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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Dear heart, (cried Mrs. Beatrice) well, I protest he is very complaisant."

  'Twas a complaisance, however, which Madeline would gladly have excused, and which she wondered a mind so afflicted as his could ever have thought of.

  "I never saw my Lord more disturbed than he was just after finding the picture, (said Lafroy) I thought when he returned to his apartment he would have fainted."

  "Since so disordered 'tis a greater wonder than ever that he should desire to see a stranger," cried the housekeeper.

  "Aye, so I think too," said Lafroy.

  Madeline saw he was impatient to conduct her to his Lord, and, though with a reluctance she could scarcely conceal, she did not hesitate to accompany him immediately.

  He led her through a circuitous gallery to a very magnificent one, as well as she could discern by the faint light which glimmered through it; at the extreme end of which was the apartment the Marquis sat in: the moment he introduced her to it he retired, closing the door after him.

  The Marquis sat at the head of the room; he bowed without rising at her entrance, and motioned for her to take a chair on his right hand.

  Tremblingly, Madeline approached him, and obeyed his motion. It was some minutes 'ere he spoke, and as his eyes were bent upon the ground the timid ones of Madeline surveyed a form which inspired her with mingled reverence and pity, and which, though bent by age and sorrow, still retained traces of majesty and captivating beauty.

  "Young lady, (said he, at last, raising his eyes to hers) I hope you had the goodness to excuse my not doing the honors of my house myself; affliction, (added he, with a deep sigh) has long rendered me unable to perform the rites of hospitality, to fulfil the claims of society."

  "The rites of hospitality were so amply fulfilled towards me, my Lord, (cried Madeline) that I should deem myself highly remiss if I neglected this opportunity of assuring your Lordship of my heartfelt gratitude."

  "Does this picture, young lady, (said he, displaying her father's, which he had hitherto concealed within his hand, and looking earnestly at her) belong to you?"

  "It does my Lord," replied Madeline.

  "Will you be so obliging (said he, still retaining it) as to inform me how it came into your possession?"

  The strangeness of this question, and the look which accompanied it, threw Madeline into an agitation that made her tremble, and took from her all power of replying.

  "You are surprised at my question, (proceeded he) nor do I wonder at your being so, but I trust you will excuse it, when I inform you I have important reasons for it: tell me therefore, I entreat, I conjure you, (he continued, with a vehemence Madeline did not think him capable of) how this picture became your's?"

  "My father gave it to me, my Lord," answered Madeline.

  "Your father!——Gracious heaven!—(He paused, as if overcome by strong emotions, but almost immediately recovering his voice, ) his name I entreat!"

  "Clermont, my Lord," said Madeline, with increasing wonder.

  "Clermont! (repeated he, with a look strongly expressive of disappointment; then after the silence of some minutes) do you know by what means he obtained it?"

  "It is his own, my Lord," replied Madeline.

  "His own! (repeated the Marquis, with a wild and eager look) his own!—All gracious powers!" he arose and walked with disordered steps about the room.

  Madeline amazed at all she saw and heard, remained trembling on her chair.

  The Marquis suddenly stopped before her, and looked at her with an earnestness that made her droop her head.

  "Yes, (cried he) I see traces in that face of one—which no time can wear from my remembrance."

  He resumed his seat.—

  "In what manner does your father live?" asked he.

  "He lives in obscurity, my Lord," replied Madeline.

  "What is his family?"

  "It consists but of me, my Lord."

  "You are acquainted I suppose with his real name, and the misfortunes which drove him to obscurity?"

  "No, my Lord, I am not; I never knew he had a right to any name but that of Clermont; never knew he had been in a situation different from his present one."

  "Tenderness to you made him, I suppose, conceal his misfortunes, (said the Marquis.) I see, (he continued, gazing upon Madeline, whose pale countenance was expressive of terror as well as agitation) that I have disturbed you; a curiosity raised as to your's has been, yet ungratified, is sufficient indeed to give you uneasiness; be satisfied, however, by an assurance that the present mystery shall perhaps, when least expected, be explained."

