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

by Eliza Parsons

  The words of her father opened a new source of disquietude to Madeline, who had flattered herself that her attachment to a single life would never be opposed: and still she tried to sooth her uneasiness by thinking, notwithstanding what he said, her father would never exert an arbitrary power over her.

  They continued to walk till dinner time. At table Madeline turned with disgust from D'Alembert, whose looks expressed the utmost exultation. She withdrew almost immediately after dinner, and repaired to the garden, where she continued a considerable time uninterrupted, and deeply meditating on the conversation of the morning. At length she beheld D'Alembert approaching; and the alteration of his countenance convinced her that her father had communicated her sentiments to him.

  She would have passed him in silence, but he prevented her by catching her hand.

  "I came hither, Madam (said he in a sullen voice), on purpose to converse with you; I cannot therefore let you depart abruptly."

  "Well, Sir (cried Madeline), I am ready to hear whatever you wish to say."

  "But will you promise not to hear without regarding it?" demanded he in a gentler tone than he had before used.

  "I never make promises I am not certain of fulfilling," replied Madeline.

  " 'Tis impossible (said he) to express the mortification, the disappointment, I feel in consequence of your rejection of the proposals which I made this morning; proposals approved by your father, and also sanctioned by the Marquis. Surely (he continued), you should not have rejected them, without being assured that their acceptance never could have contributed to your happiness; an assurance it is impossible you can have from your total ignorance of my son."

  "Hopes which cannot be realized, cannot be too soon suppressed," exclaimed Madeline.

  "And why, without knowing him, can you be so determined on destroying his hopes? (asked D'Alembert). Only see him—only hear him,—and then reject, if then you can disapprove."

  "Was your son (said Madeline) all that the most romantic imagination can conceive of perfection, I would reject him."

  "You would!" exclaimed D'Alembert, dropping her hand.

  "I would," repeated Madeline.

  "Did you ever hear aught against him?" demanded he, again catching her hand, and looking steadily upon her.

  "Even supposing any thing could be alleged against him (replied Madeline, wishing to evade this question), in the family of his wife and mother-in-law, was it likely, do you think I should hear any thing to his prejudice?"

  " 'Tis evident (said D'Alembert, after musing a few minutes), that your heart is pre-engaged; nothing else could account for your absolute rejection of a man you never saw."

  "Nothing else," repeated Madeline involuntarily, and looking in his face.

  "No! confess, therefore that what I say, is true."

  "Well (cried Madeline), if I do confess that my heart is devoted to another, will you drop all solicitation for your son?"

  "No, never," exclaimed he in a furious voice, and with an inflamed countenance.

  Madeline now attempted to free her hand. "I insist, Sir (said she), upon your releasing me immediately."

  "I will, if you first promise to let my son plead his own cause on coming to the castle."

  "Never," cried Madeline with vehemence, and struggling to disengage herself.

  "Are you then indeed inflexible? does that soft bosom really hide an obdurate heart? can no pity influence you to compassionate the pangs my son will feel when he hears of your rejection?"

  "I never can feel pity for the pangs of disappointed avarice and ambition (replied Madeline); and avarice and ambition, I am convinced, alone influence your son's addresses to me; for how can he love or admire an object whose virtues he never knew, whose form he never saw? Your persecution, Sir, has forced me to be explicit: drop it, if you wish me to conceal my opinion."

  "Insolent girl!" cried D'Alembert, flinging away her hand, and stamping on the ground.

  A kind of terror pervaded the breast of Madeline at his violence; and she was hurrying to the castle when he overtook, and again stopped her.

  "Insolent girl! (he repeated, grasping her hand, and looking at her with a fiend-like countenance); but such is the effect which unexpected elevation ever has upon little minds, raised from a cottage to a palace. Your head grows giddy, and you think you may with impunity look down upon the rest of mankind with contempt; you imagine there's nothing to fear;—but beware of indulging such an idea, lest too late you should find it erroneous. The pinnacle of greatness upon which you stand, already totters: beware lest by your conduct you provoke the breath which can in a moment overthrow it."

  So saying, he once more flung her hand from him; and, turning into another path, left her abruptly, so much thunderstruck by his words, that for a few minutes she had not power to move. At length recovering her faculties, she condemned herself for weakness in permitting his expressions to affect her; expressions which she could only impute to malice and resentment for her rejection of his son. "He wished (said she), by alarming me, to be revenged in some degree, or else he imagined me weak, and hoped, by raising bugbears to my view, to terrify me to his purpose."

  Her contempt and dislike were both increased by these ideas; and she resolved never more, if possible, to avoid it, to listen to his particular conversation.

  She hastened to the castle, and in the gallery adjoining her chamber, met her father. "Well (asked he), has D'Alembert declared his disappointment to you? he sought you I know for the purpose of doing so."

  "He has (replied Madeline); and I sincerely hope for the last time." She then enquired how her grandfather bore the rejection of his relative.

  "As I expected (answered St. Julian); he declared his readiness to relinquish any alliance that accorded not with your inclination."

