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

by Eliza Parsons

  It may easily be supposed that Madeline soon grew tired of conversation of this kind; her timid heart shrunk from the attentions of Madame Fleury, instead of expanding to receive them; yet she condemned the strong prejudice which she had conceived against her.—"I will try to conquer it (said she to herself), because it is unjust—unjust to dislike a person merely because they have been cast in one of the rough moulds of Nature, and their manners, in consequence of the difference of education, are unlike mine."

  Madame Fleury seemed inclined to sit up to a late hour, which Madeline perceiving, she pleaded fatigue, and begged permission to retire to her chamber. Madame Fleury instantly rising, took up a light, and said she would conduct her to it. Madeline followed her down the hall, at the bottom of which was a folding door, that on being opened, discovered a spacious stair-case.—"This appears to be a very large house," said Madeline, as ascending the stairs, she beheld numerous passages and doors.

  "Oh, quite a wilderness of a house (replied Madame Fleury); I am sometimes a year without seeing half the apartments."

  "I wonder you are not afraid to live in it (said Madeline), without more servants."

  "Why all the valuable things were removed from it on the desertion of its master, so that prevents my having many fears; besides, I take good care to see all the doors secured before I go to bed."

  The room allotted for Madeline was spacious, but dirty and ill furnished; nor was there aught within it that gave evidence of better days, except a few faded portraits, large as the life, which still hung against the brown and dusty wainscot.

  "Is your chamber near this?" asked Madeline, as she cast her eye around.

  "Oh, yes, I shall be your neighbour; so don't be uneasy," replied Madame Fleury. Madeline assured her she would not; and then, anxious to be alone, begged she might no longer detain her.—"Good night then, my dear (said Madame Fleury); I shall call you when it is time to breakfast."

  Madeline looked behind the window-curtain ere she locked the door; she then recommended herself to the protection of Heaven; and, worn out both by bodily and mental fatigue, repaired to bed, where she slept till her usual hour of rising.

  When dressed, she drew up the window curtain; but how different the prospect she beheld from the prospects she had been accustomed to; instead of sublime mountains towering to the clouds, or rich meadows, scattered over with flocks and herds, she now beheld high and dirty walls, which completely enclosed a small spot of ground planted with a few stunted trees. She sighed, and a tear stole from her to think she might never more enjoy the sweets of Nature, or mark

  ———how spring the tended plants,

  How blows the citron grove, what drops the myrrh,

  And what the balmy reed—how Nature paints

  Her colours—how the bee sits on the bloom

  Extracting liquid sweets.

  Her melancholy reflections were soon interrupted by the voice of Madame Fleury; she immediately opened the door, and, after the usual salutations of the morning were over, accompanied her to breakfast, which was laid out in the room where they had supped the preceding night, and which, like the chamber of Madeline, looked into what Madame Fleury called the garden.

  After breakfast she rose, and told Madeline she must leave her—"I go every morning to church (cried she); while I am absent, you can amuse yourself with reading; you'll find some books in that closet," pointing to one at the end of the room.

  Madeline thought it odd her not being asked to accompany her to church; and she was just on the point of requesting permission to do so, when she recollected, that perhaps Madame Fleury might have some places after the service was over to call at, which she did not wish to bring her to; she therefore timely checked herself, and said she would either walk in the garden, or read.

  As soon as she was alone, she examined the books, but she found none that pleased her; and even if she had, her mind was too much disturbed to permit her to derive amusement from them; she therefore went into the garden, where, deeply ruminating o'er past events, she heeded not the lapse of time, and was astonished when the maid came out to inform her that her mistress had been returned some time, and dinner waited. Madeline hastily followed her into the house, but on reaching the parlour, she involuntarily started back on perceiving a young man with Madame Fleury.

