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

by Eliza Parsons

  The first she examined was the Marchioness: it represented a woman in all the bloom of youth and of the most exquisite beauty; she turned from it, after expressing her admiration, to Lord Philippe's. But, Oh! what were her feelings at that moment, when the exact resemblance of de Sevignie met her eyes.

  With all the wildness of astonishment she gazed upon it: "Are you sure (cried she, glancing for an instant at the housekeeper, and speaking in almost breathless agitation) are you sure this picture was drawn for Lord Philippe?"

  "Sure! (repeated the housekeeper) Lord, yes, that I am indeed. Why I saw him, myself sitting for it."

  "Good heaven! (said Madeline to herself) what a likeness! Ah! how vain, (she continued) my resolves to forget de Sevignie while his image will be thus almost continually before me."

  As if riveted by some spell to the spot, she still continued to stand before it: the more she gazed upon it, the more if possible the likeness grew upon her.

  "Do you think it a handsome picture?" asked the housekeeper, elevating the light as she spoke as if to give Madeline a better opportunity of examining it.

  "Handsome! (repeated Madeline emphatically and with a deep sigh), yes very handsome indeed."

  "Aye, and so do I; (cried the housekeeper), what a sweet smile there is about the mouth!"

  Yes, (thought Madeline) the fascinating smile of de Sevignie.

  "And the eyes! (continued the housekeeper) how piercing, yet how mild!"

  Madeline, who had turned to the housekeeper, again fastened her's upon them, and again fancied she beheld the dark eyes of de Sevignie beaming with unutterable tenderness upon her.

  She sighed more deeply than before; and fearful that if she remained much longer in her present situation, she should not be able to conceal the feelings which now almost swelled her heart to bursting, she instantly left the dressing-room.

  "Your La'ship looks disturbed, (said the housekeeper); I am afraid the picture of Lord Philippe has affected you, by bringing his melancholy fate to your mind: Poor youth, it was a sad thing indeed; but your La'ship must consider, that if he had not been taken off, your father would never have been restored to his rights; and heaven knows, he was kept long enough out of them."

  "I must for ever regret (said Madeline) that his restoration to them was occasioned by the death of his brother."

  "Why to be sure, (replied the housekeeper) it would have been better if they could have been regained by any other means; but that that would ever have been the case there was very little probability of; and, between ourselves, (proceeded she, lowering her voice) since your La'ship has hinted at the affair to me, I think even if it was openly proved, instead of being merely suspected, as it is at present, that the Count, your father, when his injuries were considered, would not be condemned; I, for my part, am one of those who would forgive him for what he did."

  "For what he did! (repeated Madeline, starting), why what has he done to require forgiveness? What is the affair you say I have hinted at? Speak,—you have agitated my very soul."

  The housekeeper receded a few steps in evident terror.

  "Why, nothing, I assure your La'ship, (exclaimed she in faltering accents) I only meant that—that—"

  Here she paused in the utmost confusion.

  "Speak! (cried Madeline, in a voice that betrayed the most dreadful agitation—an agitation caused by recollecting at that instant the conversation which had passed between her and the housekeeper relative to the murder of Lord Philippe on the night she had sought for shelter in the castle); speak, I adjure you, (she repeated, with a distracted air) and relieve me from the horrors you have inspired."

  "I am very sorry, I am sure, (said Mrs. Beatrice) that I have so distressed your La'ship; like an old woman, I must always be prating; I only meant, my Lady, I can assure you, to say, that if it was known that the Count, your father, rejoiced at, instead of regretted, the death of his brother, no one could wonder at it, considering the reason he had to hate him as the usurper of his rights."

  "And was this all you really meant?" asked Madeline.

  "Oh, all, I do assure your La'ship, upon the word of a true Christian; if you do not believe me, I will call all the Saints in Heaven to witness for me."

  Madeline could not help smiling:

  "As it is a call, perhaps, (said she) they might not obey; I will take your word."

  She now endeavoured to compose herself; but not easily could she regain composure, nor dismiss remorse from her mind, for having yielded, but for a minute, to the horrid suggestions which had lately pervaded it.

