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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Mam'selle Clermont (said he) is it not——" advancing to her. She rose at his approach; and, withholding the hand he attempted to take, passed him to Olivia, and again entreated her to return home.

  Her curiosity gratified, Olivia no longer hesitated to comply with this entreaty; and they directly left the garden, without taking any farther notice of de Sevignie. Olivia was too much offended, and Madeline too fearful of betraying her feelings, to bid him farewell. That fear, however, was soon lost in the superior one she felt at the idea of his going the solitary road that lay between the cottage and the town by himself; and she stood hesitatingly at the door of the chaise; wishing to declare her apprehensions, yet dreading to do so, least she should betray her feelings.

  De Sevignie, in the mean time, heart-struck by the manner in which she had declined his notice, remained some minutes fixed on the spot where she had left him. "Oh, Madeline! (he sighed), is it thus you heighten the pangs, the anguish you have caused me. Yet, alas (he continued), why do I accuse her? unwillingly she caused that anguish; and how, without knowing, can she pity it: but am I assured her pity would follow that knowledge?—no; her averted looks give me no reason to suppose it would." Slowly he quitted the garden, and, passing through the cottage, to his infinite surprise, found she was not yet departed. Hurt, however, by her coldness, he merely bowed to her and Olivia; and was hastening away, when the latter, who saw through the motives of Madeline's delay, and determined to gratify her, though somewhat offended with de Sevignie, exclaimed, "so you are decamping, without having the gallantry to offer your protection."

  "The assurance, you should say (cried de Sevignie, returning), conscious as I am that I have (though heaven knows how unintentionally), offended you."

  "Well, I'll forgive you this once; so you may hand us into the chaise, and take a seat yourself."

  "But will your friend, Mam'selle Clermont, be equally generous," asked he.

  "Oh, I dare say she will follow a good example; what say you, my dear?" cried Olivia, turning to her.

  "I cannot pardon, because I have not been offended," said Madeline in much confusion, too clearly perceiving that Olivia suspected the state of her heart.

  "Nor never may you be by me (cried de Sevignie, with fervour, and taking her hand), for then I should be wretched indeed. Oh, Madeline! (he continued in a low voice), though I dread your smiles, I could not bear your frowns."

  He handed Olivia first into the chaise; and thus contrived to have Madeline next to himself; something he would have said to her after they were seated in a low voice; but she turned her head from him, and entered into conversation with Olivia. Her hand he took however in spite of her efforts to withstand it; nor resigned it till they stopped at Madame Chatteneuf's. After handing them into the house, he bade them adieu; but it was a most unwilling adieu; for he hesitated as he spoke, and lingered on the threshold instead of departing. He was at length turning from it, when Olivia suddenly invited him to supper; and it struck Madeline that she had only delayed doing so for the purpose of teasing him. He accepted the invitation; and they all repaired to the banqueting-house, where Madame Chatteneuf and her friends were still engaged at cards, and enjoying the fragrance and refreshing coolness of the evening air.

  Olivia gave an account of their excursion; and made de Sevignie colour highly by hinting at the manner in which they had met him, and at what she had heard from the nurse concerning him.

  The light gave Madeline an opportunity of observing the strong expression of grief his countenance betrayed: he seemed even more altered than when she had before seen him. Pale and languid, the fire of his eyes was fled, and the discomposure of his hair, which the mountain breeze had blown carelessly about his face, heightened its sad expression. He appeared no longer desirous to shun her; on the contrary, he betrayed the strongest anxiety to be near her: but, notwithstanding her pity, her affection for him, pride determined her to avoid attentions which she imputed to the mere impulse of unguarded tenderness: for she could not bear to be one day the object of his particular notice, and the next of his pointed neglect. She accordingly placed herself at the card-table, in such a manner as to prevent his sitting by her; and, with a look of unutterable disappointment, he turned away, and entered into conversation with Olivia, if that could be called conversation, which consisted, on one side, of laconic answers, and, on the other, of questions relative to the motives which made him so fond of solitary rambles.