  The too evident uneasiness of Madeline however was not solely owing to the cause he imputed it to. Ignorant of her father's connexions in life, she knew not whether to consider the Marquis as a friend or foe, and her uncertainty threw her into agony.

  "No, my Lord, (she cried, determined if possible to terminate her suspense) 'tis not the pain of ungratified curiosity that now distresses my mind; 'tis the fear—she paused, trembled, and bent her eyes to the ground,—'tis the fear—resumed she in a few minutes, and summoning all her courage to her aid—that my father perhaps may have reason to regret the discovery of his residence."

  "Never! (said the Marquis warmly) never will he have reason to regret my discovering it; no, never will he have reason to regret your seeking shelter beneath the roof of Montmorenci Castle. Accept my hand, (continued he, offering it to her) accept it as a pledge of friendship to you and your father."

  Madeline received the proffered pledge with transport, and the Marquis, after gently pressing her hand between his, restored her father's picture.

  He now told he would no longer detain her from the rest she appeared so much to require, and expressed his hopes, that 'till perfectly recovered from the effects of her late fright and fatigue, she would not quit the castle.

  Madeline thanked him for his kind consideration about her, but said she was pretty sure she should be able to re-commence her journey the ensuing day.

  The Marquis rung for Lafroy to reconduct her to her chamber, and cautioned her against mentioning the conversation which had passed between them to any one but her father.

  Lafroy appeared in a few minutes, and Madeline on returning to her chamber found the housekeeper still there, all amazement and curiosity.

  "Well, Mademoiselle, upon my word, (she exclaimed, the moment Madeline entered) you have had a long conversation with my Lord."

  "Yes," said Madeline, who scarcely knew what she uttered, so much was her mind engrossed by wonder.

  "And pray, Mademoiselle, how do you like him?" asked the inquisitive Mrs. Beatrice.

  "Very well," replied Madeline, beginning to undress in order to get rid of her troublesome companion.

  "Aye, (said Mrs. Beatrice) he is even now sometimes to be liked; in his youth there could not be a finer gentleman; he was so complaisant, and one of the best dancers I ever beheld."

  She continued to extol what his Lordship had been 'till Madeline was in bed, she then bade her good-night, and desired her, when she chose to rise, to ring for a servant.

  But solitude could not calm the agitation of Madeline's mind; the more she reflected on the conversation that had passed between her and the Marquis, the more her perplexity increased; she at last, however, endeavoured to compose herself by reflecting on the promise she had received from him of having the mystery explained, and his assurance of friendship to her father.

  "Should that friendship (she cried), be something more than bare profession; should it have power to mitigate the sorrows he too visibly labours under, for ever blessed shall I consider the hour in which I entered Montmorenci Castle."

  Exhausted by mental as well as bodily fatigue, she at last sunk to repose, from which she did not awaken till the morning was far advanced: she was ready to leave her chamber 'ere she rung for a servant, a maid immediately obeyed her summons, and informed her breakfast was already prepared for her by the housekeeper.

  Through a number of wi
nding passages Madeline was conducted to the grand staircase, which she descended to the hall. Here she involuntarily paused to examine the ancient ornaments surrounding her, which spoke of the splendour and the taste of other days: but with the admiration they excited, was intermingled a degree of sadness at the neglect and even desolation so every where apparent; the shields and other war-like trophies which hung upon the stately pillars of the hall, were covered with dust and cobwebs, the fine historical pictures which stretched from the side of the staircase to the ceiling, were discoloured by damp and dropping from the walls; and a great folding door half open, discovered the inner court strewed with rubbish, and encompassed by decaying buildings, before which the high grass waved in rank luxuriance, unbent by any foot.

  "How dreary, how desolate, (said Madeline to herself) is this scene; but to this state every work of man sooner or later comes: who then should vaunt of possessions, which, like the hand that raised them, are doomed to swift decay? Like the Poet she said,

  "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day, yet a few years and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in the empty court, and whistles round thy half worn shield."

