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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Good heavens! (cried she, whilst she felt her cheeks suffused with the burning blushes of shame); good heavens, what am I about doing!—going to steal meanly upon the privacy of my father and his friend!—a father, from whose uniform tenderness I might well suppose that nothing which had a tendency to promote my happiness would be concealed;—a father, who has so sedulously cautioned me against any action contrary to virtue; that any deviation in me is inexcusable.—Fie, fie, Madeline, what a wretch art thou! how unworthy of his goodness! how little benefited by his precepts!" She returned to her chamber, fastened the door, and sitting down upon the bed, burst into an agony of tears—"I shall be ashamed to meet my father's eyes in the morning (cried she), I am sure my looks will betray my guilt: well I am resolved I will punish myself for it; henceforward I'll never express the smallest curiosity to be acquainted with his affairs; and never more will I scold Jaqueline when I catch her with her ear to the key-hole listening to our discourse."

  She continued lamenting her conduct and imploring heaven to forgive it, till she heard the Countess, notwithstanding the lightness of her step, returning to her chamber. Roused by this, she then first perceived that day was dawning, and cold and exhausted crept into bed, where she lay till it was time for her to rise. As soon as dressed, she went down to assist Jaqueline in preparing breakfast, and found her the only person yet up.

  "Why, Mam'selle (said she, the moment she saw Madeline), I believe you slept but poorly last night, for you look very pale."

  "Do I," said Madeline, with a sigh.

  "Yes, indeed; and I fancy I don't look vastly blooming myself, for my rest was not over good I can assure you; I thought I heard strange noises last night; do you know, Mam'selle, I don't half like those strangers."

  "We must give them their breakfast however (said Madeline); so pray, Jaqueline, let us lose no more time in talking."

  "Bless you (cried Jaqueline), you'll find I have lost no time in getting it ready; the coffee is ready for making, the things are laid, and I am just going to the dairy for the butter and cream."

  Madeline turned into the parlour, and walked to the window, but not now, as heretofore, to gaze upon the prospect with delight: her mind was sunk in the heaviest dejection; for, for the first time, it was conscious of error; and all that had before charmed, was now disregarded.

  Oh, Innocence! first of blessings! how tasteless without thee would all the pleasures of life appear to a heart of sensibility! as no state can be happy without thee, neither can any be truly wretched with thee; thy smiles can give fortitude to the weak; thy power can blunt the arrows of adversity: he who cherishes thee shall, in the hour of misery, be rewarded by thy consolations,—and blessed, thrice blessed are they who know them.

  Madeline was not long in the parlour ere her father entered. After the usual salutations, he began a conversation which seemed contrived for the purpose of knowing whether Madeline felt any curiosity about the proceedings of the last night; he at length took her hand, and leading her to a chair, seated himself by her,

  "My dear Madeline (said he), you were no doubt surprised at what you saw last night; and your silence respecting that surprise, pleases me more than I can express, as it at once convinces me of the command you have over yourself, and the respect you have for me."

  Praise so undeserved was more cutting to the heart of Madeline than the severest reproaches could have been; she burst into tears; declared her unworthiness, her contrition, and implored her father's forgiveness.

  "An error (exclaimed Clermont, after the pause of a minute, and taking the hand which he had suddenly relinquished), so ingenuously acknowledged, so sincerely repented, I cannot deny my pardon to: but, my dear Madeline, let the conviction of your weakness, render you more fervent than ever in imploring heaven to strengthen your virtuous resolutions: let it also influence you to make allowances for the frailty of others; 'tis inexcusable in any one to triumph over the indiscretions of another, which perhaps the want of similar temptations alone prevented their falling into; but doubly inexcusable in those who are conscious of having committed them.

  "From the first pang of remorse, judge of the horrors which ever attend misconduct, and strive to avoid them by ever resisting inclinations that side not with your duties: to oppose our passions, is finally to conquer them; like cowards, they are tyrannical with the weak, but timid with the brave: and no victory can be so glorious as one obtained over them; 'tis applauded by our reason, sanctioned by our conscience, and applauded by him who records the smallest effort in the cause of virtue."

  "Oh, my father (said Madeline), henceforward I trust I shall convince you I have profited by your lessons."

  "Be your error forgotten (resumed Clermont), or only remembered as a caution against any future one. And now, my child, to return to last night; you were no doubt astonished at the feelings manifested by the Countess de Merville and me at our unexpected meeting; but strong as is our mutual regard, friendship is the only tie between us: how that friendship commenced, or was interrupted, would not be more painful to you to hear, than to me to relate, supposing our stolen interview was for the purpose of talking over affairs which we wished to conceal; a wish dictated by regard to your tranquillity; as the Countess knew my past, so was she now acquainted with my present situation; and in consequence of being so generously noble, humanely offered to take you under her protection."

  Madeline started, and would have spoken, had not a motion from Clermont enjoined her to silence.