  "Bless my soul (said Madame Fleury, laughing immoderately), bless my soul (cried she, taking the hand of Madeline), you look terrified. Well, you are the first girl I ever saw frightened at the sight of a young man; let me introduce my nephew to you, and you'll find you have no reason to be afraid of him;—Dupont, this is Mademoiselle Jernac," the assumed name Lafroy had chosen for Madeline.

  Dupont saluted Madeline with much politeness, and expressed his regret at having caused her any disagreeable surprise: she bowed, and endeavoured to recollect herself, in order to avoid the coarse raillery which her confusion excited in Madame Fleury, and permitted him to lead her to the table.

  When they were seated at it, Madame Fleury began to sound the praises of her nephew;—"I can assure you, Mademoiselle (cried she) when you know him better, you will like him much; he is a good soul, I cannot help saying so, though to his face: he is secretary to a nobleman of high rank and consequence; and, though from his situation he might be conceited and dissipated, he is neither the one nor the other, nor disdains to come now and then, and take a snug dinner with his old aunt." While she was speaking, Madeline could not help attentively regarding Dupont, whose face appeared familiar to her; but where or when she had seen the person whom he resembled, she could not possibly recollect.

  Dupont was young, handsome, and rather elegant; yet almost the moment Madeline beheld him, she conceived a prejudice against him;—his gentleness seemed assumed, and there was a fierceness, a boldness in his eyes, which at once alarmed and confused her.

  When dinner was over, Madame Fleury proposed cards. Madeline immediately rose, and, declaring she never played, desired leave to retire to her chamber.

  "No, (cried Dupont, also rising and taking her hand, whilst he gazed upon her with the most impassioned tenderness), we cannot let you go; we'll give up cards; we'll not think, not act, but as you like."

  "I should be sorry, Sir (cried Madeline coldly, and withdrawing her hand), that the inclination of any person was sacrificed to mine; at present I am much better calculated for solitude than society, and must therefore again entreat Madame Fleury's permission to retire to my room."

  "Then you will entreat in vain I assure you (cried she); I have no notion of letting you go to mope about by yourself."

  "If you thus restrain me, Madam (said Madeline, who every moment grew more anxious to quit Dupont), you will prevent me from having the pleasure of thinking myself at home."

  "True (cried Dupont), where there is restraint, there can be no pleasure; permit Mademoiselle Jernac, therefore, Madame (addressing his aunt) to leave us, since she is so cruel as to desire to do so; perhaps our ready compliance with her wishes will at some other time incline her to be more propitious to our's."

  "Well, you may go, child (said Madame Fleury); but indeed 'tis only to oblige my nephew that I let you."

  Dupont led Madeline to the door, where, in spite of all her efforts to prevent him, he imprinted a kiss upon her hand.

  Her heart throbbing tumultuously, she hastily ascended the stairs; she saw, or fancied she saw, looks exchanged between the aunt and nephew which terrified her: stories of designing men and deceitful women rushed to her recollection; and she trembled at the idea of her forlorn situation—at the idea of being solely in the power of strangers, without a being near her to protect her, if protection should be necessary. She wished to know whether she was in an inhabited part of the town, which the darkness of the hour she had arrived at Madame Fleury's prevented her ascertaining, that in case there was a necessity for quitting her present residence, she might have a chance of easily procuring another; and accordingly determined to avail herself of the present opportunity, and
explore her way, if possible to the front of the house. The gallery in which her chamber stood, was terminated by a door, which she softly opened, and discovered a winding passage: without hesitation she entered it, and proceeded till stopped by another door; this she opened with difficulty, for the key was rusty, and for a long time resisted all her efforts to turn it: when at length she had succeeded, she found herself in a chamber as spacious as her own, but stripped of all the furniture except a bare bedstead. She stepped lightly to a window, and to her great mortification, found herself still at the back of the house; she directly turned away, and was hastening from the room, when, carelessly glancing her eye over it, a stain of blood upon the floor filled her with horror, and riveted her to the spot. "Oh! God, (she cried, while her arms dropped nerveless by the side), what dreadful evidence of guilt do I behold!" A heavy hand fell upon her shoulder; she shrieked—and, starting, beheld Madame Fleury—"What, in the name of wonder, brought you hither?" demanded she in rather an angry voice.