  Unable to bear the dejection of his looks, Madeline fixed her eyes upon the card-table, as if intently watching the game, though in reality she knew not what was played. But she could not, by this measure, save her heart from one pang; for, though her eye was averted from the melancholy of his countenance, her ear was still open to the soft melancholy of his voice; and scarcely could she conceal the emotions it gave her. The entrance of a servant with a letter to her, that instant come from the Countess de Merville, somewhat relieved her from this painful situation. She started up; and, retiring to a little distance from the table, read as follows:—

  To mademoiselle Clermont,

  "Will my dear Madeline return to-morrow to solitude and her friend. She may accuse me of selfishness for so soon recalling her; and perhaps with justice, considering the pleasure and benefit attending her return will be so materially on my side: but, as it is a failing so prevalent among mankind, I trust, from its being so general, it may be excused. I cannot, as I intended, call for her; but shall hope and expect to receive from the hands of Madame Chatteneuf, and her amiable daughter, the precious charge I entrusted to her care. The natural eloquence of my Madeline will, I trust, prevent any disappointment; who, in believing me her sincere friend, will only do justice to

  Elvira de Merville."

  Madeline guessed the purpose of this letter ere she opened it, consequently it gave her no surprise. She placed her friend's anxiety for her return to the account of de Sevignie, whom she knew she wished her to avoid; a wish she felt it necessary to comply with, if she desired the return of tranquillity.

  She handed the letter to Madame Chatteneuf; who, fearful it contained some unpleasant tidings, had laid aside her cards the moment it was brought in. Her regret and Olivia's at losing her so soon, was expressed in the most flattering terms; and they promised to attend her to the chateau the next morning. A heavy sigh from de Sevignie at this moment reached her ear. She involuntarily raised her eyes, but again bent them to the ground, on perceiving his fastened on her with the most melancholy earnestness.

  The Countess's servant she was told waited for an answer; and she now hastened to the house to give one. In the hall she met him, and had the satisfaction of hearing that his lady was well. Her answer finished, she would have preferred retiring to her chamber to returning to the company, so oppressed was her heart, but that she knew her doing so would excite enquiries, and perhaps unpleasant remarks.

  Slowly she pursued her way back to the banqueting house, and had reached the centre of the long and darkly shaded walk which led to it; when a sudden rustling among the trees on one side, made her pause, from a sensation of fear, and an uncertainty whether by advancing or retreating she should put herself more in the way of danger, if indeed, any threatened her; the pain of suspense was however terminated in a minute by the appearance of de Sevignie. She started; and his thus seeming to watch for her, gave her emotions which agitated her whole frame; she tried however to check them, and was again proceeding when he stopped her—

  "Will you not bid me farewell then (said he in a reproachful voice), ere we part?"

  "Part! (repeated Madeline) don't you sup with Madame Chatteneuf?"

  "No; I feel myself extremely ill, and have just apologised to her. You return then to-morrow (he continued), to the chateau; and you know not perhaps when you may revisit this town?"

  "No (said Madeline), I do not."

  "To me indeed, it is of little consequence to know (cried he), for I propose to leave it soon myself; would to heaven I had done so some days
ago. Yet how can I tear myself from a place where I know there is a chance of beholding you:—oh, Madeline, to do so requires a resolution I am scarcely master of."

  "I dare say (exclaimed Madeline, endeavouring to rally her spirits, and disengage the hand which he had taken between his), you'll not find any great difficulty in acquiring such a resolution."

  "You doubt my sincerity then (still detaining her); oh! would to heaven I could, I durst convince you of it: yet, alas, why do I utter such a wish, when I know not whether that conviction would be of any consequence to you; know not, do I say?—your altered manner too plainly assures me that it would not."

  "Pray let me go (cried Madeline, inexpressibly agitated); I am impatient to return to Madame Chatteneuf, for I know she will wonder at my long absence."

  "Go then, madam (said de Sevignie, instantly dropping her hand);—go, madam to the happy beings you regard, and excuse my having detained you so long from them: I see you are displeased at my having done so; I see my society is hateful to you. There was a period when——(he paused, then again proceeded)—when I imagined Madeline Clermont would rather have sought to mitigate than fly from the sorrows of a friend; would have enjoyed an exquisite pleasure in fulfilling the claim, the sacred claim, which misery has upon compassion."

