am not so selfish as not to hope that you may soon have tenderer claims to fulfil than any she can have upon you. Let not the disappointment of your first expectations make you suppress all others; oppose reason to despondence, and the latter will soon be conquered. 'Tis a duty you owe your father as well as yourself, to try and do every thing which can promote your happiness; endeavour, therefore, to erase from your heart those impressions, which can only give you pain, and to prepare it to esteem and be propitious to some worthy man.

  "Should chance again throw de Sevignie in your way, fly from him instantly, I conjure you, except he offers a full explanation of his conduct. Excuse me, my love (on hearing a gentle sigh steal from Madeline) for mentioning a subject that is painful to you; but you are so innocent, so totally unacquainted with art, that too much caution cannot be used in guarding you against it. And even then (continued she, returning to the subject of de Sevignie) if he should offer to account for his conduct, do not listen to him; refer him to your father to give the explanation; for an unimpassioned ear he cannot deceive. If by any chance you should ever discover him to be the amiable character you once fancied, you will find by my will, which I purpose making to-morrow, that want of fortune will be no hindrance to your union."

  Madeline could not speak, but tears, more eloquently than words could have done, expressed her feelings.

  "But I am wrong (resumed the Countess), in having suggested the idea of such an union to you—an idea which may counteract all I have before been saying."

  "No, Madam (said Madeline in a low voice), it will not."

  "Please me, my Madeline (cried the Countess after a pause), by saying that you will remember what I have said to you."

  "Remember! (repeated Madeline); Oh! Madam, could you think I could ever forget aught you said?—Remember!—I will do more—I will try to fulfil every injunction you have given me, if indeed (in a scarcely articulate voice) it should be necessary to do so."

  "I thank you for saying so (replied the Countess); I thank you not only for this, but for the many proofs of affection and attention I have received from you. Your society has been a greater happiness, a greater comfort to me than I can express; it has frequently beguiled the cares which oppressed me—cares which the generality of people considered me a stranger to. I wished to be thought happy, and I endeavoured to appear so; but no tongue could describe the anguish which has long preyed upon my heart. Never, however, let this involuntary effusion of confidence escape you; let it be buried in your breast with all you know concerning the black transaction in the chapel—a transaction which I fervently hope may never be known to more than the few already unhappily acquainted with it;—from every eye I would conceal its author;—my forgiveness is his, and my earnest prayers are offered up to Heaven for its forgiveness also for him."

  The evening was now far advanced, and the Countess appeared exhausted by speaking. Madeline besought her to take a reviving cordial; she complied with the entreaty, and then said she would settle herself to rest. She charged Madeline to retire at an early hour to bed. "You look pale and agitated, my love (said she); but cheer up—the mention of death does not make me nearer dying. farewell! may good angels for ever watch around you!" Madeline pressed her lips to her cheek; and then rising from her knees, closed the curtains of the bed, and withdrew. She sent Agatha and Floretta to the chamber; then retired to her own, where she offered up a fervent prayer to Heaven for the restoration of her valuable and beloved friend; after which, finding herself still very languid, and the rain being over, she descended to the garden, hoping the evening air might revive her.

  CHAPTER VII

  When the sun sets, shadows that show'd at noon

  But small, appear most long and terrible;—

  So when we think Fate hovers o'er our heads,

  Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds;

  Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death;

  Nature's worst vermin scare her God-like sons;

  Echoes, the very leavings of a voice,

  Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves;

  Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus,

  While we, fantastic dreamers! heave and puff,

  And sweat with an imagination's weight.

  -LEE

  Madeline went upon a high and graveled terrace to avoid the wetness of the low and grassy paths beneath it. But though the rain was over, the evening was extremely unpleasant, a cold and piercing wind howled through the trees, of whose increasing violence the hoarse screams of water-fowl gave sure and melancholy intimation, the clouds seemed staggering with giddy poise, and the moon vainly endeavouring to emerge from them, if for a moment she was discovered,

  Riding to her highest noon,

  Like one that had been led astray,

  Through the Heavens' wide pathless way.