  "You know not (he continued), heaven only knows it, the load of anxiety her offer has removed from my heart; unnumbered have been the sleepless nights, the wretched days I have passed on your account; looking forward to the hour which should deprive you of my protection (a tear dropped from Madeline on his hand); which should leave you forlorn in a world too prone to take advantage of innocence and poverty: the asylum of a cloister was the only one I had means of procuring you; but to that you ever manifested a repugnance, and I could not therefore influence you to it; the free-will offering of the heart is alone acceptable to heaven: besides, I do not thoroughly approve such institutions; I think they are somewhat contrary to nature; and I can never believe that beings immured for life, can feel gratitude so ardent, piety so exalted to the Almighty, as those who, in the wide range of the world, have daily opportunities of exploring his wonders, experiencing his goodness, and contemplating the profusion of his gifts. The Countess de Merville is just the guide to whose care I can consign my beloved girl with confidence and pleasure; her virtues are as fascinating as her manners; and though her ability to do good is great, her wish is still greater.

  "With her you'll move in a sphere of life very different from your present one; and against the dangers so often attending sudden exaltation I would caution you, did I not know that she will at once cherish you with the tenderness of a parent, and watch you with the sedulity of a friend: all I shall therefore say is, that I trust you may ever continue the unaffected child of nature; ever remember that modesty is the best ornament of a female, and simplicity her chief attraction: the Countess departs after breakfast, and you then accompany her."

  Madeline again started; all the pleasure she might from a lively fancy have derived at the prospect of such a change of scene, was damped by the idea of leaving him;—"oh, my father! (she said, bursting into tears), how can I leave you!"

  Equally affected as herself, and bitterly lamenting the cruel necessity which could alone have caused a separation, he clasped her to his bosom, and mingled tears with hers; in pity to his feelings, he besought her to moderate hers; to consider the tranquillity he should enjoy from having her under such protection. He told her in a few months, if it pleased heaven, they would again meet, as the Countess then intended to return to Paris, and had promised in her way to it to make some stay at his cottage.

  Madeline, comforted by those words, wiped away her tears, and said, she would try to compose herself. Clermont then took a small picture, plainly set, from his p
ocket; "I know (said he), your tenderness will be gratified by this present; accept therefore, my dear Madeline (putting it into her hand) the copy of what your father was when his cheek was unfaded by age or care, his spirit unbroken by disappointment."

  Madeline had never before seen this picture, she received it with transport; though from its being done at a very early period, she could now scarcely trace any resemblance in it to her father.

  The Countess now entered the parlour with a countenance open as day, and irradiated with the sunshine of good-humour:—"Well (cried she to Clermont), have you told our young friend that I mean to run away with her?"

  "Yes (replied he), and she has no objection to the measure, but what proceeds from her reluctance at leaving me."

  "If she did not feel that reluctance, (said the Countess), she would be lessened in my esteem; but while I admire, it will be my study to remove it."

  "I am convinced it will," said Clermont.

  "And I, madam, (said Madeline), am truly sensible of your goodness; I feel it at my heart; and it will be the height of my ambition to merit it: oh, what joy should I derive from it, but for quitting my father!"—A tear, in spite of her efforts to restrain it, trickled down her cheek; but she hastily wiped it away, and seated herself at the table, to which Clermont handed Madame. The emotions of Madeline prevented her eating and she lingered over the breakfast things, long after her attendance was necessary, till the Countess, looking at her watch, begged she would pack up whatever she wanted to take along with her, as she expected the carriage every moment, and was anxious to begin her journey that it might be terminated at an early hour, the roads about the chateau being very lonesome.

  Madeline immediately rose and repaired to Jaqueline to obtain her assistance, and inform her she was going.—"Alack a day, it was an unlucky hour which brought those strangers to our cottage! (cried the good-natured Jaqueline); here they have come to disturb our happiness and comfort, and leave me and my poor master like two solitary hermits: we never more shall have any pleasant music! never more any midnight serenades, or dancing on the lawn—no, no! Claude and Josephe will never more come about the house with their flutes when you have left it;—poor lads! often and often have I scoffed at them for doing so, and said they might as well pipe to the kids on the mountains as to you, who was a lady born, I was sure. And then, Mam'selle, if the Chevalier de Sevignie should ever re-visit the cottage, how sadly he'll be disappointed at finding you gone; for I'll never believe but what he was deeply in love with you; what else could have kept him in the valley so long after he was recovered, or make him come loitering about the cottage as I discovered him one morning?"

  Jaqueline had now touched a chord which could not bear vibration. Madeline from being pale, turned red, and then pale again; and, hastening up stairs, desired Jaqueline to follow her directly, Jaqueline obeyed; and Madeline, too much agitated to do much for herself, gave her the things to pack up which she wanted to take with her; then leaning pensively against a window which commanded a view of the castle, "I am going then, (said she to herself); going, I may say, into a new world, without really knowing the family to which I belong,—the mother from which I sprung, or one circumstance about her: but why do I indulge this restless curiosity? oh, let me try to repress it, as well from the resolution of last night, as from the conviction, that could the knowledge I desire add to my happiness, it would not be kept from me:—never, therefore, may my rashness again attempt to raise the veil which prudence as well as tenderness, I must believe, has cast over past events."