  The voice of Lubin roused her from her melancholy meditation. He came to inquire whether she was able to continue her journey that day. She immediately assured him she was, and desired him to have the horses ready against she had breakfasted.

  She was then shown into a parlour adjoining the hall, where she found the housekeeper waiting at the breakfast-table to receive her. Mrs. Beatrice apologized for her Lord's not appearing, but said, for many years past he had not risen till the day was far advanced.

  Directly after breakfast Madeline bade an adieu to Montmorenci Castle; as she did so, she requested Mrs. Beatrice to present her sincere acknowledgments to the Marquis for the politeness and hospitality she had received beneath his roof.

  Lubin would gladly have chatted as they travelled, but the mind of Madeline was too much agitated to permit her to converse, and he was forced to amuse himself by whistling and singing.

  The nearer Madeline drew to the habitation of her father, the more her agitation increased; all the scenes she had gone thro' since her separation from him recurred to her memory, and she feared his inquiries concerning them would be too minute; she trembled lest she should discover, notwithstanding all her precaution, the real state of her heart, discover that its affections were abused, its pride mortified, its expectations disappointed; well she knew such a discovery would wound him to the soul.

  "And, Oh! (she cried) to add sorrow to his sorrow, to increase his misery already too oppressive, would be indeed to aggravate my own."

  At the entrance of the valley, in which the cottage of her father stood, she alighted and desired Lubin to lead the horses after her.

  Had her mind been less disturbed than it now was, she would have been enraptured with the lovely prospect she beheld: it was the autumnal season, and the promise of the spring was amply fulfilled by the luxuriance of the harvest; the grapes she had left in embryo, were now ripened into purple clusters, and the toils of the vintage had already commenced; a profusion of gay flowers enameled the bright sword of the valley, and the yellow mantle of Ceres covered the little vales that intersected many of the hills, and o'er the waving woods that hung upon those hills soft and solemn tints were just beginning to steal.

  Madeline reached the valley when the sun had attained its meridian, an hour when the cattle lay pensively ruminating, and

  ——————The daw,

  The rook and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks

  That the calm village in their verdant arms

  Shelt'ring, embrace, direct their lazy flight;

  Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd

  All the hot noon, 'till cooler hours arise:

  Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene;

  And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,

  The house-dog, with the vacant grey-hound, lie

  Out-stretch'd and sleepy.

  "The children of industry have had their hopes amply fulfilled, (cried Madeline, as she cast her eyes around) mine, she sighed, mine, when I left this place, were, though different, as flattering as their's."

  To describe her feelings when she came in sight of her beloved cottage would be impossible; they were such as almost swelled her heart to bursting; pain and pleasure were so intermingled, that it would have been hard to determine which was predominant. Her pleasure at the idea of beholding her father was damped by reflecting in how very different a manner she expected to have returned to him. She stopped at the little gate which opened into the grove, and leaned upon it, in order to try and gain some composure 'ere she should appear before him: old Bijou, the house dog, who lay slumbering beside it, woke at her approach, and instantly set up a cry of joy, which denoted his perfect recollection of her; as she patted his head, she endeavoured to quiet him, but without effect: the noise he made disturbed Jaqueline at her work, and excited her curiosity.

  "What is the matter, you noisy rogue? (said she, coming from the cottage) what possesses you, Bijou, to keep such a barking?"

  She approached the gate, stopped, screamed, and retreated—then again advanced—again retreated: at last she exclaimed,

  "If you do not wish to deprive me of my senses, you will at once tell me whether or not you are Mademoiselle Madeline?"

  "Do you doubt your eyes," cried Madeline, stretching out her hand.

  Jaqueline instantly pulled open the gate, but instead of taking the proffered hand of Madeline, she clasped her arms about her, and for some minutes by her caresses prevented her from speaking.

