The spirits of Madeline, weakened by grief, were indeed affected, in spite of her reason, with a kind of superstitious awe, by the stories of her companions.
"Let us mull some wine (cried Agatha); it will do us all good."
"Ay, do (said Floretta), and I will make some toast."
Madeline now said she would step into the Countess's chamber, and try whether she still slept. She accordingly stole into it, and bending over her pillow, had the satisfaction of finding she continued in a tranquil sleep. This somewhat cheered her; and after taking a glass of the mulled wine, she felt the gloom of her spirits pretty well depressed. Agatha then resumed her story.
"Scarcely (said she) had Peter uttered the last word, when his master dropped senseless at his feet. Peter raised, and with difficulty recovered him. The moment he opened his eyes, he dropped upon his knees, implored the mercy of Heaven, and confessed he was the murderer of his cousin.
"Plunged into difficulties, he said, by his extravagance, which he was ashamed to avow, as soon as ever he heard of his cousin's expected return from the Holy Land, he laid the plan for destroying him, which succeeded but too well, and in which he was assisted by a servant, whom he afterwards murdered, for fear of his betraying him.
"Peter told him, if he would immediately resign the estate to the lawful heir, he would not give him up to the punishment he merited. This he readily consented to do; and every thing necessary being done, he retired to a monastery, where he soon after died of a broken heart. After his death, this story was divulged by the servant, whose assistance Peter had obtained for carrying into execution the scheme he had contrived for knowing whether or not his master had murdered his cousin."
The tale concluded, on which Floretta made many comments, a general silence ensued; it was now about the middle of the night, or rather the beginning of the morning, and the storm still raged with unabated violence. Madeline went to a window, and opened a shutter, to see whether the scene without was as dreary as fancy within had represented it to be, and found it, if possible, more so. The faint dawn o'er the western hills was overcast by heavy clouds, and the trees of the wood tumultuously agitated by the blast, which seemed threatening to tear them from the earth.
"How dreadful, how appalling is this hurricane (cried Madeline, as she leaned against the window). If it strikes such terror into a heart conscious of no crime, what fears, what horrors must it excite in one burdened with guilt. To such an one the war of the elements must indeed be dreadful, as seeming to declare the anger of an offended God."—Like the Poet, Madeline thought that such a heart would think
———The tempest blew his wrath,
The thunder was his voice, and the red flash
His speedy sword of justice.
Chilled by the melancholy prospect, she closed the shutter, and returned to the fire, before which her companions were now slumbering. In deep and pensive meditation, she sat a considerable time with her eyes fixed upon the crackling blaze, when the heavy crash of something falling in the lower part of the Castle, startled not only her, but her companions.
"Holy virgin! (exclaimed Agatha, turning pale), defend us—'tis the armour that has fallen."
"You had better try," said Madeline, in a faint voice.
"Try (repeated Agatha); Lord, not for the world."
"Nor I, I am sure (said Floretta) if you could, or would give me a principality for doing so."
"I will then (cried Madeline, ashamed to propose what she would shrink from herself), I will go and endeavour to discover the occasion of the noise."
She went softly into the Countess's chamber, to try if she was disturbed by it, and finding her still asleep, she took up a light, and descended (though with trembling limbs, and a palpitating heart) to the great hall, from whence the noise had sounded. The light she held but partially dispersed its awful gloom, and her tremor and palpitation increased, as she proceeded to the extreme end, at which hung the ominous armour. She found this in its usual situation, and she was hastily moving from it, too much depressed and agitated to think of searching elsewhere for the cause of the noise, when a door opposite to her (which led to a suit of rooms that had been appropriated solely to the use of the Count, and since his death, shut up), slowly opened, and a tall figure, clad in black, came forth.
