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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Scarcely was I settled in my new habitation, when the arrival of Paoli was announced, who came to make some arrangements respecting my board. He was closeted for some hours with the Superior; but the result of this conversation was kept a profound secret.

  "As soon, as he was gone I discovered, from the behaviour of the Abbess, that she had been induced, through the insinuations of the steward, to form an unfavourable opinion or me, as she never addressed me with that maternal affection which characterized her deportment towards the rest of the sisters; and when her eyes accidentally met mine, I observed they were usually turned from me with an expression of contempt, and sometimes of horror, that penetrated my heart. That Paoli had uttered much to my disadvantage, to excuse the infamy of his proceedings, was evident; but of what nature were the aspersions he had thrown upon my reputation, was not easy to be discovered. Often did I half resolve to lay the ease before the Abbess, as well to excite her compassion with a relation of my misfortunes, as to absolve me from the crimes imputed to me by my enemies. But an irresistible impulse withheld me for a time from putting this fluctuating design into practice; and another unexpected event relieved me from the indispensibility of again adopting a plan, which, from the probability of being accused of adding dissimulation to treachery, wore rather all unpromising aspect.

  "One day, as I was sitting alone in my cell, a message was delivered to me by one of the novices, desiring my attendance at the grate. The surprise this incident excited almost overwhelmed me; hope had so long sunk beneath the horizon of my prospects, that I believed it impossible the morning of joy could ever more dawn upon them; a faint sickness was communicated to my heart, and it was with difficulty that I was enabled, even with the assistance of a Nun, to reach the appointed place. It was late in the evening when I was summoned to the grate; but the dusky hue of the twilight did not prevent me from distinguishing that the person in waiting was Pali. His figure was too strongly impressed upon my mind to allow me to mistake it; and knowing that a tongue like his could convey no welcome intelligence, I surveyed him for a moment with a look of silent abhorrence, but without uttering a word, till at length disengaging something from his cloak, which I soon discovered to be a letter, "I am come," cried he, with a malicious smile, "to bring you news of your son; this paper will inform you of the whole"—I took it with a trembling hand, and desiring the Nun, who accompanied me, to elevate her lamp, opened it in haste. The first words which met my eye were these:—

  "Our son, having been called into actual service, has lately died in consequence of a wound received at the battle of Prague; and your adopted daughter, in obedience to the will of the Marchese de Montferrat, her guardian and lawful protector, is contracted to a young Venetian nobleman. Any future inquiry after these persons will therefore be useless."—The paper now dropped from my hand, a dimness came before my eyes, and I fell lifeless on the pavement. The cries of the Nun who attended me, brought others to my assistance; and on recovering I found myself on a bed in one of those apartments which are allotted to the Superior, with two of the sisters, who were seated by my side. One of these I soon perceived was sister Agnes, the Nun who was professed the day of your arrival, and the only one to whom I had singularly attached myself.

  "It was long before my health was re-established, and probably it would have been still longer, had not the Abbess, who soon learned the cause of my sorrow, assisted, with the utmost kindness and attention, in the recomposing of my spirits. During the first three months of my captivity, the use of pens, paper, and every other implement of writing, was denied me; and so strictly was I guarded, that had I been inclined to attempt an escape, I should have found it impracticable. But after this melancholy event I was treated with more gentleness than before; and not feeling any desire to be delivered from confinement, since every earthly tie was dissolved, I endeavoured to conciliate the esteem of my associates; and being entirely disengaged from all worldly concerns, resolved to dedicate the rest of my days to the exercises of religion."—

  Here Madame Chamont concluded her recital; and scarcely had Laurette expressed her sense of the obligation, before the Lady of the convent entered the room. The conversation now turned upon more general subjects till the bell rang for dinner; when the party, retiring from the Abbess's parlour, joined the Nuns, who were assembled in the refectoire.

