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

by Eliza Parsons

"And do you think (cried Madeline), in an union with D'Alembert's son I could feel half the wretchedness I must experience if, by persevering in your present intentions, you provoke his resentment, and become its victim? no—believe me I could not. But I have sworn (continued she, wildly starting from her seat), I have sworn to become the wife of D'Alembert, if by no other means I can prevail upon his father to keep secret the fatal events of your life; the oath is recorded in heaven—what mortal then shall be daring enough to bid me break it?"

  "My Madeline! my love! (cried her father, terrified by her strong emotions, and catching her hand), a thought has just struck me, which may perhaps extricate us from our present trouble; 'tis evident that neither D'Alembert nor his son would desire an union with you, but for the sake of the fortune you are to possess."

  "Evident indeed," repeated Madeline.

  "I think then (resumed St. Julian), that if we were to promise to resign that fortune to them, they would cease all further solicitations for your hand."

  "A merciful God has surely inspired you with the idea (said Madeline, while tears of joy fell from her). Oh, I have no doubt but our persecution would immediately cease, if their avarice was once satisfied."

  "Send then for D'Alembert (cried St. Julian), and tell him, if he vows inviolable secrecy with regard to me, and promises to relinquish all ideas of an union between you and his son, both you and your father will, without delay, sign any paper he may please to draw up, resigning to him and his heirs for ever all right and title to the fortunes of Montmorenci."

  "I will send for him directly," exclaimed Madeline.

  "Ah! my child (said St. Julian, still detaining and looking mournfully at her), must I then bid you sign away your birth-right? Must my crimes doom you to obscurity?—for me must you forfeit that wealth, that rank, you are entitled to?—"

  "Talk not to me of wealth or rank (said Madeline); what happiness have I experienced from the possession of either?—Oh! my father, never did I know real peace since I left the dear cottage where I was brought up; to be again its humble inmate is the summit of my wishes."

  "Gladly indeed shall I resign all pretensions to rank and splendour (cried St. Julian); gladly shall I quit this mansion, where the spirit of a murdered brother takes its nightly rounds to fill my soul with horror. Yes, Madeline, in the dead of the night, when all but misery and despair are sunk in repose, my ears are often pierced by dreadful groans and melancholy cries, such as disturbed the tranquillity of the family the first night we entered within these walls."

  "Oh! would to heaven (exclaimed Madeline, shuddering and appalled), that our departure from the castle immediately followed our renunciation of the fortune appertaining to it."

  "Would to heaven it did! (said St. Julian) but to quit it during the life-time of the Marquis is impossible."

  "Let me no longer delay sending for D'Alembert," cried she. As she spoke, she disengaged her hand, and, flying to the bell, rung it with violence. A servant almost instantly obeyed the summons, by whom she dispatched a message to D'Alembert, requesting to see him directly. Unwilling to meet him in the present agitated state of his mind, her father tenderly embraced her, and then left the room.

  CHAPTER VI

  Misfortunes on misfortunes press upon me,

  Swell o'er my head like waves, and dash me down!

  Sorrow and shame have torn my soul,

  And blast the spring and promise of my year;

  They hang like winter on my youthful hopes.

  So flow'rs are gathered to adorn a grave,

  To lose their freshness among bones and rottenness,

  And have their odours stifled in the dust.

  St. Julian had scarcely quitted the apartment ere D'Alembert entered it—"I am come, Madam (said he, bowing), to receive your commands."

  "Rather say, Sir (cried Madeline, with a haughtiness she could not repress), you are come to pronounce my doom. I cannot (continued she, rising and closing the door), deny that you have my father, consequently me, completely in your power; I shall therefore no longer attempt to refuse—I shall only attempt to entreat."

  "You already know my resolution (said D'Alembert, losing all the gentleness with which he had entered the apartment); urge, therefore, no entreaty which I must refuse."

  "I trust I shall not (said Madeline); my entreaty is, that, instead of my hand, you would accept of a title to the fortunes I may possess for your son."

  "I do not understand you," cried D'Alembert, looking steadily at her.

  "I think my meaning is obvious (said Madeline); I offer to your son the charm which attracts him to me. Yes, D'Alembert, I am convinced that had I still been Madeline Clermont, the humble inmate of a lonely cottage, he never would have desired an alliance with me. Gladly, therefore, will I resign all that can now render him solicitous for that alliance; and am authorized by my father to tell you, that provided you promise, solemnly promise never to divulge the events of his unhappy life—events which, if properly stated, you must more compassionate than condemn him for, and withdraw the addresses of your son, he will, jointly with me, sign any paper you may please to draw up, resigning for ever to you and your heirs the fortunes of Montmorenci."

  "Both you and your father are certainly entitled to the thanks of me and my son for your generous intentions (cried D'Alembert, bowing, and scornfully smiling). I will not pretend to say that either he or I are insensible of the value of riches, but we are not quite so interested as you imagine. The fortunes of Montmorenci would, to him, lose half their estimation, if the lovely Madeline was not attached to them. His therefore she must be, if she wishes to preserve the existence of her father, for on her compliance my secrecy depends."