  "I did not conceive there was the least impropriety in examining the apartments," said Madeline.

  "Impropriety, why no; but then you might have told me you were curious. Come, let us quit this chamber; I hate it."

  "Have you reason to hate it?" asked Madeline, her eyes still fastened upon the blood-stained floor. She felt the hand of Madame Fleury tremble.—"Why to tell you the truth, (said she, going to the bedstead and sitting down), my nephew, Dupont, (speaking in an agitated voice), once met with an ugly accident in it; he fell and hurt himself so much, we thought he never would have recovered; the stains of his blood are still upon the floor; nothing would take them out."

  "Blood sinks deep!" said Madeline in a hollow voice, and raising her eyes, she fixed them upon Madame Fleury.

  "Pray let us leave this chamber," cried her companion, rising in visible confusion. She seized the arm of Madeline, and drawing her from it, locked the door, and put the key into her pocket. "I came up (said she, as they proceeded to the chamber of Madeline), to ask you whether you would not choose a book, and if I should not send you some coffee."

  "No (replied Madeline), neither a book nor coffee; all I desire is to be left without interruption to myself to-night."

  "I am afraid you are a fanciful girl," said Madame Fleury.

  "Would to Heaven I was only affected by fancies!" exclaimed Madeline with fervour.

  "Well, since you wish to be alone, I will leave you (cried Madame Fleury), nor shall you again be interrupted."

  "In doubting Madame Fleury (said Madeline, when left to herself), do I not doubt Lafroy, of whose fidelity I have received such proofs, that to harbour a suspicion of him, makes me feel guilty of ingratitude. Oh! surely (she continued, and her mind grew composed by the idea), he never would have confided me to the care of his relation, had he not been convinced she was worthy of the trust; and, in giving way to my present fears, I torment myself without a cause. Every thing may be as Madame Fleury has stated; her nephew may have been hurt in the chamber; and his attentions to me may be dictated by what he imagines politeness. I will then exert myself (she cried); I will combat my fears, nor to the pressure of real evils add those of imaginary ones."

  To reason herself out of her fears was not, however, as easy as she imagined; they still clung to her heart, and she wished, fervently wished, that she had never entered the residence of Madame Fleury. She determined the next morning to ask to accompany her to church—"I shall then (said she), know what kind of neighbourhood I am in, and whether there is any convent near the house, to which I could fly in case any thing disagreeable again occurred in it."

  As soon as it grew dark, the maid brought her a light, which she kept burning all the night. She was scarcely dressed in the morning, when Madame Fleury tapped at the door to inform her breakfast was ready. Madeline immediately opened the door, and attended her to the parlour, where, to her great vexation, she found Dupont.

  "So, so (said his aunt, as if a little surprised by seeing him), you are here! what, I suppose you could not rest till you had paid your devoirs to Mademoiselle?"

  "I should be sorry (said Madeline, with some degree of haughtiness), to place to my own account a visit which I neither expected nor desired."

  "And yet you would be right in doing so," cried Dupont.

  Madeline made no reply, but addressed herself on some indifferent subject to Madame Fleury.

  After breakfast, which was rendered extremely disagreeable to Madeline by the looks and attentions of Dupont, Madame Fleury rose, and said it was time to go to church. "I hope, Madam (cried Madeline, also rising), you will permit me to accompany you this morning."

  "No, indeed I shall not (exclaimed she); you can be much better employed at home, for my nephew will stay with you."

  There was something in those words which shocked Madeline so much, that for a moment she had not the power of utterance.—"I can assure you, Madam, then (said she), that if you do not let me go, I will confine myself to my chamber until your return."