  "Oh, de Sevignie (thought Madeline), how little do you know my heart when you thus reproach me. Your society hateful to me!—alas 'tis infinitely too precious for my peace."

  "I am sure (said she, speaking with almost as much agitation as he had done), I am sure—I wish—I should be happy was it in my power, to remove, to lessen any sorrow you may feel."

  "You wish—you should be happy—(he repeated in a softened voice, as if touched by her gentleness).—Yes, Madeline (again taking her hand), I am convinced of the sincerity of that wish; and nothing, no, nothing but a degree of madness could have tempted me to reproach you as I have just done;—could have tempted me to ask your pity for feelings which I wished, from principles of honour, gratitude, generosity, to conceal from you. Oh, Madeline, I cannot ask your pardon, for I cannot myself pardon my conduct to you."

  "Unasked would I give it (cried Madeline), had I been offended, but that be assured is not the case."

  At this instant a distant step was heard; both started; and Madeline instantly attempted to disengage herself.

  "Do not leave me yet (cried de Sevignie), it may be long ere we meet again; long do I say? alas, we may never, never meet again!—Spare a few minutes longer to me; let us turn into this walk (pointing to the one he had just emerged from), and we shall not be observed; though I said but an instant ago, I would not solicit your pity, yet my heart now tells me, that an assurance of it can only mitigate its wretchedness."

  "Receive that assurance then (said Madeline, making another effort as she gave it to withdraw her hand; for, though she wished, she feared to comply with his request. Her reason opposed her inclination for doing so, by representing the folly, the impropriety of any longer listening to the dictates of a passion which she had cause to believe a hopeless one). But excuse me (she continued) from staying any longer with you; the step which alarmed us approaches, and I should be sorry we were seen together."

  "farewell! then (he exclaimed), most lovely and most beloved; I regret, but cannot murmur at your refusal: may the happiness you deserve be yours, and be not only pure as your virtues, but lasting as your life: may every change in that life, be to raise you to still higher felicity: and when you make that great that important change which will fix its destiny;—when you give the precious hand I now hold to some happy, some highly-favoured mortal, some peculiar favourite of heaven,—oh, may you then meet with a heart as tenderly, as firmly devoted to you as de Sevignie's." These last words were spoken almost in a whisper; and Madeline felt by his hands the tremor of his frame. "farewell! (he cried, after the pause of a minute); if I have pained, if I have disturbed you, let the idea of my never more intruding into your presence banish all resentment for my having done so."

  He rested his cold cheek for a moment upon her hand; then suddenly letting it drop, he instantly darted amongst the trees and disappeared.

  An icy chillness crept through the frame of Madeline, at the idea of seeing de Sevignie no more. She listened with fixed attention to the sound of his steps, till they could no longer be distinguished; then, starting, she wrung her hands together, and exclaimed—"He is gone, and we shall never, never meet again!"

  Every hope relative to him now become extinct; hopes which, notwithstanding the alteration in his manner, had lingered in her heart till this moment; hopes which had cheered her in the long period that separated them, by making her look forward to a second meeting, in which he should disclose sentiments he had before only revealed by his eyes. That meeting had taken place,—those sentiments had been disclosed; but, instead of promoting her happiness as she expected, had, for the present at least, destroyed it; and she wept that crisis to which but a few days before she had looked forward with the most flattering expectations.

  Yet not for herself alone she wept, her tears fell also for the wretchedness of de Sevignie; and she regretted having refused to stay a little longer with him, falsely imagining their parting, if less abrupt, would have been less painful. "He prayed for my felicity (she cried); but, oh, de Sevignie, except assured of yours, how unavailing must that prayer ever be!"

  The voice of Mademoiselle Chatteneuf calling on her, now roused her from her melancholy musing. She instantly conjectured it was her step which had driven off de Sevignie; and, wiping away her tears, advanced, though but slowly, to meet her.

