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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Good-morrow to thee, youth."

  "The same to thee, good father."

  "You have been much in my thoughts since we last parted. To every one the promise made to a dying man should be sacred, particularly to those of our order. I promised the late baron that I would see you provided for,—I have been revolving my mind the means, and I think I have found them: I myself act as a confessor to the convent of Saint Helena, about a league from hence; their sacristan has been dead about a fortnight, and they have not replaced him:—should you like to become his successor?"

  Alphonsus readily accepted the offer; and having heaved a farewell sigh over the body of his rash master, the friar undertook to conduct him that evening to the convent, and at the appointed time they set out together.

  The convent of Saint Helena was a large and ancient edifice; its ivy-grown towers indicated its antiquity, and the figures carved on its walls bespoke the superstition they enclosed.

  The friar opened a small door near the chapel, of which he usually carried the key, and admitted Alphonsus into an enclosed cloister, which led immediately to his apartments; thence a door opened into the hall of the convent: it was spacious,—at the angles were passages leading to the cells of the nuns; and in front, a wide stair-case conducting to the upper range of cells. The apartment in which the lady abbess usually sat, opened into the hall; the friar entered it, and bade Alphonsus follow him: the abbess was alone; father Matthias informed her who the youth was, and she received him graciously. Some conversation then passed between her and the friar in low voices, after which she spoke to Alphonsus, telling him, that, as he was unacquainted with the duties of his office, the porteress should accompany and instruct him in them for the first three or four days and nights; she then, after some farther conversation on the same subject, and exhorting him to be peculiarly diligent in his office, rang her bell; and the porteress attending her summons, she was told that Alphonsus came to succeed the late sacristan, was ordered to show him his apartment, and to give him the necessary instructions. Alphonsus followed her out of the room.

  The porteress was about fifty years of age; she was deformed, of a tart humour, and an incessant prattler. "Come, follow me," said she, as soon as the door was closed: "I'll show you your room in a minute; and a good comfortable one it is.—Oh! bow to the cross, young man, bow to the cross." Alphonsus looked up, and perceived one fastened over the arch under which they were passing; he obeyed Perilla's commands, and she continued, "Aye, you'll learn all our ways in time,—you'll have a fine, easy, happy life of it, I'll assure you:—let me see,—vespers are just over; at eight you must ring the bell, and prepare the chapel for prayers before going to bed; then again at twelve, for the midnight prayers; then at six, for matins; and at ten, for mass; and at four, for vespers; and that's all you have to do, except helping me to sweep the chapel, and keeping clean the ornaments; and all the rest of your time is your own."

  They had by this time arrived at the apartment appropriated to the use of the sacristan. "There," cried she, throwing open the door, you'll live like a prince; father Matthias's rooms are on that side of you, and there is mine;"—pointing to the other side;—"and this," opening a door facing them, "is your way into the chapel; and you must take care that those tapers on the altar never go out; and when they are nearly done, come to me for some more; and now I think I have told you all, so you may come and sit with me till evening prayers if you like it." She proceeded, and he followed her into her apartment.

  Perilla had yet a little taste for the world, though she had been thirty years removed from it, and now expected to hear much news of it, from her new acquaintance; but Alphonsus was the worst subject she could have met with for gratifying her wishes: she thought it might proceed from reserve and modesty, as being with a stranger, and immediately began to set him the example of communication, by relating to him various anecdotes of the nuns; at last, interrupting herself,—"There," said she, "the sand is just out, go, and ring the chapel bell.—Oh, here! but stay, stay, put on your surplice,—it is rather too tight about the neck, but we'll get you a new one;—come."

  She proceeded into the chapel, and Alphonsus, according to her directions, tolled a certain number of strokes on the bell. "Now follow me," she again cried, and Alphonsus obeyed:—they crossed the chapel. "Here at this door the nuns come in; now you must take that basin of holy water, and hold it for them to dip their fingers into, to cross their foreheads, and keep them from the influence of the devil while they are at prayers. I'll light the candles at the altar for you, but you must do all yourself another time."

