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

by Eliza Parsons

  "To secure your own safety beyond the reach of circumstance," returned the steward; "to teach you to act consistently with those exalted ideas of independence, which have hitherto aggrandized your character. Do you cease to remember, my Lord, that self-preservation is one of the first laws of Nature, that it is wisely interwoven with our existence for reasons too forcibly to be rejected, and becomes the master-spring of all our actions? If a venomous insect assaults us, do we not annihilate it? Who, but a maniac, would feel the sting of a serpent, and not endeavour to release him self from its grasp?—Would any one, not divested of reason, endanger his own life by listening to the plea of humanity? If an assassin attacks us with the weapons of death, and we succeed in disarming him, do we not instantly sheath the stiletto in his breast; do we feel any thing of remorse or pity, when we behold it reeking with the blood of an enemy? I need add no more, my Lord; you must assuredly understand me; there are means to prevent the evils which threaten you—it is you that are to apply them."

  "There are means," repeated the Marchese, "but they are dreadful ones; yet, if it must be done, let it be done quickly; I would feign not think of it again till it is beyond recall. Let me be acquainted with the time and place, and then let the subject drop for ever."

  "About seven leagues from this spot," continued Paoli, "is a house every way fitted for the purpose: it stands in a lonely and dreary forest, and is fenced out from the civilized world by wild and almost inaccessible woods. These are sometimes infested by banditti, but never with any other human being; the beasts of the deserts are their only inhabitants, and scarcely a vestige of man is to be found. Here Silence has fixed her abode, disturbed only at intervals by the howling of the wolf, or the cry of the vulture. In such a situation actions have no witnesses; these woods are no spies. You understand me, my Lord?"

  "I do," returned the Marchese, with seeming emotion; "but the time, have you thought of that?"

  "Any time, my Lord, to-morrow."

  "To-morrow!" exclaimed the Marchese; "Ah to-morrow, or tonight, it cannot be too soon. I leave this business to you; but I command you, let me hear of it no more till it is executed—I would fain escape from the recollection."

  They now quitted the pavilion; and Laurette, anxious to hear the whole of the conference, since she was certainly the subject of it, listened in hopes of catching another sentence; but their voices, after being imperfectly heard from the opposite side of the building, grew fainter, and were soon lost in distance.

  With trembling limbs, that could scarcely support her agitated frame, she gained the door of the pavilion, when a death-like faintness prevented her from proceeding, and she was obliged to lean against one of the pillars of the portico for support. Somewhat revived by the cool breeze, she looked fearfully around, and being assured that the Marchese and Paoli were returned to the castle, began to reflect upon the dangers with which she was surrounded, and to consider if there was any possibility of eluding them.

  Death, in its most terrifying form, was presented to her affrighted imagination; and being convinced that, if she continued longer in the power of her persecutors, it would be inevitable, she determined to attempt an escape. Fear gave new swiftness to her motions, and with rapidity, almost incredible, she ran, or rather flew to the small arched door, which was usually unfastened, and was the direct road from the castle. But this being locked, hope, the only balm of affliction, forsook her, and had she not felt the indispensible necessity of actual exertion, this new disappointment would have overthrown her purpose. But the certain danger of delay animated her resolves; and, however improbable it appeared that she could effectuate an escape, unobserved, from the principal entrance, she ventured to make a similar attempt. But here also she was denied admittance; and being unable either to proceed or to return, in a state of inconceivable suffering she threw herself upon a grassy acclivity, under the shade of a larch, and endeavoured to reflect upon some probable means of avoiding the horrors of her destiny. But she was unable to direct her thoughts to any point that was likely to lead to preservation; the gate of mercy seemed to be closed against her, and the knife of the assassin ready to be plunged into her innocent and unoffending bosom.

