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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Her illness!" cried Madeline, turning pale.

  "Yes (resumed the Marquis), an illness which threatened to end in a decline, and for which she was ordered directly to Bareges, whither Monsieur D'Alembert determined on accompanying her and his son."

  Madeline, though inexpressibly shocked, was not surprised to hear this account of Madame D'Alembert, whose health she had long beheld declining. Almost confident, from the character of young D'Alembert, that he would not pay those attentions her situation required, Madeline could not forbear giving vent to her feelings, and exclaimed with energy—"Would to God I was now with her! would to God I was now permitted to pay to the daughter the debt of gratitude I owed the parent!"

  "Impossible (cried the Marquis); Madame D'Alembert, accompanied as she is, cannot require additional attendance: besides, your presence in the castle is absolutely requisite, as an entertainment is already planned, and will be given in a few days, in honour of you and your father, at which you must preside. Of the travellers we shall receive the earliest intelligence, as Monsieur D'Alembert promised to write immediately on their arriving at Bareges: let this promise therefore contribute to quiet your mind."

  Madeline bowed, and endeavoured to appear composed; but her heart swelled with sorrow at the idea of being separated from her friend, at a time when her attentions would have been so acceptable, perhaps necessary; and with difficulty she suppressed her tears.

  When coffee was over, the Marquis and St. Julian sat down to chess, and Madeline withdrew to the court, from whence she was soon tempted to wander into the forest.

  It was now the still, the dewy hour of eve, an hour in which she particularly loved to walk; and she proceeded, thinking of the happy period in which she had wandered, devoid of care, through the wild-wood walks surrounding her native valley; and sighing at the idea, that felicity such as she then experienced would never, never more return.

  Unheeding whither or how far she went, she rambled on till her progress was unexpectedly stopped by the monumental pillar of Lord Philippe.

  A kind of awful fear now took possession of her; a fear, which the idea of the distance she had wandered from the chateau, the lateness of the present hour, and the deep gloom surrounding her, inspired; a

  ———long cathedral aisle of shade

  led to the pillar, around which clustered

  cypress and bay,

  Funereal, pensive birch, its languid arms

  That droops, with waving willows, deem'd to weep,

  And shiv'ring aspins——

  The yellow radiance, diffused over the tall trees and the antique turrets of the castle, at her first setting out, was now entirely withdrawn, and scarcely a star-light ray penetrated to the spot on which she stood; whilst a breeze swept through the forest with a hollow murmur, that to her ear sounded like the lamentings of a troubled spirit.

  The dreadful fate of him to whom the pillar was dedicated, rushed upon her recollection; and, shuddering, she was moving from it, when a deep groan arrested her steps. She paused,—she trembled; the surrounding trees faintly rustled; a figure slowly emerged from them, and gliding by her, gave as it passed a look at once tender and mournful—a look which presented to her view the exact features of de Sevignie.

  "Oh, God! (cried she, recollecting the likeness between him and the picture of Lord Philippe), is it de Sevignie I saw, or the spirit of the murdered Philippe?"

  The pale and hollow cheek presented to her view, the melancholy eye that beamed upon her, inclined her to believe the latter; and while a cold perspiration burst from every pore at the idea of having seen a supernatural being, she fled trembling up the long avenue that led from the pillar: at its termination she paused, uncertain which way to go, for the paths were here wild and entangled; but as she despairingly struck her breast from a fear of not finding her way, she beheld a light suddenly glimmering through the trees: from the castle she knew this must proceed; darting forward therefore, and still keeping it in view, she soon found herself at home.

  She stopped for a few minutes in the hall in order to regain her breath and some degree of composure; she then repaired to the parlour where she found the gentlemen just rising from chess. In answer to their enquiries as to where she had been, she briefly replied, rambling about, but did not inform them how far or whither. Her paleness struck both the Marquis and St. Julian; both however imputed it to her grief for the illness of Madame D'Alembert.

  On retiring to her chamber, Madeline was not sorry to find some of the servants stationed outside the chamber next to her's, for the purpose of apprising the Marquis and his son if there was any return of the noise that had alarmed the family the preceding night. Her spirits weakened by the idea of having seen a being of the other world she could ill have borne total solitude. Unable to sleep, she stood a considerable time at the window, contemplating that part of the forest where she had been terrified; yet without shuddering she could not look upon those trees, beneath whose covert she imagined the troubled spirit of Lord Philippe wandered.

  CHAPTER III

  Why I can smile, and murder while I smile,

  And cry content to that which grieves my heart;

  And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

  And frame my face to all occasions.

  No noise this night disturbed the tranquillity of the castle; and the terror which had marked the countenances of the domestics began to vanish.

  The Marquis had mentioned to Madeline his intention of giving an entertainment in honour of her and his Son; and preparations were now making for it—preparations which were unexpectedly interrupted by a letter from Monsieur D'Alembert, containing the melancholy intelligence of the death of his daughter-in-law on her way to Bareges.