  Madeline, without repeating all D'Alembert had said, now acknowledged that she felt herself too much agitated, in consequence of his conversation, to be able to mingle in society again that evening. Her father accordingly promised to apologize for her absence below stairs; and the remainder of the evening she passed alone.

  CHAPTER IV

  'Twas at an hour when busy Nature lay

  Dissolv'd in slumbers from the noisy day;

  When gloomy shades and dusky atoms spread

  A darkness o'er the universal bed,

  And all the gaudy beams of light were fled.

  The ensuing day Madeline was again teased with the importunities of D'Alembert: in vain she assured him her resolution was unalterable, in vain declared, that if his son came to the castle but for the purpose of addressing her, as he intimated, she would confine herself to her chamber. He still continued to persecute her. Finding her own arguments ineffectual, she spoke to her father to try his influence. He accordingly remonstrated with D'Alembert; and requested him, in rather a peremptory manner, to drop a subject so unpleasing.

  In consequence of this request, she was unmolested with any solicitation the next day; but whenever her eyes encountered D'Alembert, an involuntary terror pervaded her heart at beholding the dark and malignant glances with which he regarded her: she strove, but in vain, to reason herself out of it; and felt, without knowing why, as if she was in his power.

  When the hour for rest arrived, she dismissed her attendant; but she, instead of repairing to bed, took up a book, with a hope of being enabled, through its means, to amuse and compose her thoughts. They were too much disturbed, however, to permit this hope to be realised, and she soon threw it aside.

  "Unconscious of any crime, unacquainted with D'Alembert almost till the present day, what (she asked herself, trying to reason away her terror), have I to fear from him? nothing on my own account.—(She paused; she mused for a few minutes). But my father—(she trembled, and started)—I know not the mysteries of his life! D'Alembert may not be equally ignorant, and through his heart perhaps intends to aim at mine." The recollected threat of D'Alembert rendered this idea but too probable; and agonies which no tongue could express
directly seized her soul.

  For some minutes the powers of articulation were suspended. At length, with a deep sigh and uplifted hands, she implored the protection of Heaven. "Trusting in that protection (cried she), which can defeat the malice of the most vile, Oh! let me again endeavour to regain some composure; let me also endeavour not to be too ready in anticipating evil."

  She felt still disinclined to sleep, yet gladly would she have closed her eyes upon the gloom of her chamber—a gloom, rendered more awful by the profound stillness of the castle, and which was calculated to inspire ideas not easily to be resisted in the present state of her mind.

  In short, imaginary horrors soon began to succeed the real ones that had lately agitated her; yet scarcely was she infected by them ere she blushed from a conviction of weakness, and resolved on going to bed. She began to undress, though with a trembling hand; nor could refrain from starting as the low murmurs of the wind (which now, in the decline of autumn, frequently growled through the forest, and shook the old battlements of the castle) sounded through her chamber.

  She had not proceeded far in undressing, when she was suddenly alarmed by the shaking of the tapestry which hung behind the table at which she stood. Appalled, she started back; yet at the next instant was returning, under the idea of its having only been agitated by the wind, when again she saw it raised, and could then perfectly distinguish a human form behind it: with a wild and piercing shriek she instantly fled to the door; but ere her trembling hand could withdraw the rusty bolt, she was rudely seized.

  Hopeless of mercy, she attempted not to supplicate it, but closed her eyes, unwilling to behold her executioner; for that a ruffian had secreted himself in her apartment, for the purpose of robbery and murder, she could not doubt.

  From agonies, which only those who have been in a situation of equal danger can imagine or describe, she was soon however relieved by the voice of D'Alembert.

  "Madeline (he cried, as he supported her upon his breast), revive; I come not to injure, but to entreat."

  "Oh, heavens! (said she, opening her eyes, and wildly gazing on him), do I hear, do I behold aright?"

  "Be composed (exclaimed he), I again entreat you; you have nothing to fear."

  "Nothing to fear! (repeated Madeline as she disengaged herself from him), if I have nothing to fear, I have at least much to be offended at. Whence this intrusion, Sir?—Is it right, is it honourable, to steal like a midnight assassin to my chamber?"

  "You yourself have compelled me to this conduct (he replied); you refused to hear me, and consequently forced me to devise a scheme to make you listen—"

  "To make me listen! (repeated Madeline with haughtiness); no,

  Sir,—no scheme, no stratagem shall effect that purpose. Begone! (cried she, laying her hand upon the door) if you wish to avoid the punishment your temerity deserves."

  "Suppress this haughtiness (said he, seizing her hands, and dragging her from the door ere she had power to open it); believe me, like your threats, it is unavailing. Hear me you must—hear me you shall: nay, more, you shall comply with what I desire."

  "Never!" exclaimed Madeline in a resolute voice, and struggling to free herself.

  "Then you shall tremble for the safety of a father," cried D'Alembert.

  Madeline trembled; her heart grew cold; she ceased her struggles, and looked with mingled terror and melancholy upon him.

  "Yes; I repeat (said he), you shall tremble for the safety of a father: I am the minister of fate to him; and only your acceptance of the proposals of my son can save him from that which now hangs over him."

  "What fate that is not happy can he have provoked?" asked Madeline in a faint voice.