  As Paoli, for what cause she was incapable of ascertaining, appeared to be a more formidable enemy than even the Marchese himself, who seemed, from the conversation in the pavilion, to have betrayed some symptoms of remorse and pity, she once half resolved to throw herself at the feet of her haughty lover, to convince him, if possible, that she was innocent of the crimes alledged against her; and that no attempt, on her part, to investigate circumstances intended for concealment, had justly rendered her an object of resentment. But the knowledge of his disposition, which she had already obtained, was sufficient to dismiss the forlorn hope which had been recently conveyed to her heart. For even was she allowed to see the Marchese, which was an indulgence the wary steward was not likely to grant, lest it should unfix the wavering purpose of his Lord, there appeared but a small degree of probability in the supposition that she would be enabled to interest his compassion, without making another sacrifice more dreadful to her than that of life itself.

  No prospect of effecting her safety by her own efforts, nor any human assistance appearing, she could not acquire resolution to stir from the place; but continued to sit, with her pale cheek resting upon her still whiter arm, till the whole scene was involved in almost total darkness, without her having fixed upon any plan that was likely to lead to security.

  The chill winds of the east now blew cold from the mountains, and scattered the few remaining leaves from the half-desolated branches, whilst scarcely sensible of existence, she continued to muse upon what she had heard with indescribable anguish, till a deep and hollow knell, proceeding from a conventual church at an inconsiderable distance from the castle, at length recalled her to consciousness. She started—it was the bell of death; and seemed, to her weakened and almost deranged faculties, to foretell her own immediate dissolution. Pale and breathless as a statue, she clasped her hands eagerly together, and uttering a deep convulsive sigh, proceeded from the place.

  Voices were now heard approaching towards the tree she had quitted, and a pale uncertain light was dimly seen through a grove of dark firs which led nearly to the spot. In the next moment she perceived two men, apparently in pursuit of her, bearing torches, whom she soon discovered to be Paoli and Ambrose. She was not long unobserved; and the former accosting her in a rough voice, demanded whither she had been, and what had induced her to ramble so far at that late and perilous hour? Being in capable of framing a reply, he seized her by the arm with the fury of a barbarian, and finding from the livid paleness of her countenance that she was near fainting, commanded Ambrose to assist in supporting her. In this manner she was conveyed to the castle, more dead than alive, and soon afterwards into a kind of garret, never before occupied by any of the family, and far removed from her former apartment. To this place she was carried by Paoli, who, having seated her upon an ancient leather settee, which was placed at the extremity of the room, left her a lamp, and retired, not forgetting the precaution of fastening the door, lest his dark designs should be frustrated.

  No doubt now remained in the bosom of Laurette but that the desolate apartment to which she was conveyed by her inexorable enemy, was to witness the perpetration of his bloody designs; and that the wretch who was hired to commit the execrable deed, was to take the advantage of night and of silence, the hour when all but herself were resigned to the influence of repose. Her meek, her inoffensive life, was given into the hands of an inhuman monster, a wretch incapable of pity, dead to every principle of benevolence and virtue. He had appointed the morrow for the execution of his villainy, in a dreary and unfrequented forest; but as she was unable to learn the result of the conversation, from not having heard the whole of it, he seemed to have yielded to the request of the Marchese, and meant to execute his purpose instantaneously.

  Though Laurette's apprehensions of death were to
o terrible to be sustained with uniform fortitude, the sufferings of Enrico when he should be informed of her destiny, was a reflection more difficult to be endured; and this, aided by the probability of the persecutions of the Marchese being extended to him, should one victim be insufficient for the gratification of his resentment, completed the number of melancholy sensations that pained and corroded her heart.

  The more she endeavoured to unravel the mystery that had involved her in such a series of calamities, the more inexplicable it appeared; and being incapable of investigating the subject with the minute attention it required, it seemed, from a cursory survey, to be the effect of some deep-laid scheme, formed by the malicious disposition of Paoli, for the accomplishment of her destruction, rather than the result of a combination of casual occurrences, as she had formerly imagined; since something had been evidently laid to her charge which no part of her conduct could justify.

  A thousand times she blamed the weakness, the cowardice which prevented her from availing herself of the many opportunities that had offered themselves of obtaining another interview with the Monk. But this was beyond recall, and she was soon going to expiate this error, the only one she ever remembered to have committed, with her blood.