  The nuns entered one by one, and throwing up their veils as they approached the hallowed ground, dipped each a finger in the vase which Alphonsus held. As soon as the nuns were all come in, the porteress beckoned Alphonsus to follow her once more; they passed behind the altar, and she instructed him, that he must now assist father Matthias in putting on his sacerdotal robes. Prayers were then chanted by the friar: the nuns joined him, and having sung an evening hymn, received his benediction, and retired to their cells.

  Alphonsus then, according to the directions of the porteress, put out all candles, save the two never-to-be extinguished lights; and having locked the chapel doors, again accompanied Perilla to her apartment, where they supped. In a short time, "Come," said she, "father Matthias is in bed: you must go too." So saying, she gave him a lamp, and attended him to his chamber door, saying, "Good night, remember to wake at twelve."

  Alphonsus slept not; he feared being found negligent in his office on the first trial, and only threw himself on the bed. Perilla's loud suspiration, however, soon convinced him that she had done otherwise; nevertheless at a few minutes before twelve she awoke, came to his chamber door, and warned him it was time to ring the bell.

  The same ceremonies were repeated as before, and Alphonsus on their conclusion ventured to enter his bed; reflection, and the novelty of his situation, however, suffered him not to sleep soundly,—and when he heard Perilla again moving about, he arose and met her at the chamber door. Matins were chanted, and the nuns departed as before. "Now," said Perilla, "we must not go to bed any more; it is our duty to sweep the chapel." She then showed him what was required of him to perform, and afterwards set about her own employments.

  Alphonsus was as much pleased with his situation as any line of life could, in his present state of mind, have rendered him; it afforded him shelter from a pitiless world, and he was satisfied. Custom quickly reconciled him to the hours of rising; and he even, in a short time, found little need to consult the hour-glass with which Perilla had provided him. The abbess was pleased with his conduct. Father Matthias paid him much attention; he discovered his mind to be informed above his rank in life: he hinted his suspicions to Alphonsus, who confessed their truth, but instantly declared the silence he wished to maintain. The holy father commiserated his lot; he supplied him with books to sooth his leisure hours, and, when his avocation permitted it, gave him his own society.

  In the convent of Saint Helena were twenty-six nuns and ten novices; amongst the latter there was one named Lauretta, whose beautifully pensive countenance never failed to arrest the eyes of Alphonsus, as he held the vase of consecrated water. Had he known what love was, he would have felt that she had inspired him with the soft passion: her appearance gladdened his heart, and her departure from the chapel made him only wish for the hour of her return.

  About six months after Alphonsus had become an inmate of the convent, as he was one day conversing familiarly with father Matthias, he ventured to inquire of him, who the young novice was that had so forcibly attracted his regard. "Ah! poor child!" said the holy man, "the lady abbess and myself are alone entrusted with the history of her birth; but as I think, from many instances of your conduct that have fallen under my eye, I may venture to trust you with her story, you shall hear it."

  Alphonsus bowed acknowledgment for the compliment paid him by the holy man, who thus began:—

  "It is
now full seventeen years, since, one wet and stormy evening towards the end of December, a faint knock, twice repeated in a short space of time, called the porteress to the grate of the convent; a soft voice entreated shelter from the storm, and mentioned the name of our lady abbess: the porteress opened the gate; and a slender figure, a youth as she imagined, clad in the habit of a pilgrim, entered, leaning on a staff; the porteress closed the gate, and having conducted the supposed youth into the apartment of the abbess, the stranger had scarcely uttered, 'Oh! protect a suffering woman!' ere she sunk at the feet of the lady abbess.

  "Exhausted by fatigue, and benumbed by the keenness of the element, the stranger was with difficulty recovered from the fainting fit into which she had fallen: after some time she drank a cup of balsamic cordial, administered to her by the abbess; and a flood of tears proceeding from the joy she felt, on the assurance given her of experiencing that asylum for which she supplicated, eased her full heart. After eating sparingly of the meal that had been set before her, she begged leave to retire to rest, unable to explain that night the mystery which accompanied her arrival in a male habit.