  The rest of the day was passed by our heroine and her earliest friend in a state of tender thoughtfulness. The absence of Enrico and the Conte, as well as the motive of it, now the raptures of the meeting were over, threw a soft shade upon the spirits of Madame Chamont. The interview, which was shortly to take place between them and the Marchese, had something in it peculiarly touching. Her son was gone to claim him as a father; her spotless reputation was shortly to be cleared from those cruel aspersions with which it had been tainted, and how these important matters were to be conducted was a subject for continual reflection. Laurette did not consider it so deeply; happiness was alone presented to her in the visions of her fancy; the Marchese, she believed, would not only confess, but repent of his crimes. What he had meditated against her was already forgotten; and unsuspicious of the murder of her father, she knew of little else that could be laid to his charge. To walk together through the cloister in the ealin hour of twilight; to wander among the massy pillars which supported its arched roof; to mark the holy devices upon the dim gothic windows, was a charm the most congenial to their feelings; and often did Madame Chamont and Laurette steal away unobserved to enjoy that melancholy kind of pleasure, which scenes of this kind never fail to excite in devout and susceptible minds. With what pious sensations did they pace the burial-ground of the convent, divided only from that appropriated to the Monks by a terrace-walk bordered with cypresses! How many of the sisters, who, after having lingered out a life of solitude and penitence in that religious retirement, were now, they considered, numbered with the dead! The second evening after the departure of the Conte and Enrico, the chapel-door being left open after the evening prayers, they went, attended by two of the sisters, to see an ancient stately monument, which was erected to the memory of the convent's Foundress, who from her exemplary conduct was reputed a Saint. It was composed of black marble, and was situated on that side of the chapel which was nearest the altar. It was almost encompassed with some others, which had since been creeted to the memory of several of the former Abbesses, which, though less splendid, were also ornamented with a number of religious devices.

  The privilege of being interred in the chapel was only granted to the Superiors, the Nuns, whatever might be their rank, being always buried without. Laurette could not forbear heaving a profound sigh when she reflected upon the vanity of human distinctions and as she returned slowly towards the cloister, she frequently turned to survey the simple graves of the Nuns, which were covered with high grass, and bordered with evergreens; it being one of the rules of the institution that, after the profession of a vestal (an event which had recently taken place) for the novices to replace the flowers and shrubs used in the ceremony in the same baskets in which they were originally gathered, and then to leave them at the foot of the altar till the vigil is at an end: as soon as the festivities are over, the train of Nuns proceed from the convent to the burial-ground, and being met at the chapel-door by the novices bearing the baskets, strew them upon the graves of their departed friends, chanting at the same time a requiem for the repose of their souls. This being concluded, the vesper service is performed; after which the sisters are allowed either to return to their cells, or to remain in the gardens till the tolling of the second bell.

  CHAPTER IX

  Better be with the dead.

  Whom we, to gain our place, hate sent to peace.

  Than on the torture of the mind to lie

  In restless agony.

  -SHAKESPEARE

  Near a week had elapsed since the departure of Enrico and the Conte before any news respecting the success of their embassy arrived. During this painful interval Ma
dame Chamont's mind became a prey to causeless anxiety. Joy and sorrow had so uniformly succeeded each other in her past life, that she could scarcely forbear dreading the future; for having enjoyed so lately the raptures of unexpected felicity, experience had taught her, that, in the general course of human events, she might probably suffer the reversc. Long schooled in affliction, her disposition, though it remained unsoured by disappointment, had lost much of its sanguineness; and she sometimes doubted if, when at liberty to return to the world, whether she should acquit herself to her satisfaction, whether her weakened spirits could support that elevation of rank to which she must shortly aspire, with the bustle of society, and all those accompaniments of greatness, which in high life are so seldom dispensed with. Respecting the interview between the Marchese and her son, she indulged a variety of vague conjectures. It was their first meeting; and what would be the result of such an event? Anxiety was increased by reflection, and all the tender, the indescribable sensations of the mother were called into action.

