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

by Eliza Parsons

  The interview was short, but affecting. The Marchese, as soon as his sufferings would allow him command of language, addressed himself to all present witli the most pathetic energy, expressing forcibly the high sense he entertained of their unexampled goodness, who could thus bestow pardon upon a wretch whose crimes had been productive of such accumulated misery. Shortness of respiration, and sorrow at the recollection of the past, prevented the Marchese from proceeding, and being unable longer to support himself, he sunk back upon his pillow; a cadaverous paleness overspread his face, whilst his quivering lips, which were parched by the violence of his disease, appeared to be on the eve of closing for ever. The scene now became insupportably painful, and Enrico perceiving that his mother and Laurette were much affected, would have conducted them from the room; but the Marchese being aware of his design, gently recalled them, and fixing his dim eyes alternately upon his son and Laurette, added, "You have long loved each other with an affection as pure as it has been lasting: I only have been the means of rendering this attachment unfortunate; and let me, as the only atonement I can offer for my past offences, bestow you on each other."

  Laurette, not expecting such an address, bent her blushing cheek towards the ground, whilst Enrico pressed her unresisting hand to his breast, as he leaned over the bed with an air of melancholy attention listening to the words of his father.

  The Marchese paused for a moment, and then proceeded:

  "Let him, whose crimes and weaknesses have clouded the days of juvenile affection with premature sorrow, now sanction your future happiness.

  "Sanction did I say!" continued the Marchese, interrupting himself; "have I hitherto sanctioned any thing but vice; and is it not virtue to disobey a wretch like me? But can you not, Laurette, meek-suffering angel! as you contemplate the virtues of the son, forget the vices of the father?—the fiend, who would have been thy murderer, from having consented, after many struggles, to thy death, as well as to-." Here he stopped—his wandering eyes became fixed in horror—his limbs shook—he struck his hand forcibly upon his forehead, as if a pang had forced it there—and then, apparently exhausted, sunk again upon the bed!

  Enrico, finding that quiet and repose were necessary, conducted the ladies from the room, whilst the Conte della Croisse remained with the Marchese, who soon afterwards fell into a short slumber.

  When they had descended the stairs, they were met by the Confessor, who, with his cowl over his face, was moving thoughtfully along on his way to the Marchese's chamber.

  Enrico first observing the Father, addressed him for a few minutes aside; whilst Laurette, hoping in this holy Friar to behold her early instructor, the lather Benedicta, surveyed him attentively. The subject he had entered upon, seeming to engage all his powers of attention, prevented him from being conscious of the presence of any other than the person to whom he was speaking, till accidentally turning aside his cowl, she perceived, with amazement, the long pale visage of her mysterious visitor. Her presence, in the moment he beheld her, seemed to operate as powerfully upon his feelings; for his cheek reddened, and his whole frame suffered a slight convulsion; yet he remained silent, following her with his eyes till she had reached the door of the saloon, where the Signora was in waiting to receive her.

  Had not the mind of Lairrette been entirely occupied by the scene she had just witnessed, this singular incident would have excited her curiosity, and possibly she might have taken some pains to have unravelled an affair which had long engaged her in deep reflection. But compassion for the fate of the wretched Marchese, whose suffering she had so recently contemplated, was so forcibly impressed upon her memory, that the recollection of past events, as well as of past wrongs, were entirely obliterated from her heart.

  As soon as Enrico had ended his conversation with the Monk, he entered the room, and endeavoured, with an assumed composure of address, to bestow comfort and consolation on the rest of the party. The night was passed by all in a state of tender dejection, each retiring to their apartments with a persuasion that the Marchese could not survive the following day, as he every hour betrayed new symptoms of approaching death.

  In the morning Enrico and Madame Chamont were summoned into the Marchese's chamber as soon as they were risen; and Laurette, having disengaged herself from the society of the Conte and the Signora d'Orfo, felt an irresistible inclination to take a solitary walk through the avenues, being willing to indulge the luxury of her feelings amid the scenes of her earliest youth—scenes which memory presented with more pathetic interest to her heart, when she compared what had happened when resident there, with the long train of adversities which had followed in the rear of her former felicity.

  No sooner had she crossed the lawn, on her way towards the vista, than she observed the mysterious Monk moving slowly beneath the leafless branches of a chestnut in the attitude of deep reflection. The hints he had once given her on a subject of so much importance to her happiness, as he had so positively affirmed; the portrait he had delivered with such solemn injunctions, with the various inconsistencies which had hitherto marked his conduct, now crowded upon her mind; and since she had nothing to fear from the persecutions of those who had formerly been her enemies, she resolved, instead of avoiding him as before, to throw herself in his way, that she might demand what motive had instigated him to such a singular mode of proceeding.

  This was no sooner determined on than she advanced with a quickened step along the avenue through which the Father had passed beheld him stationed at some distance apparently lost in thought.