  "Oh! was my father acquainted with them, (cried she to herself), never, never would he forgive me. Ah! how can I forgive myself—Ah! how support, without betraying it, the pain I must ever feel, for having thought unjustly of him."

  "You seem well acquainted with the affairs of this family?" said she, sitting down, and making an effort to appear composed.

  "Yes, very well acquainted with them indeed, (replied the housekeeper, significantly shaking her head); I have lived in it almost ever since I was born; for my parents dying when I was very young, my aunt, who was housekeeper, took me immediately under her protection."

  It now occurred to Madeline, that the domestic who had liberated her unhappy grandmother might still be living; and anxious, if she was, to pay her the tribute of respect she merited, she inquired; and heard, with pleasure, that her present attendant was the person who had performed that generous act.

  "Yes, my lady, it was I, (cried the housekeeper, bridling up), who freed the poor unfortunate lady: I was then a fine lively young girl, as your La'ship indeed may well suppose, from the number of years which have passed since that event; and the most tender-hearted creature, though I say it myself, that perhaps ever lived. Dear me, I shall never forget how I cried, when I went with some food to her, and found her sitting on the ground, so pale, yet so beautiful, with her hair, the finest hair I ever saw, about one shade darker than your's, my lady, hanging about her shoulders, and her little baby lying on her lap, on whom her tears were falling so fast, while a cold wind whistled through the broken windows; for she was confined in an upper room, in one of the uninhabited towers."

  "Could I see that room?" asked Madeline.

  "Why, the stairs which lead to it are now very bad; but if you wish very much to go to it, I think you may venture some day or other. Poor soul!—it has not been opened I believe since she left it. I never shall forget the manner in which she thanked me as I led her from it; or the tears she shed as she put this little ring upon my finger."

  Madeline started up and examined the ring; then, after a moment fastening her fine eyes swimming in tears upon the housekeeper, "Blessed, for ever blessed, (she exclaimed) be the hand which aided the unhappy!"

  "There was such a fuss, (resumed Mrs. Beatrice), when it was known that she had escaped, I was very near being dismissed from the castle; nothing but my youth could have obtained my forgiveness: so in it I continued, and on the death of my aunt obtained her place."

  "And what was the general opinion about the unhappy Marchioness?" demanded Madeline.

  "It was the opinion of the domestics, and such simple folks, (replied the housekeeper) that she was an unfortunate lady, who had been cruelly injured; but all the great people believed, or said they did at least, that she was an artful creature, who had drawn in the Count to have an amour with her."

  After conversing a few minutes longer with the housekeeper, Madeline told her, she no longer required her attendance. The night was now indeed waning fast, and most of the inhabitants of the castle had retired to repose, ere she dismissed her; however so much was her imagination affected by the gloom of her apartment, that she could not avoid asking, whether there was an inhabited one near it?

  "Not very near it," answered the housekeeper; "the one adjoining it," she said, "had belonged to Lord Philippe, but since his death had been shut up, with all the rest of the chambers in that gallery, except a few near the staircase, one of whic
h had been now prepared for the Count St. Julian."

  Left to herself, instead of retiring to rest, Madeline reseated herself by the toilette, and leaning her head pensively upon her hand, began to ruminate over past events. The picture of Lord Philippe, by recalling de Sevignie to her mind, had awakened a thousand tender recollections, which wrung her heart with agony; the idea of de Sevignie's falsehood had failed to conquer her tenderness; she still loved him, still doubted his duplicity, and felt more convinced than ever that all the splendour of her present situation could never restore the cheerfulness her disappointment relative to him had injured: again she regretted that situation, again regretted her elevation to a height which would render more conspicuous the melancholy she wished to conceal from every eye.

  "The sadness that marks my brow will make me appear ungrateful to heaven, (cried she) for the wonderful change it has effected in my father's favour; and what ill-natured speculations may not be excited by seeing one so young so hopeless!"

  Severely, however, did her heart reproach her for regretting that change—a change which removed from the memory of her grandmother the obloquy that had been so long attached to it.