Madeline started behind a pillar; the conversation of her companions had raised the very spirit of superstition in her breast, and, with eyes almost bursting from their sockets, she now stood immovable, gazing upon the terrifying object that presented itself to her view; but when she saw it approaching her, which it did, with a slow, but steady step, her faculties returned, and dropping the light, she fled to the stair-case; but ere she had ascended many steps, she fell, through her extreme haste; and the surrounding darkness, and the exquisite pain she suffered, in consequence of bending her foot under her at the instant, prevented her from making an immediate effort for rising. She lay for about two minutes in this situation, when a faint light gleaming behind her, made her turn her head with quickness, and she beheld the object of her terror within a step of her. A cold dew instantly burst from her pores, her heart almost died within her, and she covered her face with her hands.
CHAPTER VIII
And art thou—of that sacred band?
Alas! for us too soon, tho' rais'd above
The reach of human pain, above the flight
Of human joy.
The well-known accents of Father Bertrand recalled the fainting spirits of Madeline; never were sounds before so delightful to her ear. She uncovered her face, started up, and exclaimed, "Gracious Heaven! is it possible! do I really behold Father Bertrand!"
"My dear young lady (said the good old man, with his usual mildness), what is the matter;—is our beloved benefactress worse?"
"No, I trust and believe not (replied Madeline); her sleep has been long and tranquil."
"If she is not worse then—if you did not come to call me to her, what could have brought you to the hall?"
Madeline, as briefly as possible, informed him; and in doing so, notwithstanding she wished to conceal it, in order to avoid the imputation of folly, betrayed the fright he had given her.
The good father was too well acquainted with human nature not to know, that the present hour was an improper one for reasoning with her against the weakness which exposed her to it. He determined, however, from a wish of promoting the happiness of a young creature, which he knew nothing would so materially injure as superstition, to take another opportunity of admonishing her against it.
He informed her, that his continuing the night in the Castle was owing to the express desire of the Countess; "but instead of going to bed (proceeded he), I procured the key of the library, well knowing, from the violence of the storm, that I could not sleep." He sighed as he spoke, and his eyes were involuntarily raised to Heaven.
Madeline looked at him with pity and reverence.
"Poor Caroline (said she to herself) is now present to his thoughts; Oh! what must have been his excruciating anguish at the time of her death, when even now, though so many years have passed since that event, his regret is so poignant."
"Never (cried she, addressing him), never again may I hear a storm so tremendous! I fear we shall have melancholy accounts tomorrow of the mischief it has done."
"I hope not (replied the Father); he, whose mighty spirit walks upon the careering winds, will, I humbly trust, prevent their fury from being destructive."
Madeline now enquired whether he heard the noise which had so much alarmed her and her companions. He replied in the affirmative, but said it had come from the gallery instead of the hall, and that he would now go up, and try to discover the cause of it, accompanied by Madeline. He accordingly ascended, and they soon discovered that it had been occasioned by the fall of the Countess's picture.
"Do you now, my child (said the Father), retire, and try to take some repose; for your spirits have been much agitated. I rejoice to hear that the rest of our noble fr
iend has been so good; 'tis a favourable symptom; may the morning light witness the realization of the hopes it has inspired!"
"Heaven grant it may!" fervently rejoined Madeline. She then bade the good man farewell, and begged he would, on descending to the hall, try whether the light she had dropped was extinguished.
The moment she re-entered the dressing-room, Agatha and Floretta eagerly enquired if they were right in their conjectures. She assured them they were not, and then informed them of the cause of their alarm.—This excited little less consternation than if she had told them the armour was fallen;—so prone is superstition to dress up every circumstance in the garb of terror.
The dawn was now peeping through the shutters; the lights were therefore put out, and Agatha and Floretta then again began to slumber before the fire. They were soon, however, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, which came with such violence against the doors, as almost to burst them open.
"Heaven defend us! (said Agatha), the storm grows worse, instead of better."
"Hark (cried Madeline, with a wild expression in her countenance, and laying her hand upon the arm of Agatha)—Hark!—there surely was a groan mingled in that blast."
"No, Mam'selle (said Agatha), 'tis only the howling of the wind."
"Again! (exclaimed Madeline);—Oh Heavens! (starting from her chair) 'tis the voice of the Countess!"