  Though this event was communicated in the most cautious manner to Madeline by her father, the shock it gave her nearly deprived her of her senses. Unwilling to distress him by the sight of her grief, yet unable at present to stem it, she requested permission to retire to her chamber; a request which he instantly complied with, from a hope that the unrestrained indulgence of her sorrow would abate its violence, and contribute to the restoration of her tranquillity.

  In the solitude of her chamber she gave free vent to it. "But is not this a selfish sorrow? (she exclaimed, whilst tears trickled down her pale cheeks); do I not weep alone for the loss which the death of my friend will prove to me? for am I not convinced that death to her was a passport to unutterable felicity,—to that glorious world, where the cares, the disappointments that embitter this, can never obtrude—where all is happiness,—and where the kindred spirit of a Parent welcomed her pure and disembodied soul to that happiness."

  These ideas, however, had not power to mitigate her feelings. Besides the tears she shed for the loss, the irreparable loss she sustained by the death of her friend, she wept from a fear, which the account she had received of the disposition of D'Alembert inspired, namely, that his wife had not in her dying moments received those attentions that sooth the last struggles of nature; she feared that no

  Soft complaint, no kind domestic tear

  Pleas'd her pale ghost, or grac'd her mournful bier.

  "Would to heaven! (she said) I had continued a little longer with her; it would have comforted me to have known that the kindnesses, the attentions, the nameless little offices of love, which soften the pangs of sickness and of death, had been paid to her."

  From her melancholy meditations she was roused by a knock at the chamber-door. She started; hastily rose, and opening it, beheld her father.

  "I hope, my dear Madeline (cried he, taking her hand) that the long and free indulgence of your grief has lightened your heart, and enabled you to make exertions against a sorrow, not only useless, but injurious. I hope (continued he, observing her trickling tears), that in the grave of your friend you have not buried all consideration for your father's peace—a father, who can know no happiness but what is derived from witnessing your's."

  "Oh, my father (exclaimed Ma
deline, unspeakably affected by his words), every exertion you desire I will make."

  Ever taught to consider her promise as sacred, she no longer gave way to her grief, and soon recovered, though not her cheerfulness, her composure.

  The death of Madame D'Alembert caused the doors of the castle to be again barred against company, and an almost uninterrupted stillness once more reigned within it. Madeline rather rejoiced at than regretted the total solitude in which she lived; the spirits, the hopes, the expectations which would once have inclined her to gaiety, were fled, and she no longer wished to see or to be seen.

  Nor did her father appear less pleased with his seclusion from the world; a deeper gloom than Madeline had ever before observed upon it, now almost continually clouded his brow. His wanderings from the castle became frequent; and were often prolonged till the curiosity of his father, and the fears of his daughter, were excited.

  Tortured by beholding his increasing melancholy, Madeline was often tempted to implore him to reveal its source, from a hope that she might then be able to offer some consolation; but whenever she felt herself on the point of doing so, the solemn promise she had given her departed friend of never attempting to raise the veil which concealed the former events of his life, recurred to her recollection, and made her shrink back appalled from the idea.

  "But has he not promised (she would then cry, endeavouring to strengthen her resolution), has he not promised, since his arrival at the castle, that he would himself raise that veil, and elucidate every mystery; Oh! let me then terminate my incertitude, my suspense, by now imploring him to fulfil his promise."

  Still however, whenever her lips opened for that purpose, a secret dread would again close them; and she was soon convinced that she could not summon resolution to urge the disclosure she so ardently desired.

  About a fortnight after they had received the intelligence of Madame D'Alembert's death, a letter arrived from the elder D'Alembert, acquainting the Marquis with his intention of being at the castle that day. He arrived a short time before dinner, and paid his compliments to his newly-discovered relatives with the utmost warmth and affection. The prejudice Madeline had conceived against the son extended to the father; and, notwithstanding the warmth of his manner, she saw, or fancied she saw (which had just the same effect upon her mind), in his countenance a dissatisfaction that denoted his not feeling what he professed; his eye, she thought, often fastened upon her father with a malignant expression, as if the soul that animated it inwardly cursed the man who had stepped between him and the fortunes of Montmorenci.

  After the first compliments were over, taking the hand of Madeline, he assured her that nothing but business of the most perplexing nature could have prevented his son from accompanying him to the chateau. "He is impatient (continued he) to be introduced to his amiable relations; above all, he is impatient for an opportunity of expressing to you his heartfelt gratitude for the attentions you paid to his wife."

  The heart of Madeline was too full to permit her to speak: she bowed, and hastily averted her head to wipe away the tears which fell to the memory of the unhappy Viola.

  Her father, perceiving her emotions, led her to a seat, and changed the discourse.

  D'Alembert now informed them that his daughter (of whom Madeline had before heard the Marquis slightly speak) was at the Chateau de Merville with her brother. "In about a month I hope and expect (continued he), they will join me here."

  "I hope so too (said the Marquis); for I think it is the want of society that lowers the spirits, and hurts the bloom of Madeline."

  "Ah! (thought Madeline) 'tis not the society I am now debarred from, but the society I have lost, which deadens my cheerfulness, and fades my cheek."

  "I shall insist (resumed the Marquis) on her father's taking her in the course of the winter to Paris; 'tis time for her to be introduced to the circles her rank entitles her to associate with."