  "Well, Mam'selle (cried Jaqueline), your things are now packed, but heaven knows most unwillingly. Is there no way by which you could avoid going?"

  "No, (replied Madeline), for my father wishes me to go, happy to have me under the protection of a lady who is as good as she is great."

  "She may be very good indeed (said Jaqueline); but that's more than her attendants are, I fancy; I don't like them at all, they did so titter at me last night when I went to the study with their supper, though I am sure I paid my compliments to them very handsomely: Lord they think, because they have been in Paris, that no body but themselves knows any thing of good-breeding."

  Madeline now descended to the parlour; and in a few minutes after the coach appeared. She trembled and wept, and the fortitude of Clermont almost forsook him; he blessed, he embraced her with unutterable tenderness; he put her hand into the Countess's, and said he committed to her charge his only earthly happiness,—the only treasure he had preserved from the wreck of felicity,—his sole friend, almost his sole companion, for fifteen years.

  The Countess, convinced that to delay would rather increase than diminish the emotions of both, hastened to the carriage, led by Clermont, and followed by Madeline, her attendants, and the weeping Jaqueline.

  "I shall certainly break my heart (cried the latter as she walked by Madeline), and this great lady will have my death to answer for: Lord send she mayn't have any more sins upon her conscience; they say those Paris folks are sometimes very wicked."

  Madeline cast her pensive eyes alternately on her father, his cottage, and the lovely prospect surrounding it: "oh, dear preceptor of my youth! oh, solitary scenes of early infancy! (she cried to herself) how gladly would I resign all the pleasure which, perhaps, awaits my entrance into another situation, to continue the companion of one,—the peaceful inmate of the other!"

  More dejected than words can express, she entered the coach, whose swiftness soon made her lose sight of her father; but while one glimpse of his habitation could be seen, she did not turn her eyes from it; and when a winding of the valley hid it from her view, she again sighed, and implored the protection of heaven for its beloved owner.

  CHAPTER V

  ——in those woods I deem some spirits dwell,

  Who, from the chiding stream and groaning oak,

  Still hear and answer to my moan.

  -DOUGLAS

  The soothing attentions of the Countess de Merville at length abated the grief of Madeline; she gradually revived and began to converse and admire the new and beautiful scenes, through which she passed. In the course of conversation she learned that her amiable friend was a widow, and had one only child, a daughter, married about three years to a Monsieur D'Alembert, who generally resided in Paris; in which place the Countess had also lived for that period, for the purpose of enjoying her daughter's company:—"but at length, weary of the dissipation that prevails there (said she), and in which I was sometimes obliged unavoidably to join, I found myself under the necessity of giving up my daughter's society for a time, in order to recruit myself by country air and retirement."

  They stopped, in the meridian of the day, at a small house on the borders of an extensive forest through which they were to pass, to procure some refreshment, and rest the horses. The room in which the Countess and Madeline dined looked into the forest; and the cool shade which the trees cast upon the windows, rendered it delightful after the intense heat they had been exposed to whilst travelling. At some distance, proudly rising above the trees, appeared the antique towers of a castle.

  "What a gloomy residence must that be, madam," said Madeline pointing to it.

  "Gloomy indeed," replied the Countess.

  "Ah, my ladies, (cried their host, who was attending them, an old grey-headed man), I remember the time (with a melancholy shake of his head) when that castle, notwithstanding its situation in the forest, was neither sad nor gloomy, but one of the gayest mansions in France."

  "And what occasioned an alteration in it?" said Madeline, after waiting a minute to try if the Countess would ask the question.

  "Death, my Lady,—death, that pays no regard to rank or riches. The Count de Montmorenci, (continued the old man, advancing a few steps nearer to Madeline), the lord of that castle, had an only son, one of the finest youths perhaps that ever was seen,—the admiration of the rich, the comfort of the poor, the pride and darling of his parents; this beloved son was murdered about seventeen
years ago upon the Alps, and ever since that period the Count has never held up his head. To complete his misery, the Countess, on whom he doted, died in two days after she heard the fate of her son; and poor gentleman, from that time to the present, he has led a wretched and unsettled life, wandering about from one seat to another, (for he has many in France) as if he hoped change of scene could give him comfort;—alas! nothing in this world can do so. He has now been two years absent from Montmorenci Castle; we therefore expect him soon at it. While he is away, 'tis always locked up: and from his frequent absences, and the neglect shown to every thing when in it, 'tis become, both within and without, quite an altered place. The only pleasure he has experienced since his son's death, has been in doing what he thought would show respect and honour to his memory: he has had a fine monument erected for him in the chapel of Montmorenci Castle; and on the left side of it, at a good distance, you may see, my lady, (approaching the window, and pointing out the spot to Madeline), rising above a thick clump of trees, the top of a monumental pillar, which he placed there to his memory."