  Her watery lustre rathe
r increased than diminished the solemn gloom. Madeline, however, pursued her way, and as she cast her eyes upon the long perspective of black and distant mountains, she thought of the friends that had so recently travelled over them, and her regret for their absence was heightened by believing their company would have been a source of pleasure and comfort to the Countess. From them her thoughts reverted to another object, one she dared not think her friend, yet could not call her enemy; the idea of his being now exposed upon the cheerless heights she viewed, to the inclement blast, wrung her heart with agony; she tried, however, to repel it, by reflecting that it would, by enervating, render her unable to pay the attentions she wished to her benefactress; and also, that to think voluntarily of him, was acting contrary to the solemn resolution she had formed, to try and forget him. She continued out till the wind grew so violent that it quite chilled and fatigued her; as she returned to the chateau she saw on every side a blackening train of clamorous rooks seeking their accustomed shelter among the tall trees surrounding it, while, assiduous in his bower, the owl plied his sad song, and the water-fowl, wheeling from their nests upon the lake, screamed along the land.

  Madeline slowly ascended the stairs, and repairing to the dressing-room, found Agatha and Floretta there; she eagerly enquired about the Countess, and they informed her, that she still slept, and had done so almost from the time she had quitted her. They also said, that her Ladyship had desired them to sit up in the dressing-room, as a light in her chamber was disagreeable to her. Madeline instantly declared she would keep them company, and felt rejoiced to hear of the repose of her friend, flattering herself it was a sign of her being better.

  Every thing, which could give comfort to the night, was already provided. A cheerful fire blazed in the grate, the brightness and warmth of which were truly reviving to the depressed spirits and chilled frame of Madeline; and before it lay a table, covered with bread, meat, and rich wines. Madeline took a bit of bread and some wine, and seated herself beside the fire. It was now the hour at which the servants generally went to rest, and with light steps they were soon heard retiring to their respective chambers; a profound stillness then reigned throughout the Castle—a stillness, however, which was soon interrupted by the wind, that had now increased to a tremendous degree. Sometimes it howled dismally through the long galleries; sometimes came in such sudden squalls against the doors, that it almost burst them open, whilst the forest was heard groaning beneath its fury; and ever and anon loose stones came tumbling from the battlements of the Castle.

  The dejection of Madeline's heart returned—a dejection, which the account she received of her friend had a little dissipated, and with it a terror she could not suppress; she laid down the cup of wine, and casting her eyes upon her companions, perceived, by their countenances, they were equally affected.

  "How mournfully the wind howls (said Agatha, in a low voice); the Lord have mercy (devoutly crossing herself) upon all who are at sea! many a stout heart will go to the bottom, I fear, to-night. 'Tis very odd, yet very true, that the night before my Lord the Count de Merville (Heaven rest his soul! again crossing herself) died, there was just such a storm as there is now; the noise it made throughout the house was just as if people had been fighting and shrieking about it. I thought at the time, the sounds were presageful ones; particularly as the birds kept such a screaming and fluttering about the windows, for their screams are always sure foretellers of death. Indeed they have not been very quiet to-night."

  "No (cried Madeline, wishing to check the involuntary horror with which the words of Agatha had inspired her), because they are now, as they were then, disturbed by the storm; 'tis well known, that their screams not only foretell, but last during one. I have heard my father say, that people who live near the sea always take warning by them, and never (if possible to avoid doing so) venture upon it, while they continue."

  "I shall never be made, however, to believe that they do not forebode something more than a storm (cried Agatha); no, Mam'selle, be assured they are certain prognostics of death; but such warnings as these are not confined to one family, like others that I know of: For instance, in the Castle of the Marquis de Vermandois, about two leagues from this, a great bell always tolls before the death of any one belonging to it; and there never was any change about taking place in this chateau that there was not a dreadful storm before-hand, accompanied by the fall of an old suit of armour, which hangs on the left side of the hall, nearly opposite the dining parlour, and which belonged to the founder of the mansion."