  It was now past midnight, and though she was at too great a distance from the inhabited part of the castle to hear what was passing below, she had reason to believe that all were retired to their beds.

  A deep and mournful stillness seemed to reign throughout the mansion, and being in hourly expectation of her murderer, she betook herself to prayer, that she might prepare her mind, as much as possible, for the awful change that awaited her, by soliciting the protection of Heaven in the moments of dissolution, which she was well assured could bestow comfort even in the agonies of death, and teach her to sustain them with dignity.

  As soon as her plaintive orisons were concluded, she took the volume of poems from her pocket which she had found in the pavilion, and connecting with it the idea of Enrico, bathed it with tears newly come to her relief, and then opening it, accidentally met with one of the beautiful sonnets of Petrarch, composed after the death of Laura. Not daring to trust herself with the perusal of a poem whose subject was so destructive to fortitude, she instantly closed it, and taking the fatal picture from her bosom, whose saint-like countenance so finely imaged her own, she pressed it to her lips, and breathing an eternal adieu, replaced it in her bosom; and then throwing herself upon the bed, endeavoured to await, with something like resignation, the doom which she considered as inevitable.

  As the morning advanced, her fears gradually subsided. If that desolate apartment was intended for her death-room, the bloody deed, she believed, would have been executed in the silence of the night; and with no small degree of consolation she beheld the first dawn of early day peep through the high lattices of her prison.

  Somewhat re-assured by this unexpected clemency, and nearly exhausted with fatigue, she yielded for a short time to the sweet influence of sleep; but her slumbers were broken and disturbed, and dreadful foreboding visions terrified her fancy.

  She thought she saw Enrico with a wild unsettled look, haggard countenance, and every symptom of suffering, dart into a forest, whither she was conveyed for the purpose of being massacred, who, after many ineffectual efforts to accomplish her release, was obliged to resign her to her murderer. She was then conducted through unfrequented woods, followed by Enrico, till they had reached a place still more dreary than the last, when the assassin drawing a stiletto from beneath his cloak, which he had previously concealed, gave her the mortal stab; then, as if not sufficiently glutted with the sight before him, he drew the instrument from her bosom, yet reeking with her blood, and plunged it into the heart of Enrico.

  This horrible dream, occasioned by the excessive agitation of her spirits, had such an effect upon her mind, that, uttering a faint scream, she started wildly from the bed, and saw, by the dusky light which the narrow casement admitted, a tall figure, whose stature her imagination heightened to a being of gigantic size, standing by her side, apparently watching her as she slept. Not having courage to cast her eyes again towards that part of the chamber where they had met the object of her terror, to be convinced that it was not an illusion, she uttered a deep and dreadful scream, and again fell senseless on the bed.

  No means being employed to recall her to life, she remained in this state of insensibility till she found herself in the arms of the steward, who had already conveyed her, assisted by Ambrose, beyond the walls of the castle.

  Paoli having mounted a mule that was in readiness at the outer gate, commanded Laurette to be placed behind him, and ordering her to be tied to the animal, to prevent her from effecting an escape, hurried from the place; when he had somewhat relaxed from the pace with which he had set out, she made a gentle, but hopeless, attempt to interest his compassion.

  "Oh save me! save me!" cried she, weeping, "if ever you have known what it is to suffer, or have felt the soft touches of sympathy; if ever you have considered the value of existence, or have trembled at the thoughts of losing it."

  "To what do you allude?" replied Paoli, sternly; "what reason have you to indulge yourself in fanciful conjectures, and what is it that you fear?"

  "Alas! I fear every thing," returned Laurette, mournfully; "and it is you only that can save me."

  "Is there any thing so very terrible in a removal from the castle," replied Paoli, angrily—"a place that you entered so reluctantly; are you never to be pleased?"

  "Ah! but I know—" cried the fair sufferer, weeping.

  "What do you know?" interrupted the steward, turning round fiercely upon his saddle; "and what is it that you apprehend since you know it to be the will of the Marchese?"