She rushed into the chamber, followed by her companions. The curtains of the bed were hastily drawn back, and the Countess was discovered in a fit: a scream of mingled terror and anguish burst from Madeline, and sinking on her knees, she clasped the nerveless hands of her friend between her's.
Agatha and Floretta used every effort to recover their lady, and at length succeeded. On opening her eyes, she turned them round with a wild stare, as if forgetting where she was, or by whom surrounded. Her recollection, however, appeared soon to return; her eyes suddenly lost their wildness, and were raised for some minutes to Heaven.—She then looked at Madeline, and spoke, but what she said was unintelligible: she seemed sensible of this herself, by mournfully shaking her head. Gently disengaging one hand from Madeline, she pointed it towards the door, looking earnestly in her face as she did so, as if to say, she wished her to bring some person to her.
"Father Bertrand!" cried Madeline, starting up.
A faint smile from the Countess was an affirmative; and she was flying from the chamber, when she was suddenly stopped by a deep groan.
"Has she relapsed?" cried she with a trembling voice, and a despairing look, again advancing to the bed.
"Never to recover, I fear," said Agatha, bursting into tears.
" 'Tis too true! (cried Floretta), she is gone for ever."
Madeline grew sick; she could not weep; she could not speak; she could scarcely breathe; her sight grew dim; her head grew giddy; and the objects that she could discern seemed swimming before her. The grief and consternation of her companions prevented them from noticing her, till they saw her catching at a bed-post for support.—They then directly hastened to her assistance, and supporting her to a chair, opened a window. The keenness of the morning air, together with the water they sprinkled on her face, somewhat revived her, and a shower of tears came to her relief.
Agatha, whom her death-like coldness, and ghastly paleness greatly alarmed, would have led her from the room, but she resisted the effort, and tottering to the bed, threw herself upon it, and bedewed the pale face of her dear, her invaluable benefactress with tears of unutterable, of heart-felt anguish. Agatha now desired Floretta to ring a large bell, which hung in the gallery. This in a few minutes collected all the servants, and they came crowding into the room, preceded by Father Bertrand, and apprised by the sudden alarm of the melancholy event which had happened.
Few scenes could have been more distressing than that now exhibited by the old domestics, as they wept round the bed of their beloved lady, under whose protection they had passed the prime, and trusted to have closed the evening, of their days.
"Oh my friends and fellow-servants! (cried Agatha, whom grief made eloquent), our happiness in this world is gone for ever;—but 'tis a comfort to think, that, from the common course of nature, none of us can expect much longer to continue in it."
"My friends (said Father Bertrand, collecting all his spirits to his aid, and wiping away the tear which had bedewed his pale cheek), my friends (looking round him with the most benign compassion), moderate those transports of grief, by patiently acquiescing in the will of the Almighty; endeavour to deserve a continuance of some of his blessings.
"Peace (continued he, advancing to the foot of the bed, and kneeling before it, while his arms folded upon his breast, and his head gently reclined, seemed to denote that submission to the divine will which he preached to others), peace to the soul of the departed; and may we all, like her, be prepared for our latter end!"
"Let all (cried Agatha, as he rose from his knees) whose services are not required, now retire from the room."
Father Bertrand approached Madeline, who still lay, with her face covered, upon the bed; he took her hand, and entreated her to rise, but she had neither power to refuse nor to obey. Perceiving her situation, he ordered her to be taken up, and carried into the next room; he was shocked beyond expression at the alteration which grief had effected in her appearance; her cheek and lips had lost all tinge of colour, and her eyes appeared too dim for her to distinguish any object.
Restoratives were administered to her, and by degrees the tears, which extreme agony had suspended, again began flowing, and somewhat relieved her.