  The sound of her steps did not rouse him from his reverie till she had arrived within a few paces of the tree under which he was standing, when starting as from a dream, lie seemed to survey her with astonishment and painful emotion, but without speaking. Laurette's newly-acquired courage now forsook her, and anxious as she was to have these mysteries unravelled, she was unable to address him, and slightly courtesying, passed on in silence. She had not proceeded many yards before a sigh, which seemed as if it would rend in sunder the breast that heaved it, again recalled her attention. She turned—it was the Monk, who, without moving from the place in which she had left him, stood gazing upon her with a rapt and earnest regard.

  "He has certainly something to relate," thought Laurette, "which materially concerns me, and why should I fear to know it? His conduct has hitherto been inexplicable; but that by no means implies that it is always to remain so; besides, he seems to be unhappy, and who knows but I may have it in my power to comfort him?"—Thus released from the dominion of fear, she returned again towards the Monk, who observing her approach, threw his hood back upon his shoulders, and advanced a few steps forwards; then, as if a sudden pang had seized him, he stopped, fixed his tearful eyes upon the ground, and again drawing his cowl over his face, as if struggling to conceal an excess of tenderness, turned round, and leaned upon his staff.

  Compassion, as well as curiosity, now warmed the heart of Laurette; and unable any longer to resist the amiable impulses of her nature, she ventured to intnidc upon the sacredness of his sorrow by asking him why he wept. Her words seemed to have the effect of electricity, and so much of tenderness and pity was mingled with his astonishment, that Laurette felt her bosom throb with new emotion; and anxious, though fcarful, to enter upon a conversation whose prelude appeared to have occasioned extreme distress, she at length besought him to inform her who he was, and why he bent his eyes upon her so piteously without unfolding the cause.

  "Oh my daughter! my daughter!" cried the Monk, clasping her wildly to his heart, "Heaven, who alone is acquainted with my sufferings, knows what I have endured; since, without a possibility of assisting you, I have left you alone to contend with the adversities of your fate."

  Amazed at a conduct she could by no means explain or excuse, Laurette disengaged herself from his embrace, and being terrified at the raptures he had betrayed, for which she could not account, was irresolute whether to remain with him till her curiosity was gratified, or to r
eturn to the castle; till the Monk, after having wiped away the tears that had fallen plentifully upon his cheeks, proceeded—

  "Dear orphan of her whom I so early lost, caust thou forgive him who ought to have defended thee from the shafts of misfortune for having thus forsaken thee? And wilt thou, by listening patiently to his recital, acquit him of premeditated wrong?"

  "Alas! what mean you, holy Father?" replied Laurette, interrupting him; "how have you wronged me, and what claim have I upon your protection who never knew you?"

  "An undoubted claim," replied the Monk, emphatically—"the claim of a child upon a parent."

  "Upon a parent!" exclaimed Laurette. "Oh Heavens! are you then my father?"

  "I am not thy father," returned the Monk, mournfully; "but, as being the last surviving parent of thy beloved, yet unfortunate, mother, am bound to thee by the most sacred ties. From a long residence abroad I was supposed to be dead; and on my return from imprisonment and exile, was marvellously directed to this place."

  Joy and astonishment now animated the features of Laurette. To find a relation of her mother in the mysterious Monk was an unexpected blessing; and the idea of having it in her power to soften the remembrance of the past, to tranquillize the future, and to sooth the infirmities of age with the sweet affections of her nature, was a source of immeasurable delight; and she besought him to inform her of those past events which he had described as replete with misery.

  An advancing footstep, which proved to be Enrico's, put an end to the interview; and the Monk, having given her his permission to acquaint her friends with what he had unfolded, immediately on the decease of the Marchese, she retired. As Enrico attended her along the avenues, he perceived that her spirits had been much agitated; but fearing to distress her by an inquiry into the cause, he only rallied her gently on her love of solitude, and her secret confidence with the Father, and then conducted her into the terrace-parlour. Here she found Madame Chamont alone, and in tears; for her last interview with the Marchese had much afflicted her: having witnessed his repentance, she now lamented that death would so shortly prevent him from proving the sincerity of it. He had delivered her a packet with his dying hand, expressly commanding that it should be opened on his decease, as it contained papers conveying particular orders concerning the manner of his interment. This parcel he presented with his blessing, conjuring her at the same time to forget the unhappy wretch whose vices had proved so injurious to her repose, and to endeavour to prolong her life to augment the happiness of her children, who possessing the advantage of her precepts and example, would reach the summit of virtue.

  The day now passed silently towards the close. The physician, by whom the Marchese was attended, having declared soon after their arrival that his patient could not survive many days, they were in momentary expectation of his death. The Monk, his Confessor, who had hitherto denied him absolution, was called in towards evening to administer the last Sacrament, and a few hours after midnight the soul of the Marchese, after repeated struggles, took its flight into the regions of eternity.

  When this melancholy event was commumeated to the family, they suffered for a time the severest distress; but knowing the necessity of exertion, each assisted in consoling the other, till by repeated endeavours they at length became reconciled and resigned, through the not presumptive hope that his repentance, though late, would be finally accepted.

  CHAPTER X

  Now let the sacred organ blow

  With solemn pause, and sounding slow;

  Now let the voice due measures keep.

  In strains that sigh, and words that weep.