  "That is, if my nephew is such a fool as to permit you."

  Madeline could no longer restrain herself. "If this is the manner in which you mean to treat me, Madam (she exclaimed), you cannot be surprised if my continuance with you is of short duration. 'Tis not (she continued, with increasing warmth), the mere shelter of a roof that I require—'tis kindness, 'tis protection, 'tis the attentions which sooth the sorrows of the heart, and lighten the pangs of dependence;—except assured of my receiving these, your nephew, Lafroy, I am confident would never have entrusted me to your care; and candidly and explicitly I now tell you, I shall withdraw myself from it, if longer subjected to freedoms I abhor."

  Madame Fleury only replied to this speech by a contemptuous smile; then turning on her heel, she darted out of the room, and shut the door after her. Madeline attempted to follow her, but was prevented by Dupont, who, seizing her hand, dragged her back to a seat. She grew terrified, but tried to conceal her terrors. "I insist on your releasing me immediately, Sir," said she.

  "I cannot (cried he), I cannot be so much my own enemy."

  "Though Madame Fleury has forgot what is due to her sex, I hope (resumed Madeline), you will not forget what is due to your's; to insult an unhappy woman, is surely a degradation to the character of a man."

  "I do not mean to insult you (replied Dupont); my honourable addresses cannot surely insult you?"

  "Your honourable addresses!" repeated Madeline, surveying him with mingled surprise and contempt.

  "Yes—I love, I adore you; and now entreat you to accept my hand and heart."

  "I shall not say I reject them (replied Madeline), because I do not think you serious in offering them; I cannot believe that any man in his senses can offer himself to a woman he scarcely knows."

  "I am serious, by all that is sacred!" cried he with vehemence.

  "Then believe me equally serious (said Madeline), when I assure you, that could you with your hand and heart offer me the wealth of the universe, I would reject them. You are, no doubt, acquainted with my unhappy story—Oh! do not, therefore (she continued), do not render unpleasant the asylum your aunt has afforded me, by persevering in attentions which never can have the desired effect."

  "Perseverance does much (said Dupont); I will try it."

  "To my torment then, and your own disappointment you will try it," cried Madeline.

  "How can you be so inflexible?" said he, looking on her with the most passionate tenderness.

  Madeline grew more alarmed than ever by his manner. "If you have generosity, if you have compassion (exclaimed she), you will now let me retire."

  "Well (said he), to show my readiness to oblige you, however I may mortify myself by doing so, I will now let you leave me; but ere you go, suffer me to say I never will drop my suit."

  Anxious to leave him, Madeline made no reply. Her first impulse on quitting the parlour, was to fly directly from a house in which she was exposed to insult and persecution; but a moment's reflection convi
nced her of the impracticability of such a measure at present, when in all probability Dupont was upon the watch: she therefore determined not to attempt escaping till a more favourable opportunity for that purpose offered. Still anxious, before that opportunity occurred, to discover in what kind of neighbourhood she was, instead of repairing to her chamber, she hastily turned into a long passage off of the great stair-case, in which several doors appeared.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Oh! take me in a fellow-mourner with thee;

  I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear!

  And when the fountains of thy eyes are dry,

  Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both.

  Madeline tried many doors, but found them fastened. She resolved, however, not to return without attempting all, and was just laying her hand upon another lock, when a dreadful groan from the bottom of the passage pierced her ear, and penetrated to her heart. She hesitated whether she should advance or retreat; but at length humanity triumphed over fear, and she determined to go on, and try if she could be of any service to the person from whom the groan proceeded. At the bottom of the passage she perceived, what the darkness it was involved in had before concealed from her, a narrow stair-case in the side of the wall: this she eagerly ascended, and came to a small door half open; here she paused, and looking in, beheld, with equal horror and astonishment, an old woman wretchedly clad, and worn to a skeleton, kneeling in the corner of an ill-furnished room, before a wooden crucifix.