  From the sufferings of her grandmother her thoughts naturally reverted to those of her father, and the more she reflected on his narrative, the more firmly convinced she was that much of his life remained untold;—the recollected words of her departed friend confirmed this opinion.

  "She told me, (cried Madeline) and her lips knew not falsehood, that the calamities of his life were unprecedented; that its characters were marked by horror, and stained with blood;—but in the view he gave me of it, no such calamities, no such characters met my eye; 'tis therefore too evident, that much of it remained concealed.—Oh! may that concealment now continue, (she proceeded); Oh! may no hand more daring than mine withdraw the veil I have been so cautiously against raising; may no untoward circumstance reveal a mystery, whose elucidation I have now a presentiment would fill me with horror!"

  She suddenly paused, for at this instant she thought she heard a groan from the adjoining chamber; which, it may be remembered, has already been mentioned as once belonging to Lord Philippe.

  Her heart beat quick, and she turned her eyes towards the partition, as if they could have penetrated it, and discovered the cause of the sound that had alarmed her; but all again was profoundly still, and she at last began to think it was either the wind growling through the casements, she had heard, or some of those unaccountable noises, so common in old houses; such, she recollected, as had often startled her at the chateau of the Countess de Merville.

  Thus trying to tranquillize her mind, she was beginning to undress, when the powers of motion were suddenly suspended by a repetition of the sound which had so recently alarmed her—a sound she could no longer ascribe to the causes she had already done.

  Deep and dreadful groans now pierced her ear—groans which seemed bursting from the bosom of misery and despair, and which by degrees rose to a yell, intermingled with sighs and sobs.

  That Madeline was not an entire stranger to superstition, must have been already perceived; that it was now awakened in her breast, cannot be denied, nor indeed scarcely wondered at, when her situation is considered; in a gloomy chamber, remote from every inhabited one, and assailed by noises from the long unoccupied apartment of a murdered relative.

  For some minutes she was unable to move: at length her eyes timidly glanced round her chamber, dreading yet wishing to ascertain whether any terrific object was within it. They encountered a bell near the head of the bed, and which the housekeeper had previously informed her communicated with the gallery where the servants slept; to this she instantly darted, and rung it with violence;—almost immediately she heard a bustle over her head, and then descending steps.

  She flew to the light, and taking it up, directly opened the door. Several of the male and female domestics approached, accompanied by her father.

  "What is the matter, my love? (cried he), I have been called from my bed by the sound of passing steps."

  "Listen!" exclaimed Madeline, with a countenance of horror, and glancing at the chamber.

  The yell became, if possible, more savage; and the domestics began to cross themselves. Madeline looked at her father, with an intention of asking his opinion of the noise; but was prevented by observing the disorder and death-like paleness of his countenance.

  "How long (demanded he) is it since this chamber was opened?"

  "Two months at least, my Lord, (replied the housekeeper), and then it was only opened for a few hours, of a fine sunny day, merely to air it."

  "Where is the key?" asked he,

  "It hangs beside the door, my Lord;" answered Mrs. Beatrice.

  "I will examine it then," cried he.

  "Examine it! (repeated the housekeeper) Jesu Maria!—Why, surely my Lord, you could not think of such a thing; surely, surely you, of all men in the world, could not have courage to enter it?"

  St. Julian started, and turned quick upon her; and a frown, such as Madeline had never before seen upon it, darkened his brow—his eyes, his piercing eyes, were fastened on her, as if wishing to discover the innermost recesses of her soul, and in an agitated voice he demanded what she meant.

  "Meant, my Lord? (said the affrighted Beatrice) meant—why, nothing—nothing that could give your Lordship offence."

  St. Julian looked doubtfully at her; then turning, he took down the key, and unlocked the chamber; the moment he opened the door, the women retreated from it, and shame alone, it was visible, prevented the men from following their example:—attended by them and Madeline he entered it, and the noise directly ceased.

  The room, like Madeline's, was hung with tapestry; this was now raised, and the walls minutely examined, but no opening could be discovered, nor any means of entrance but by the door in the gallery.

