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

by Eliza Parsons

  "My good friend," said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, "I hope you will long live surrounded by them."

  "Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!" replied the old man, and he paused: "I can scarcely wish it," he resumed, "for I trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night, walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?"

  Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at length said in a low voice, "I hope we shall be permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign," continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, "it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!" Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, "But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must believe this." "Then do believe it," replied St. Aubert, "severe, indeed, would be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again!" He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.

  La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it, saying, "We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light."

  "No," said St. Aubert, "this is a light I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day; this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?"

  "It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the woods were haunted." "They certainly are haunted," said St. Aubert with a smile, "but I believe it is by mortals." "I have sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep," rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, "almost under my window, and I never heard any music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, and outlived the warning."

  Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion.

  "Well, but, my good friend," said St. Aubert, "has nobody had courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who is the musician." "Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left."

  "What turret?" asked St. Aubert with quickness, "I see none."

  "Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongs to is hid among the trees."

  "Yes, my dear sir," said Emily, pointing, "don't you see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall upon."

  "O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?"

  "The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner," replied La Voisin, emphatically.

  "Ah!" said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, "are we then so near Le-Blanc!" He appeared much agitated.

  "It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence," resumed La Voisin, "but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into other hands." St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the last words. "Dead!" he exclaimed, "Good God! when did he die?"

  "He is reported to have died about five weeks since," replied La Voisin. "Did you know the Marquis, sir?"

  "This is very extraordinary!" said St. Aubert without attending to the question. "Why is it so, my dear sir?" said Emily, in a voice of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded to the estates. "I have forgot his title, monsieur," said La Voisin; "but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his coming hither."

  "The chateau is shut up then, still?"

  "Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard by."

  "The chateau is spacious, I suppose," said Emily, "and must be desolate for the residence of only two persons."

  "Desolate enough, mademoiselle," replied La Voisin, "I would not pass one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain."

  "What is that?" said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. "Almost from my childhood, sir," replied his host.

  "You remember the late marchioness, then?" said St. Aubert in an altered voice.

  "Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who remember her."

  "Yes—" said St. Aubert, "and I am one of those."

  "Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate."

  Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; "Enough," said he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,—"it is enough, my friend."

  Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, but St. Aubert interrupted him; "Apology is quite unnecessary," said he, "let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now heard."

  "I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!" They were all silent;

  At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound

  Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,

  And stole upon the air, that even Silence

  Was took ere she was "ware, and wished she might

  Deny her nature, and be never more

  Still, to be so displaced.

  -Milton

  In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. "This is strange!" said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. "Very strange!" said Emily. "It is so," rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.

  After a long pause, "It is now about eighteen years since I first heard that music," said La Voisin; "I remember it was on a fine summer's night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at his bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up with him the night before. I had been watching, an
d went out for a little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such sounds!—they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of angels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houses where there was a dying person."

  Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.

  "But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis."

  "Father Denis!" said St. Aubert, who had listened to "narrative old age" with patient attention, "are we near a convent, then?"

  "Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the sea shore yonder."

  "Ah!" said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, "the convent of St. Clair!" Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shown

  by the blunted light

  That the dim moon through painted casements lends.

  -The Emigrants

  "But, my dear sir," said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, "you forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made." St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired she would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of the room.

  In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary part of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring cottage.

  "If I am better, to-morrow, my dear," said St. Aubert when Emily returned to him, "I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest, during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee." Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned to the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even this hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapped, while her eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the earth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shown on mention of the Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.

  No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from the window to repose.

  CHAPTER VII

  —

  Let those deplore their doom,

  Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.

  But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,

  Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.

  Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?

  Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?—

  Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,

  And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,

  Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!

  -BEATTIE

  Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement, looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the pure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be allowed—the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines:

  THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

  How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,

  When early twilight, from the eastern bound,

  Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,

  And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

  When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,

  Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,

  Expands its tender blossom to the light,

  And gives its incense to the genial air.

  How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,

  And swells the melody of waking birds;

  The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,

  And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

  Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,

  Seen through the parting foliage from afar;

  And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,

  With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

  But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,

  The voice of music floating on the gale,

  And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,

  If health no longer bid the heart be gay!

  O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,

  Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

  Emily now heard persons moving be
low in the cottage, and presently the voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth from a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as herself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.

  "I envy you this cottage, my good friends," said St. Aubert, as he met them, "it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one breathes—if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be this air."