  "I know the suit you mean (said Madeline); I have often examined it as a curious piece of antiquity; but the reason it falls, when there is a storm, is, because the wind then gets through the crevices of the walls, and blows it down."

  "You are very incredulous, Mam'selle (cried Agatha); but you'll never be able to make me believe otherwise than I do now. Lord! I still tremble at the recollection of what I suffered, when I heard the armour fall with such a crash a few minutes before my Lord's death. I was alone with him, and that, to be sure, augmented my terror; for my lady, overcome by grief, had fainted, and was carried from the room by the other attendants."

  "I have heard say, indeed (cried Floretta, who had hitherto listened to the words of Agatha with the most profound attention) that those warnings of death are very common."

  "God, of his infinite mercy (said Madeline) may perhaps give such warnings to the wicked, in order to awaken them to repentance; but to the good, to those whose lives prepare them at any hour for his summons, I never can believe he does."

  "I shall enter into no argument about the matter (cried Agatha); for nothing could persuade me out of my own opinion."

  "Yet what Mam'selle says seems just enough (said Floretta); for why should the good, who need no preparation for death, be warned of it as well as those whose bad actions render it necessary they should, in order to have them brought to repentance."

  "Well (replied Agatha), I have not a doubt but what they come to both?"

  "What a dreadful thing it must be, to have a troubled conscience, when one is near dying," resumed Floretta.

  "Ay, or at any other time either (exclaimed Agatha); many a foul deed has it forced people to reveal."

  "There is a memorable story told about that (said Floretta), in the part of Burgundy I come from."

  "Well, tell it (cried Agatha); it will help to pass away the time."

  "There stood, about fifty years ago (began Floretta, drawing her chair closer to her companion's), near the village where I was born, an old mansion, which had for many years been uninhabited, for its owner, being given to travel in foreign parts, never gave himself any trouble at all about repairing it; so that, owing to his neglect, it went by degrees so much to rack and ruin, that two servants, who had been left in it, thought it unsafe to continue in it, and accordingly quitted it.

  "Well, in process of time, the unthrifty master of this old chateau died; and never having been married, it fell to a distant relation, who was delighted (as you may well think) to have the fine estate surrounding it become his: he was neither given to squandering nor gadding; and knowing what the comforts of a good home were, he directly ordered the ruin to be pulled down, that he might have another house built in its place. This you may be sure was a joyful order for the tenants; for 'tis the life of the poor souls to have a rich landlord live amongst them, particularly one that is generous and good, as was the gentleman I am speaking of. They set merrily to work, and soon demolished most of the building; for 'tis a true saying, that willing minds, like many hands, make light work.

  "As they were destroying the wall of a vault, which had once been used for family stores, they found, within a niche of it, against which a parcel of loose stones were piled, the skeleton of a full-grown person.—You may well conceive their consternation at such a sight; for it immediately struck them that this was the skeleton of a murdered person, else what should bring it there.

  "The discovery was soon spread throughout the villag
e, and all the folks came flocking to the place. They were all of one opinion, that some one had been murdered in the house, and that the crime had been committed after it became deserted. They strove to recollect whether any person, within their memories, had been suddenly missed from their neighbourhood, but could not remember a circumstance of the kind.

  "While they were busy talking over the matter, there came riding by an elderly gentleman, well dressed, and of a grave and comely appearance; so seeing the crowd, he stopped his horse, as was natural enough, and alighting from it, entered the court-yard, and enquired what was the matter.

  'A sad affair, master (replied one of the oldest of the villagers); we have just discovered that a murder was committed within the walls we have been destroying.'

  'A murder! (repeated the gentleman, changing colour); a murder!—Pray, my good friend, how did you discover it?'