  "I will not shock your ear (he replied), by divulging to you the one he merits; be satisfied, however, that all I know concerning him, and with the most important events of his life I am acquainted, shall be carefully concealed, if you swear solemnly, swear this minute to accept the hand of my son."

  "No, (cried Madeline, after a moment's consideration, during which an idea struck her, that his insinuations against her father might be false, invented merely for the purpose of terrifying her into a promise which could not afterwards be cancelled), I will not swear; I will not take an oath my soul revolts against fulfilling."

  "You are determined then," said D'Alembert with a forced calmness, while an ashy paleness stole upon his cheek.

  "Unalterably determined," replied Madeline.

  "But your resolution could be shaken, if you believed my allegations against your father."

  "I trust I never shall have reason to believe them," said Madeline.

  "Unhappy girl! dearly will you pay for your want of faith in me."

  As he spoke, he put his hand into his bosom, and drew forth a small dagger.

  Madeline recoiled a few paces, and involuntarily dropped upon her knees. "Oh, D'Alembert! (cried she with a quivering lip), have mercy upon your own soul, and spare me!"

  "Be not alarmed (said he), I mean not to harm you; the blood of innocence shall not again, at least by my means, pollute this dagger: receive it (continued he), as a present for your father; when he looks upon it, you will be convinced I spoke but truth this night."

  "Oh! in pity tell me (said Madeline with clasped hands), what you know concerning him, and terminate the horrors of suspense."

  "No; the events of his life will come better from himself; events, which his knowing this dagger comes from me, will convince him I am acquainted with; events, which shall be buried in oblivion, if you remain no longer inflexible. To-morrow I shall again enquire your determination; if unpropitious, the long-suspended sword of justice shall at length strike. farewell! your own obstinacy has provoked your present pain."

  So saying, he abruptly quitted the chamber, notwithstanding the entreaties of Madeline to remain a few minutes longer, and explain his terrifying and mysterious language.

  Left to the dreadful solitude of her chamber, she continued a considerable time longer upon her knees, with her eyes fixed upon the dagger, which lay at a little distance from her. At length, slowly rising, she advanced to it, and taking it up, brought it to the light to examine it; the hilt was curiously studded with precious stones, but the blade was almost entirely covered with rust.

  "He said (cried Madeline in a hollow voice), that the blood of innocence polluted it. Oh, God! (continued she, letting it drop with horror from her), in whose hand was it clenched at that fearful moment!"

  The suspicions, which had agitated her on her first entrance into the castle, again rushed upon her mind; but when nearly sinking beneath them, the assurance her father had given her of being utterly unconcerned in the fate of Lord Philippe recurred to her recollection, and cheered her fainting heart. "He said he was innocent (exclaimed she), and to doubt his truth were impious; what then have I to fear from the threats of D'Alembert?"

  But the calm produced by this idea was of short duration. Though assured of his innocence relative to Lord Philippe, she recollected she had never received an assurance of his being equally guiltless with regard to every other being: she recollected also the words of her departed friend, that the characters of his life were marked by horror, and stained with blood; and she shuddered at the too probable supposition of his having been involved in some deed as dreadful as that which she at first suspected—a deed with which it was evident D'Alembert was too well acquainted.

  "Oh, let me then no longer hesitate how to act (exclaimed she),—let me no longer delay devoting myself to save my father! and yet (continued she, after the reflection of a minute), how am I convinced that my father is in the power of D'Alembert? may he not have said so merely for the purpose of frightening me into compliance with his wishes? should I not therefore be rash in the extreme if I doomed myself to misery without a conviction that my father's preservation depended on my doing so? But how can I doubt his veracity (proceeded she, wildly starting from the chair on which she had flung herself), how imagine he would ever make allegations
he could not support? and yet, perhaps, he made them under the idea that I would never enquire into their truth: but shocked, appalled at the first intimation of danger to my father, promise at once to become the wife of his son: I will not then make that promise, till assured there is a necessity for doing so."

  But how was she to receive this assurance? how—without enquiring from her father concerning the former events of his life? and, in making those enquiries, what painful recollections might not be awakened? what horrible fears might not be suggested?

  "Oh, God! (cried she, kneeling upon the ground, half distracted with her incertitude how to act), teach me what I ought to do! Oh, let me not, in trying to avoid misery myself, draw misery upon him for whom I would willingly lay down my life."

  The night passed away in a state of wretchedness which cannot be described, and the morning surprised her still undetermined. The bustle of the rising domestics at length made her recall her scattered thoughts, and recollect the necessity there was for appearing composed. She accordingly adjusted her hair, put on a morning-dress, and seated herself at a window with a book. Never was dissimulation so painful; agonized by conflicting terrors, scarcely could she prevent herself from traversing her room with a distracted step.

  At the usual hour, a servant came to inform her breakfast was ready. Madeline desired her to bring up a cup of coffee as she was rather indisposed; but charged her, at the same time, not to alarm the Marquis or her father. As soon as she was gone, Madeline took up the dagger, which the skirt of her robe had concealed, and went into her dressing-room, with an intention of locking it up in a cabinet; resolving, in the course of the morning, to have another conversation with D'Alembert, and determine by that how she should act.