  From this state of suspense she was, however, relieved by a letter delivered by Anselmo, who, as soon as he had entered the gate, inquired eagerly for Madame Chamont, and was directed to the convent parlour. Having received it with breathless anxiety, she retired to her apartment, and finding it bore the signature of Enrico, unfolded and perused it in haste. It contained only a few lines; but these were sufficient to quiet her fears concerning the effect of their journey.

  "We have at present," says Enrico, "met with no material obstacles to retard the success of our undertaking. The priest, who was the principal object of our search, was easily found; and on a strict investigation, we were mutually convinced that he also had been made the dupe of designing villainy, and was by no means accessary to the plot, which appears to have been entirely conducted by Paoli.

  "The Marchese has already entered into a full confession of his crimes. He seemed, on our introduction, to endure much internal affliction; for never did I behold remorse and acute anguish more forcibly delineated than when his eyes met those of Della Croisse. This self-condemning conduct induced us to proceed in the affair with as much gentleness as possible, though we did not omit the necessary information relative to the legality or his first marriage, and Laurette's providential release from captivity and expected death! This intelligence, as it served to assure him of her safety, seemed to take an oppressive weight from his heart; though the starts of agony, which frequently convulsed his frame when his distracted mind reverted to his past crimes, were altogether more dreadful than the imagination can conceive.

  "But I am wandering from my original intention," continues Enrico, "which was only to state the policy or your leaving the convent immediately. Anselmio, who is the bearer of this incoherent epistle, will procure you a carriage from the Kaiser, which will convey your charming companion and yourself to the castle of Elfinbach, our present place of residence, and of late the abode of the Marchese: perhaps it may be prudent to add, that it is his request also, who, if we may judge by appearances, is anxious to obtain the forgiveness of those he has injured. I need not entreat you to prepare for an interview which may demand some exertion and fortitude, as I am convinced your own superior understanding will instruct you in what manner to act. I wish it was in my power to add, that the Marchese's sincerity and repentance are likely to be proved by the purity of his future conduct. But, alas I fear it will be otherwise; his constitution seems to have yielded to intense sorrow, and much is to be feared from its baleful influence. I mention this," resumes Enrico. "for the purpose of hastening your departure from the convent, as well as to acquaint you with what may happen. Let nothing prevent you from commencing your journey immediately."

  When Madame Chamont had communicated the contents of this letter to Laurette, she gave orders for Anselmo to make every requisite arrangement; and being informed in about an hour that the carriage was in readiness, she took an affectionate leave of the sisterhood, and, attended by her fair charge, pursued her way towards the castle.

  After a few days" journey, in which no event happened worthy of attention, they came within view of the mansion, whose rude, deserted appearance brought to the recollection of Madame Chamont the ideas it had first excited; and when they arrived at the great gate leading to the outer court, her tears flowed fast and unrestrainedly, as her memory reverted to the scenes she had wit—nessed since she last quitted it.

  The death-like silence, which seemed to prevail throughout the castle as they advanced within a few paces of the portico, aided these uneasy sensations; and already had they reached the door of the great hall, which was thrown open for their reception, without having met with any inmate of the mansion. At last one of the servants belonging to the Marchese crossed the hall with a hurried step; and on being accosted by Laurette, stopped to hear her commands. She inquired for the Chevalier Chamont; and the servant having conducted them into one of the apartments which they had formerly occupied, ran to inform him of their arrival. They had not been many minutes in the room before Enrico entered. His demeanour was mild, but dejected, and his face, "like to a title-page, foretold the nature of some tragic volume". Madame Chamont, who, from the hints dropped in the letter, too well guessed the cause, after a fruitless attempt to recompose her feelings, inquired tremulously if they had arrived too late?

  "The Marchese is yet alive," returned Enrico; "but we must not flatter ourselves with delusive hopes—he is evidently dying. To me and to the Conte he has made a full confession of his enormities, and may Heaven, in consideration of his sincere, though late repentance, pardon his atrocious crimes! A Carthusian Priar, who has been with him more than two hours at confession, is so shocked with what has already been related, that he has twice left the room without giving him absolution, though, as his decease is hourly expected, I hope he will be wrought upon not to postpone it."