  "Is my father well?" at last asked Madeline, disengaging herself from the enraptured Jaqueline.

  "Yes, Mademoiselle, very well; but how did you travel?—Bless me, (looking over the gate, and perceiving Lubin with the horses) surely you did not ride?"

  "Is my father within?" asked Madeline, not attending to this question.

  "No, he is in the vineyard; I will run and inform him of your arrival."

  "Do not be too precipitate, (said Madeline) break it to him by degrees for he does not expect me."

  To practise any caution, however, was totally out of the power of Jaqueline; she flew to the vineyard; and Madeline all the way heard her exclaiming,

  "She is come, she is come—O, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Madeline is come."

  Madeline entered the parlour, she sat down, and tried to compose herself against the approaching interview; but she tried in vain. In a few minutes she heard the voice of her father; her heart throbbed as if it would burst her bosom: she rose, but had not power to meet him. Pale, disordered he rushed into the room, and Madeline sunk almost fainting into his extended arms.

  It was some time 'ere either of them could speak. Clermont at last raised his eyes,

  "Do I again behold you, my child, my Madeline, (he exclaimed) welcome, thrice welcome to my arms."

  He held her to a distance from him; he gazed upon her; the alteration in her looks seemed to strike him to the very heart: the rose that had bloomed upon her cheek when they parted,—the lustre that had brightened her eye was fled, and sadness had taken entire possession of her.

  "Oh! my child, (said he, looking mournfully at her) I fear, I fear, you have too bitterly lamented the death of our inestimable friend."

  Madeline burst into tears.

  "Our loss (resumed Clermont) is great indeed, but our grief is selfish: death to her was a removal to unutterable felicity; stem therefore these strong emotions in pity to me, check them, remember you are my only earthly consolation, the only prop I have to rest on."

  "Alas! (sighed Madeline) how frail a prop!" She took his hand, she pressed it to her lips. "My father (she said) be assured no effort on my part shall be wanting to fulfil your expectations, and heaven I doubt not will strengthen the feeble hands and calm the agitated mind of her who prays to it for fortitude and composure
to be enabled to perform its incumbent duties."

  "Yes, my child, (cried Clermont embracing her) heaven always assists the virtuous."

  He now inquired to what circumstance he owed her unexpected return, as in her last letter she had given no intimation of it. Madeline, without entering into the particulars of her late situation at the chateau, briefly informed him, that as soon as D'Alembert came to it, Madame D'Alembert wished her to leave it, and had promised in a few days to assign her reason for that wish.

  Clermont was all astonishment; but as he could not possibly fathom the mystery, he endeavoured to turn his thoughts from it. Madeline was still too much agitated to be able to inform him of her adventures at Montmorenci castle, but she determined to devote the first minutes of returning composure to that purpose, deeming it highly necessary for him to be acquainted with them as soon as possible.

  Her mind was a little relieved from the uneasiness that oppressed it by finding him silent respecting de Sevignie; yet while she rejoiced she wondered at that silence till she reflected that the Countess had promised never to acquaint him with the renewed attentions of de Sevignie, except they were terminated in a manner that she knew must be pleasing to him.

  But though the Countess had kept her promise, though Clermont was silent respecting de Sevignie, his mind was occupied in thinking of him; he could not believe that the deep dejection of his daughter was owing solely to the death of her friend, as his words, from regard to her delicacy had intimated: to the disappointment of her hopes relative to de Sevignie he was convinced it was principally owing, and with anguish intolerable he looked upon this drooping blossom, whose fair promise of maturity seemed now utterly at an end.

  "But a few days ago, (he cried to himself) and, from the recollection of former calamities, I thought I could not be more wretched than I then was: but, alas! I now find I was mistaken—now, when I behold the sole solace of affliction, my only earthly hope, sinking beneath a grief which seems bending her gentle head to swift decay. Oh! gracious heaven, if my child is destined to an early grave, close these sad eyes 'ere that destiny be accomplished."