  "Were you ever before disturbed by any noise in this chamber?" asked St. Julian.

  "No, (the servants replied) never before the present night."

  " 'Tis strange!" cried he, after pausing for a minute.

  They then quitted the chamber, which he relocked.

  "I shall keep the key myself, (said he, as he turned from it) it must undergo another examination; though destruction, certain destruction should overwhelm me for doing so, I will try to develop the mystery."

  He now took the hand of Madeline, and led her to her room; he tried to tranquillize her, but the trembling of his frame, and disorder of his looks, mocked the efforts he made to do so.

  "You look alarmed, my love?" cried he.

  Madeline sighed, and might have said,

  "And trust me, in mine eye, so do you."

  "You have no reason for terror, (said he with a deep sigh), your conduct has made no enemies either in this world or the next."

  "I trust not; (cried Madeline), but conscious innocence is not always able to guard the heart against the attacks of fear; and I own I am shocked beyond expression by the noise I have heard."

  "I fear you are superstitious," exclaimed her father.

  "Could you wonder if I was? (cried she); What we cannot account for, we can scarcely help ascribing to supernatural causes."

  "Am I to infer, (said St. Julian, regarding her with earnestness) from what you say, that it is your opinion the groans proceeded from the spirit of the murdered Philippe?"

  "With the Supreme nothing is impossible, (said Madeline), and I have been told that the spirits of the injured are sometimes permitted to revisit this world, for the purpose of obtaining retribution; and if 'tis true what the housekeeper once hinted to me,—"

  St. Julian started,—"What did she hint?" asked he with eagerness.

  Madeline paused for a minute; then with a faltering voice, and timidly raising her eyes to her father's face,

  "She told me (said she) that Lord Philippe fell not by the hands of banditti, but—"

  "By whom?" demanded St. Julian, in almost convulsive agitation.

  "Some re
lative," replied Madeline.

  "And did she acquaint you with the name of that relative?"

  "No, and perhaps, after all, it was only an idle surmise of her own."

  St. Julian left his seat, and traversed the apartment.

  Madeline viewed him with consternation; her thoughts began to grow wild; and fears of the most frightful nature again assailed her heart.

  "Oh, God! (she cried to herself, while every nerve was strained with agony at the idea) should the suspicions that now rack my breast be just!—-This torture of suspense is more than I can bear (continued she); I will throw myself at the feet of my father, I will disclose to him my suspicions; if false, he will pardon them, when he reflects on the combination of circumstances which excited them; if true, he will not surely shrink from reposing confidence in his child."

  She rose, but almost instantly sunk upon her seat, recoiling from the dreadful idea of a child declaring to a parent her suspicion of his having committed one of the most horrible crimes which human nature can be capable of:—she shuddered, she wondered at her temerity, in having ever thought of doing so; and, as she wondered, the recollection of her father's precepts, his gentleness, his uniform piety, returning, she again began to believe, that in thinking he had ever deviated from integrity, she had done him the greatest injustice.

  St. Julian, whose emotions prevented his noticing those of Madeline, soon resumed his seat; his countenance had lost its wildness, and a faint glow again mantled his cheek.

  "I trust, my love, (cried he) you will not again listen to the idle surmises of the servants: even on the slightest foundation they are apt to raise improbabilities and horrors, which, in spite of reason, make too often a dangerous impression on the mind, and overturn its quiet, by engendering superstition:—Heaven knows, (he proceeded) the evils of life are sufficiently great without adding to them those of the imagination."

  Madeline assured him she would never more encourage any conversation from the domestics, on family affairs.

  "You look fatigued, (said he) and I will now (rising as he spoke) leave you to repose; retire to it, my love, without fear or trembling; blessed with conscious innocence, you can dread no evil, no angry spirit demanding retribution:—Oh! never may your bosom lose that peace which must ever belong to virtue!—Oh! never may reflection break your slumbers, or an offended conscience present terrific images to your view. farewell, my child, (tenderly embracing her) would to God thy father could sink to forgetfulness with a mind like thine!"