  -MALLET

  A few days after the death or the Marchese, Madame Chamont, now Marchesa de Montferrat, mindful of his last injunction, opened the packet, so solemnly delivered, in the presence of the Conte, Enrico, and Laurette, to examine the contents. It contained several papers relative to the estates seized upon in the lifetime of their rightful heir, the orphan daughter of the Conte della Caro, the testimony of which was sufficient to prove the legality and justice of her claim, and thereby to reinstate her in her immense possessions, should she refuse to unite her fate with that of Enrico. Other papers were also enclosed, which were penned by Father Paulo, the priest, who attended for the purpose during the illness of the Marchese, in obedience to the will of the Conte della Croisse, acknowledging Julie de Rubine, long known by the name of Madame Chamont, to be the lawful wife of the Marchese de Montferrat; and the youth, hitherto called the Chevalier Chamont, to be his legitimate son and heir to the titles, as well as the estates of his deceased father. Then followed the will, which, after a proper arrangement of the landed property, placed Julie, hisacknowledged wife, in undoubted possession of all the personal property, amounting to an astonishing sum, excepting only a few legacies, which were to be paid at the expiration of a month; one to the Conte della Croisse, the rest to a small number of broken dependants, who had hitherto partaken of his bounty. The rest of the writings contained some particular orders relative to his funeral, which he requested might he conducted with as much privacy as possible; and as he had no wish to be conveyed into Italy, for the purpose of being entombed with his ancestors, he desired that his bones might be laid quietly in the conventual church belonging to the Carthusians; that no monument should be erected to perpetuate his memory to futurity, but that every thing should be conducted with as little ceremony as possible.

  As soon as all these affairs were properly adjusted, the remains of the Marchese were interred according to his desire in the church of the convent of St Angelo, which was about a quarter of a league from the castle. The new Marchesa, Enrico, Laurette, and the Conte della Croisse, attended as mourners. The service for the occasion was read by Father Benedicta, who delivered it in a stile so moving, that the least affected of the audience could not refrain from tears. When this ceremony was concluded, and the body consigned to the dust, a sermon was presented from the centre of the church, replete with all that simplicity and energy of expression which the solemnity of the subject required, and ornamented with all those peculiar graces of eloquence, for which the accomplished Monk was so deservedly eminent. It spoke of the reward of the just, and the excellence of all unpolluted conscience. The subject was of too affecting a nature to be introduced without exciting emotion Laurette sobbed aloud, whilst the widowed Marchesa drew her veil over her face to conceal her tears from observation, as she leaned upon the arm of her son. The whole congregation, which consisted chiefly of Friars and Lay-brothers belonging to the monastery, and a number of the rustic inhabitants of the adjacent villages, listened with undivided attention as the Father proceeded, who dwelt upon the Divine promises concerning the fate of departed penitents in a manner that seemed to diffuse peace and comfort around. As he continued, the audience crowded still nearer; a saint-like devotion was portrayed on every countenance, and hope, which before had afforded only a pale and tremulous beam, now burst forth with unclouded radiance. The path leading to eternal happiness appeared no longer inaccessible; fear was succeeded by confidence, and sorrow by resignation. This discourse was followed by a deep and solemn strain attuned to the notes of the organ, which was full, harmonious and sublime, such as was calculated to impress deeply upon the mind the important truths which had been uttered.

  This being over, the congregation dispersed, and the party returned to the castle in a state of tender melancholy, not altogether unpleasing, each disposed to reflection on the vanity of human desires, and human attainments.

  On the following day Laurette availed herself of the Monk's permission, and acquainted her friends of what he had already disclosed relative to his mysterious appearances, and with every other event worthy of notice, displaying at the same time the picture of her mother, the Contessa della Caro, which she had till this period carefully concealed. However highly the fair orphan had been estimated by her amiable preceptress previous to this recital, the circumstance just mentioned, as it discovered that no threats or afflictions
, however terrible, possessed sufficient influence to induce her to forfeit the promise thus sacredly delivered to the Father, was a convincing proof that she had early united all the winning delicacies of her sex with a certain dignity of mind not usually connected with youth and inexperience: that her son had made so excellent a choice was not the least of her comforts, and she looked forwards to the consummation of their happiness with a great degree of tranquil delight. Enrico's eyes beamed with every virtuous sensation of which the human mind is susceptible as the Marchesa dwelt upon her praises, and anticipated with impatience that hour which would complete his felicity by bestowing upon him the charming reward of his fidelity.

  Father Benedicta did not long delay his visit of congratulation and condolence, but came attended by the Monk, who had acknowledged himself the near relation of Laurette, whom he introduced to the Marchesa and the rest of the family by the name of Father Andrea. From this Friar the pious Carthusian had heard of the many strange occurrences which had lately taken place at the castle, and waited anxiously till he could clasp his dear friend, the unfortunate Della Croisse, to his breast without a breach of propriety. The meeting was joyful, yet affecting; for busy memory recurred with melancholy minuteness to the fatal incidents of their past lives, the follies which had disgraced their earlier years, and thus planted thorns in their future paths. So true is it, that the mind, though escaped from the dominion of vice, dwells with pain upon the recollection of those hours which have been dedicated to licentious pleasures.