  "Why you must have written a volume instead of a letter, if you have been all this time employed in writing (said Olivia the moment she saw her); but the truth I suppose is, that de Sevignie intruded disagreeably upon you, and delayed you."

  "No, he did not I assure you," said Madeline.

  "You have seen him however, since you quitted the banqueting house."

  "Yes; I met him as I was returning to it."

  "And you stopped no doubt (cried Olivia), to wish him good-night."

  "Well, supposing I had, would there have been any thing extraordinary in such a common act of civility?"

  "No to be sure, nor in his detaining you almost an hour to thank you for it: though he pretended to us the moment you were gone, that he was taken so ill he could scarcely speak or stop another moment. Pray, Madeline, did he tell you the nature of his malady?"

  "I never enquired," answered Madeline, blushing.

  "But he might have told you without asking; and I shrewdly suspect he did. Pray did he ask you to prescribe for him?"

  "Prescribe for him! (said Madeline, pretending not to understand her meaning) do you suppose he took me for an old nurse?"

  "No indeed (replied Olivia), I suppose no such thing; but I am not so certain that he would be wrong in taking you for a young nurse."

  "I have not spirits to answer you (cried Madeline); so be generous, and do not take advantage of my inability."

  "And pray to whose account may I place your dejection," asked Olivia.

  "To whose you please; I may as well have the pleasure of giving you a latitude which, whether I please or not, you will take."

  "Well, I won't tease you any more (said Olivia); but let us quicken our pace, for supper waits."

  They accordingly hastened to the banqueting-house, and the whole party then sat down to supper.

  "I am sorry (cried Madame Chatteneuf), that de Sevignie could not stay with us to-night. Poor fellow, he looked extremely ill; but indeed I think he has done so for some days past."

  "Yes, and so do I (said Olivia). I trust, however, his malady is not of an incurable nature;" and she glanced archly at Madeline.

  "Heaven forbid it was (cried her mother, who took her in a serious light); I know few people whom, on so short an acquaintance, I should so much regret as de Sevignie; there is an elegance, a sweetness in his manner, which declare a soul of benevolence and refinement;
he does not by slow degrees conciliate esteem, but, on the first interview, excites a pre-possession in his favour; which, upon a greater knowledge, you have the pleasure of finding no reason to regret; so that though an interesting, he is not a dangerous, acquaintance."

  "Let us ask Mademoiselle Clermont's opinion as to that (cried Olivia). Why do you blush, my dear; you know you have been acquainted with the Chevalier a much longer period than my mother has, and of course can better determine whether he is or is not a dangerous creature."

  "No one I am sure (said Madeline, endeavouring to suppress her confusion), can ever doubt the justness of Madame Chatteneuf's discernment."

  "Ah, Madeline (cried Olivia in a low voice), I see you can some times be guarded."

  "Would to heaven I had been so in matters more material than the present," thought Madeline.

  When she found herself again alone in her chamber, she again regretted not having staid a little longer with de Sevignie. "It was a last request (said she), and I might on that account have complied with it; he might then have opened his whole soul to me: he might then have revealed the whole circumstances which oppose his wishes:—yet, alas! of what use could it be to know them, since separated it could give little consolation to know by what means."

  But, notwithstanding those words, Madeline wished to know them; it was a wish however which, she was convinced, would never be gratified; for, though she was sure de Sevignie had no reason to blush in avowing them, she was equally sure he never would do so.

  Madame Chatteneuf's coach was ordered the next morning at an early hour, as she wished to spend a long day with her friend; but an unexpected circumstance retarded her journey to the chateau till a late hour. Just as she was setting out, a letter arrived from Verona, from a sister of her deceased mother's, who had married an Italian nobleman, and had long been settled in Italy, informing her, that her lord was no more; and that, finding herself oppressed in spirits, and declining in health, she ardently longed for the society of her niece, feeling herself rather forlorn, now that she had lost her husband, in a place where she had no connexions of her own about her. Moreover, that as he had left every thing in her power, and she intended making a will in favour of her niece, it was absolutely necessary she should be with her at the time of her death.