  "On the following day she was much recovered from her fatigue, and her entreaties were earnestly made to the abbess not to deliver her up to any one who might demand her.

  "The abbess promised her the full protection of the church and perceiving that she was still weak and ill, forbore to put to her any inquiries.

  "In a few days she was much mended; but a deep melancholy, at times approaching to frenzy, clouded her mind; voluntarily, however, she communicated to the lady abbess and myself her afflictions; she afterwards (for she delighted to dwell on her sorrows) wrote down her little history, and presented me with it: there it is, I trust to your discretion not to reveal it out of the convent; peruse it whilst I go and pray by the sick sister, Velina."

  Alphonsus promised strict secrecy, and receiving the manuscript from the hand of the friar, retired with it to his own apartment.

  LAURETTA'S STORY.

  "My name is Lauretta. I am the only daughter of count Arieno, resident near Venice; my mother died on the same day on which I was born; I had a fortune equal to my birth, and many were the suitors for my hand, more of whom I believe were swayed by interest than by any attachment to my person: at length, chance threw in my way count Frederic Cohenburg, a noble Saxon by birth, whom, were I to describe him to you as my burning fancy now paints him to my eyes, you would conceive to have surpassed his sex beyond the limits nature has prescribed; suffice it to say, I thought him all perfection.

  "At first, I vainly imagined that the deference I paid him, proceeded only from my consciousness of his merit; and so far from being singular in my attentions to him, I should have been an exception to the females with whom I associated, not to have treated him as I did. But alas! I soon found that my regard proceeded from a softer motive, and I quickly perceived that I adored what others but approved.

  "The infancy of love is too sweet to be easily shaken off:—at that delightful period, how little are we aware of the many anxious moments its maturity brings upon us!—fatal enchantment! how severe a scourge hast thou proved to me through life!

  "A mutual affection glowed in our congenial breasts; I listened to his vows with rapture, and he heard my promises of constancy with equal delight.

  "But an obstacle, to which the eyes of lovers are seldom open, had planted a hedge of thorns across the path which I vainly imagined was conducting me to the summit of earthly happiness.

  "The only wealth which true love looks for, is an ardent return of affection: in that no one was more rich than my Frederic;—my father, who weighed merit only by wealth, had destined me for the wife of count Byroff, a nobleman of immense property, at that time on his travels; and he commanded me to check a passion grown too incorporate with my blood to hope a cure; nor did I endeavour to effect it; I would sooner have given up life, than to have lived and ceased to love my Frederic. His visits were now interdicted, on pain of my being immediately sent to a convent, if he was again seen with me.—How feelingly did I then taste that the bitters of love are more poignant than its sweets! Still had I not resolution to shake off my cause of sorrow.—If the idea for a moment entered my harassed brain, it was outweighed by the consideration that the uncertain wheel of fortune might one day turn in my favour, and give me to enjoy my Frederic's love without alloy.

  "At length I contrived by stealth to meet him in the garden of my father's sister:—how did the sight of him rekindle the smothered flame!—I again vowed fidelity to him, and imprecated heavy curses on myself, if ever I swerved from the oath I had taken to be his only, and for ever.

  "Not long after this, I was one day sitting alone in my chamber, ruminating on my hard fate, and bedewing with my tears a letter I had privately received from count Frederic, replete with vows, which, though often repeated, were still new and dear to me, when my father entered the apartment, and informed me that count Byroff was returned to Venice.—How shall I describe to you the pangs that at that moment rent my heart?—how relate to you the tide of grief which burst its way through my swollen eyes?—But I will leave it to be pictured in your susceptible breast.

  "Had not the fullness of my heart sealed my lips, the too certain knowledge of my sentence having proceeded from a mouth whence there was no appeal, would have prevented my giving utterance to ineffectual remonstrances.