  "Ah! but to be conveyed, I know not whither; to be carried into a dreary wood, and to die; to have the rights of burial denied me, and to be left a prey to the wolves of the desert—have I deserved all this? and can I reflect upon it without fear?"

  "Banish these ridiculous suspicions," returned Paoli, with surprise, "who has told you all this? who has imagined it for you? or what cause have you to indulge in these improbable surmises?"

  "No one has informed me of my danger," replied Laurette, tremulously; "Alas! I had no friend left in the castle to inform me of it. It was myself only that heard it in the pavilion, when you was in conversation with the Marchese."

  "And what demon," interrupted the steward, "has instructed you in the art of overhearing secret conferences? what did you hear? tell me instantly, as you value your safety."

  In hopes of being able to excite his compassion, Laurette acquainted him with the circumstance of her having been in the pavilion previous to their arrival, and of the fruitless attempts she had made to leave it, that she might not be obliged to overhear conversation intended to be secret. Then disguising some part of the discourse, lest it should irritate him the more, she related what she had heard.

  Some symptoms of confusion appeared in Paoli's countenance at the recital, though he positively denied that it had any reference to herself; and after endeavouring to convince her that no harm would befall her, he sunk again into his accustomed reserve; whilst Laurette, with a heart palpitating with terror, was compelled to proceed on her journey.

  END OF VOLUME THREE

  VOLUME FOUR

  CHAPTER I

  How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds

  Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by—

  A fellow, by the hand of Nature mark'd.

  Louted, and sign'd to do a deed of shame.

  This murder had not come into my mind:

  Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause.

  When I spake darkly what I purposed.

  Or turned an eye of doubt upon my face.

  Or bade me tell my tale in express words.

  Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off;

  And these, thy fears, would have wrought fears in me.

  -SHAKESPEARE
>
  The lovely orphan was no sooner conveyed from the castle, than the Marchese appeared to labour under such an oppression of spirits, as no change of circumstance, or of place, promised to remove.

  Though he would willingly have spared himself this new cause of remorse, by confining Laurette in a convent at the instigation of the inhuman steward, he had at last determined upon her death. Offended pride and disappointed hopes taught him at first to reflect upon it with indifference, whilst the apparent necessity of committing this horrid deed, to conceal the perpetration of another not less criminal, actuated him still more powerfully; yet, probably, even these arguments would not have possessed a sufficient portion of energy and persuasion to have effected so sudden a resolution, had he not beheld in the person of Paoli a wretch, whose mind, as well as aspect, indicated him a villain, marked and selected by Nature for the accomplishment of the most daring and bloody purposes; who being entirely unrestrained by conscience, was ever ready to espouse the cause of iniquity, for the sake of temporary advantage; and from a long acquaintance with all the arts of intrigue, was enabled to direct the weaknesses and vices of others to his immediate interests.

  Three days had passed since Laurette's departure from the castle, during which period a thousand internal conflicts destroyed the repose of the Marchese, and lacerated his guilty bosom. He awaited with a dreadful kind of impatience the return of Paoli. The sun of the morning arose to him without exciting one sweet or pleasurable emotion; and, as if anxious to escape from his penetrating and reproachful beams, he frequently retired into the deep clefts of the rocks, or the rude narrow glens of the mountains, as if alarmed lest his very thoughts should have witnesses; but, though he dared not trust himself to visit those scenes which were once rendered interesting by the soft form of her, who was now the patient victim of his cruelty, her beautiful image, adorned with all its innocent and unassuming graces, was continually presented to him, even in the wild and lonely recesses he had chosen. Since she had now paid so dear for her offence, remorse and tenderness rapidly succeeded each other; and sensations, as new as they were agonizing, were excited in his breast. Conscious that to the mind diseased, no state is so insupportable as that of suspense, he became still more impatient for the return of his steward, though it was impossible he could communicate any intelligence of a cordial nature, since he equally dreaded to hear that Laurette was assassinated, or had effected an escape, as such an event could not take place without the interference of another, which must inevitably lead to a discovery productive of the most alarming consequences.