  Madame Chamont, who now found it necessary to resist the native softness of her heart with all the fortitude she could command, endeavoured to mitigate the keenness of her sensibility by the most vigorous exertion; whilst Laurette attempted to support the sinking spirits of her friend with an external appearance of firmness, the effect of painful effort. Since it was impossible for them to be introduced to the Marchese during his engagement with the Monk, the party resorted to the saloon, where they were soon joined by the Signora d'Orfo, whose unbounded joy on beholding Laurette could only discover itself in tears. She would have made a thousand inquiries concerning her mysterious departure, and the events that had taken place since that memorable era, could she have sufficiently commanded her voice; but surprise, for she had not been taught to expect her arrival, and the settled melancholy that was depicted upon the countenances of all present, prevented her interrogatories. After about an hour spent in painful reflection, the Conte della Croisse, with the permission of the Marchese, came to conduct Madame Chamont and Laurette into the chamber. Night and solitude combined to assist the pensiveness of their feelings, as they advanced with a slow, unsteady pace through the long winding galleries which led into the apartment; and as Della Croisse laid his hand upon the door to give them admission, Madame Chamont's spirits so entirely forsook her, that she was obliged to lean against one of the pillars of the corridor for support. A look from Enrico at length inspired her with new fortitude, who, taking a hand of each, led them to the side of the bed on which the Marchese was laid.

  As soon as he was conscious of their presence, which was not immediately, a deep groan agitated his frame, and an expression of guilt and horror was marked in his wildly-looking eyes, which language can but feebly convey. "Great Heaven!" thought Laurette, as she surveyed, with mingled pity and astonishment, the emaciated form before her, "look down with compassion upon this afflicted being suffering in the last hours of existence the agony of an awakened conscience; and Oh soften the rigour of thy justice with the effusions of mercy!"

  Madame Chamont's grief was silent, but it was deep; she frequently attempted to articulate, but could
not; low sobs prevented her utterance, whilst her soft eyes were directed eloquently towards Heaven with a look that was almost angelic; yet, anxious to convince the Marchese that she came to offer him her forgiveness, and also to assure him that nothing of enmity lurked in her bosom, she extended her hand to grasp his, breathing at the same time a prayer for the repose of his soul. Charmed with the manner in which this favour was bestowed, he pressed it fervently to his heart; his ghastly countenance lost much of its dreadful wildness, whilst his hollow eyes, which before glared with deep and inbred honor, gradually softened till sorrow, deep and immoveable, was the only expression that remained.

  As Madame Cliamont and Laurette continued to kneel, though without addressing him, the Marchese gazed alternately upon each, but was unable to speak. They, indeed, appeared like two ministering angels come to offer consolation to a soul bowed down with the weight of its own irremediable crimes. But the awful distance at which he was thrown from them, sealed his lips in silence. Their countenances were irradiated by innocence, whilst his was depressed by guilt; and now that adversity had brought conviction to his heart, he experienced the weakness, the imbecility of vice when opposed to the innate dignity of virtue.

  At length Madame Chamont broke silence, and in language the most simple and pathetic, pronounced her forgiveness; dwelling likewise with energy upon the promises of the Gospel in a stile so unassuming and elegant, that her auditors listened with interest and emotion, whilst the Marchese, at the same time that he found his whole attention irresistibly attracted by the consoling truths she had uttered, felt his hopes insensibly revive; and, after having received the pardon of all present whom he had injured, he became gradually more tranquil; though, when his eyes glanced upon Laurette, something was evidently brought to his recollection, from the influence of which he would gladly have escaped; and when he beheld the gentleness of her demeanour, and saw the anxiety she discovered for his happiness, he observed her with a kind of wrapped astonishment, as if he scarcely believed that a being so injured could bestow compassion upon its persecutor.