  "In the evening of that day, my destined spouse waited on my father;—I was summoned to appear;—he rose and took my hand as I entered the apartment; I cast my eyes upon the ground; I could not bear to encounter those of a man whom I considered as the bane of my future peace.—I must, however, in justice to him, say, that, save only one, I never knew a man better calculated to make a woman happy; his address was easy and elegant; his manners conciliating; his person handsome, and his mind well stored with polite and useful learning. He was a man that, had he been my brother, I could have revered him; as it was, in spite of me, I respected him; but with how widely different a passion did he wish to inspire me! and in how mild, how gentle terms did he complain of that coldness with which I treated him! So far did his noble spirit win upon me, that many times I formed the determination of disclosing to him the fatal secret of my heart, and entreating his pity.—Oh, ye powers! why did ye not whisper to my labouring breast the many hours of anguish this confession would have spared me, and the horrid deed that then had never been committed?

  "At length the day I long had dreaded was fixed upon; and notice was given me the preceding evening, that I was, on the morning of the following day, to accompany count Byroff to the altar.—I fell at my father's feet, and, clasping his knees, conjured him to have pity on me; I endeavoured by the arguments of reason to convince him of the impropriety and cruelty of his commands: I besought him not to harden his heart against the entreaties of an only child; I represented to him the remorse of conscience my future misery would occasion him, when he considered that he alone had brought it upon me. But his ear was deaf to every voice save that of interest, and casting me from him, he exclaimed, 'Obey my commands, or cease to be my daughter;' and, with a frown that pierced me to the heart, left the apartment.—Exhausted with weeping, I sunk into a fainting fit, which lasted some time; as soon as my strength began to return, I took my woman, and, leaning on her arm, repaired to my aunt's, where I had before met Frederic; I informed her of all that had happened—she sympathised in my distress, but being entirely dependent on my father, durst not exert herself in my behalf; I entreated her to send in search of Frederic: she did so.—After two hours passed in tedious expectation, the messenger returned and informed us that he was not in Venice; he had been absent from it some days on urgent business, but was shortly expected to return.

  "My aunt promised to send early in the morning, to inquire whether he was arrived, and if he was, to let me know immediately.

  "I returned home like a malefactor, who, knowing his doom to be inevitable, makes no resistance when led to the
stake.

  "Entering my father's house, I passed quickly to my chamber, and throwing myself upon a couch, I again gave fresh vent to my tears.—My woman was afflicted at my distress; she had been my constant companion since the death of my mother; she loved, and endeavoured to comfort me: but alas! how vain were her counsels! she could only recommend resignation, where it was no virtue, and teach me to hope for that interposition of providence, which it refused to grant me.

  "When I became somewhat composed, I began to reason with myself.—'Shall I,' said I, 'quit my father's house, and fly to Frederic?—surely he will receive me with joy, with rapture!'—I reflected a moment; I had been told that men were false, inconstant, and cruel; that those they professed to love in prosperity, were disregarded by them in adversity.—'Surely,' cried I, 'Frederic is not one of those!—oh no! what promises has he not made me!—what sacred oaths of fidelity has he not taken!—I will fly to him; he will meet me with transport.'—I sprang from the couch in ecstasy, and walked wildly about the chamber; when, oh cruel reflection! I at that instant remembered somewhere to have read, I know not where, that lovers' vows are made only to be broken.—'Oh heavens! should Frederic think thus,' I exclaimed; 'for who that has ever loved, but has sighed and sworn as he has done?—And shall I then throw myself upon him, to be accounted a burden by him? perhaps upbraided for my love?—Oh credulity! bane of our sex! why have I so long been thy dupe?'—In a brain harassed as mine then was, any idea, however romantic, is easily admitted; and, half frantic, I loaded the faithful youth with every objurgation my rent heart suggested.

  "I fear you will upbraid me with ingratitude, suspicion, and cowardice of nature; I confess to you, I seem to merit the reproach; but the torture of mind I then endured, may well apologise for my strange, and seemingly ungrateful, conduct.