Father Bertrand sat by her in silence; he knew the tribute of affection and sorrow must be paid, nor did he attempt to check it, till the first transports of the latter, by indulgence, were a little abated. He then addressed her in the mildest accents of consolation:—
"Oh! my daughter (he said), let the assurance of the felicity to which the spirit of your friend has departed, comfort you for her loss; life at best is but a state of pilgrimage. God, no doubt, to prevent our too great attachment to a state which we must resign, has chequered it with good and evil, so that few, after any long continuance in it, can, if possessed of reason and religion, regret a summons from it. To the Countess it was a happy release; her virtues had prepared her to meet it with fortitude, and her sorrows with pleasure; she knew she was about appearing before a merciful Being, who would reward the patience with which she bore those sorrows—sorrows that corroded the springs of life: so far am I permitted to say, in order to try and reconcile you to her loss, but the source of them I am bound to conceal. Endeavour (he proceeded) to compose yourself; Madame D'Alembert may soon be expected, and it will be some little comfort to the poor mourner to receive your soothing attentions. I am now compelled to retire to the convent, but at the close of day I shall return with some of my brother monks to say mass for the soul of the departed. farewell! (rising as he spoke) may the blessing of heaven rest upon you, and peace soon revisit your heart!"
He had scarcely left the room ere Agatha entered it. "Had you not better lay down Mam'selle (said she, in a voice broken by sobs); for my part I can hold up no longer; as soon as I have given orders about what is to be done I shall go to bed, and I little care if I never rise from it." The melancholy accent in which these words were pronounced, redoubled the tears of Madeline.
"We have lost indeed (cried she) the kindest, the best of friends; never can we expect again to meet with one like her."
The door now softly opened, and Floretta made her appearance; she came with a message of condolence from the physician, who had just arrived, to Madeline, and a request to know whether he could in any manner be serviceable to her.
"No (replied Madeline, mournfully) he cannot."
"The Notary has accompanied him (resumed Floretta) and he desired me to tell you that had he imagined the Countess so near her end, he would, notwithstanding the weather, have come hither yesterday."
"Alack—(cried Agatha) I grieve he did not; my La
dy's kind intentions towards you will never now be fulfilled."
The idea of their being frustrated could not, in the present state of Madeline's mind, excite one sigh. Pale, faint, exhausted, she at last complied with the request of Agatha, and retiring to her chamber, threw herself upon the bed; but not even for an instant did sleep shed oblivion over her sorrows; she found the words of the Poet true, that
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles, the wretched he forsakes,
Swift on his downy pinions flies from woe,
And lights on lids unsully'd by a tear.
Rather fatigued than refreshed by laying down, she arose in about an hour, and opening a window, seated herself by it; for there was a faintness over her which she thought the air might remove. The heaviness of the sky was now dispersed; the sun looked out with refulgent glory, and the winds, whose fury had scattered the lawn with shattered boughs of trees and fragments from the chateau, were hushed into a calm; the trees, still surcharged with rain, displayed a brighter green, "and glittering as they trembled, cheered the day;" while the birds that sprung from amidst them, poured forth the softest notes of melody; but not that melody, not the blessed beams of the sun which it seemed to hail, could touch the sad heart of Madeline with pleasure.
"Ah! (she cried) after such a night as the last, how soon on the morning would my dear benefactress, if she had been spared to us, have gone forth to enquire what mischief was done, and give orders for repairing it! Oh! ye children of poverty and distress—ye, like the unhappy Madeline, have lost a mother."
Madeline knew not the strength or tenderness of her attachment to the Countess till she was deprived of her; in losing her, she lost all hope of comfort; for to none, as to her, could she impart the fears, the wishes, the expectations, which had so long, and still at times, agitated her heart; and which, by being concealed, she knew would fatally corrode its peace. Yet not for the tenderness which had poured balm upon its sorrows, not for the counsel which had regulated its impulses, not for the wisdom which had guarded its inexperience, did she lament alone; exclusive of all consideration for herself she bitterly wept the death of her benefactress, and imagined, was she but alive again, her own tranquillity would in some degree be restored, though the next moment she should be transported to an immeasurable distance from her.
The Complete Northanger Horrid Novel Collection (9 Books of Gothic Romance and Horror) Page 298