  D'Alembert by a bow silently assented to what the Marquis said.

  From this period Madeline had but few opportunities of indulging her love for solitude; D'Alembert either was, or pretended to be, so delighted with her society, that he could not for any length of time endure her absence. Complaisance compelled her to humour a relation advanced in life, and also the guest of her grandfather; but the interruption he gave to her favourite inclinations, together with the extravagant eulogiums he bestowed upon her person and all she said or did, heightened, if possible, the dislike she had conceived against him from their first interview—a dislike, however, which she did not reveal; yet not without uneasiness could she hear her father declare he thought him a man worthy of esteem.

  With the utmost pain she thought of the approaching visit from his son and daughter. "Ah! never (said she to herself), ah! never, without shuddering, without horror, shall I be able to look upon the man whose ill conduct I have reason to think occasioned the death of my beloved friend."

  Within a week of the time she expected him, as she was walking one morning in that part of the forest which immediately surrounded the castle she beheld her father and D'Alembert at a little distance from her, apparently engaged in a deep and interesting discourse. Their eyes encountered her's almost at the moment she saw them; they instantly stopped; and, after conversing together for about another minute, D'Alembert entered the court, and her father advanced to her: the gloom on his brow was somewhat lessened, and a languid smile faintly illumined his features.

  "Madeline (said he, taking her hand, and walking on with her), D'Alembert and I have been talking of you."

  "Of me!" cried Madeline.

  "Yes, we have been sketching out a plan of felicity for you."

  Madeline sighed, and looked earnestly at her father.

  "A plan (resumed he) which I trust will meet your approbation."

  "Explain yourself, my dearest father (cried Madeline), I am all impatience."

  "To be explicit then (said St. Julian), D'Alembert has proposed an union between you and his son."

  "Between me and his son! (repeated Madeline, involuntarily drawing her hand from her father's, and starting back a few paces)—between me and his son!—and you approved of the proposal!—Oh! my father, is this the felicity you planned for me?—sooner, ten thousand times sooner, would I immure myself for ever within the walls of a cloister, than become the wife of D'Alembert."

  "Compose yourself (said St. Julian), you have no cause for the violent emotions you betray. You have always, I hope, found me, in every sense of the word, a parent: you should therefore have restrained your apprehensions, by being convinced I never would urge you to an act directly contrary to your inclinations. But whilst I give this assurance, I also declare that I will not, by rejecting every overture which may be made for your hand, sanction your attachment to an object who ought long since to have been forgotten."

  "I solemnly declare (cried Madeline, clasping her hands together), that my repugnance to the union you have proposed, proceeds not entirely from the attachment you allude to."

  "From what other cause (demanded St. Julian), can it proceed? you cannot have conceived a dislike against a man you never saw."

  " 'Tis true (replied Madeline), I know not the person of D'Alembert, but, I am acquainted with his character." She then briefly related all she had heard concerning him from Floretta and Agatha, the favourite and confidential servants of the Countess de Merville.

  "I am shocked, I am astonished (cried St. Julian), at what you tell me; and with you I can readily believe, that the knowledge of his depravity accelerated the death of the mother, and occasioned that of the daughter."

  "But had I never been informed of that depravity (resumed Madeline), I should have conceived an unconquerable dislike against him for his indelicacy in proposing for me so soon after his wife's death, and without being in the least degree acquainted with me."

  "I own that part of his conduct appeared reprehensible to me (said St. Julian), and I gave my opinion of it to his father. He attempted to justify it
by saying, that it was natural so young a man, and one of so domestic a turn as his son, should soon make another choice."

  "But why let that choice devolve upon an object he had never beheld?" asked Madeline.

  "Because a prepossession had been excited in her favour by the eulogiums of his wife; and he entreated his father to hasten to the castle, in order to pave the way for his addresses," St. Julian replied.

  "Oh, my father (cried Madeline), I trust you will not delay declaring my utter repugnance to those addresses."

  "Depend on me, my love (he said), for taking the earliest opportunity of informing D'Alembert they never can be successful: your grandfather, I hope, will be equally inclined to let you reject them."

  "My grandfather! (repeated Madeline); was he then consulted on the subject?"

  "So I understand from D'Alembert, and that he highly approved of the projected alliance: he wishes to have the fortunes of the family united."

  "The fortunes of the family! (Madeline repeated); and are such the considerations that sway the great world?—Ah! no wonder, if the union of fortunes, not of hearts, is alone considered, that misery, vice, and dissipation from such connexions should ensue."

  "I am almost convinced (resumed St. Julian), that the Marquis will not attempt to control your inclinations. But, my dear Madeline, though all idea of a connexion between you and D'Alembert shall on my part be relinquished, from a conviction that it never could promote your happiness, do not flatter yourself that, if a proposal came from an unexceptionable character, I would sanction a second rejection: 'tis not, be assured, from a vain pride of desiring an illustrious name to be continued to posterity, that I wish you to be married—no, 'tis from a wish of ensuring you protection when I shall be no longer able to extend it. I long to lodge my treasure in safe and honourable hands, ere I visit that country, from whose bourn I never shall return."