  Madeline dropped on her knees—"Kneel by me then (she exclaimed), and swear, if I promise to sacrifice myself, that that secrecy will never be violated."

  "I swear (said D'Alembert, bending his knee to the ground), that if you become the wife of my son, all that I know concerning your father shall be buried within my breast."

  "Dispose of me then (cried Madeline), as you please. Yet, Oh! D'Alembert (she continued, in a voice of agony, and raising her eyes to his face), if you value the happiness of your son, give not to his arms a reluctant wife—cold and joyless must be such a gift! In pity to him therefore, as well as me, give up all idea of our union."

  "Never, (said D'Alembert, as he raised her from the floor); though you may marry with indifference, the tenderness of my son will soon, I am confident, convert that indifference into love."

  "Love!" repeated Madeline. She involuntarily cast her eyes upon the portrait, which bore so strong a resemblance to de Sevignie. It was her disordered fancy, no doubt, which made her at that moment imagine the eyes regarded her with an expression of the deepest melancholy; every tender scene she had experienced with him rushed to her recollection. She felt she could never cease to adore him; she felt that, in the arms of another, she must still sigh for him: and, shuddering, almost shrieking, at the idea of the dreadful destiny which would soon render such sighs a crime, she fell in convulsive agitation upon the bosom of D'Alembert. He supported her to a window, and in a few minutes she began a little to revive. She then disengaged herself from his arms.

  "You are still ill (said he); permit me therefore to support you."

  "No (replied she, withholding the hand he attempted to take); upon the bosom which cannot pity me, I will not lean."

  "You are now prejudiced against me (said D'Alembert); my professions, therefore, you would disregard; but I trust the period will shortly arrive in which you will believe me sincere when I say, that the esteem, the tenderness, your virtues merit, I feel for you. Will you now permit me (cried he, after a pause), to go and acquaint the Marquis with the happiness which awaits my son?"

  Anxious to be relieved from his presence, Madeline desired him to do as he pleased, and he directly left her. The agonies of her soul then burst forth, and in tears and broken exclamations she vented her feelings. In this situation her
father surprised her:—Pale, trembling, the very picture of melancholy and despair, he approached her.

  "D'Alembert was then inflexible (said he). He has just announced to the Marquis and me your acceptance of his son. Oh! my child, can you pardon the father who has doomed you to wretchedness?"

  Madeline flung herself into his arms. She would have spoken—she would have assured him, that the wretchedness of her destiny could not be as great as he imagined, from knowing that it had mitigated his; but sighs and sobs impeded her utterance. At length, raising her head—"Oh! my father (she said), do not torture me by such language; strengthen, instead of weakening me; aid me—advise me; enable me to perform the duties of the station I am about entering into. That God (cried she, lifting her streaming eyes to heaven), that God whom we both worship and adore, delights not in the miseries of his creatures: when, therefore, acting right, we may surely hope that he will mitigate our sorrows."

  A summons to dinner prevented all further conversation. Madeline declared her utter inability of obeying it, and entreated her father to apologize for her absence.

  Reluctantly he left her. Nothing could have prevailed upon him to do so, but a fear of distressing the Marquis if he absented himself from the table; and he promised to return as soon as he possibly could to her.

  During his absence, Madeline determined to exert herself in order to regain some degree of composure. "But little shall I serve him (cried she), by the sacrifice of myself, if I let him know the anguish excited by that sacrifice."

  He had been gone about half an hour when she heard a gentle knock at the dressing-room door. She started, but instantly recollecting herself, and supposing it to come from some one of the servants, she desired the door to be opened. She was obeyed directly, and a man, whom she had never seen before, made his appearance.

  Madeline rose from her chair, and surveyed him with astonishment. He approached her with evident diffidence and agitation, and offered her a letter. "From whom does it come?" said Madeline without taking it.

  "From a friend to virtue (he replied). Delay not to read it (continued he, dropping it at her feet, for surprise rendered her unable to extend her hand): observe its advice, and avoid destruction." So saying, he rushed from the room, and closed the door after him.

  Madeline remained many minutes without motion. She then repeated his words—"And will this letter (cried she, taking it up) point out a way by which I can avoid destruction?" She broke the seal with a trembling hand, and read as follows:—

  "Lady,

  "The unhappy wife of young D'Alembert still exists; the story of her death was invented for the vilest purposes—purposes which, under Providence, I trust I shall be the humble instrument of defeating. Too long have I been the slave of vice—too long an accessary in all the horrid schemes of an iniquitous father and son! but heaven has at length awakened me to remorse; and, if the sincerest penitence for past enormities, and most strenuous endeavours to undo all the mischief I have done, can expiate error, I hope to be forgiven. I am now hastening to the place where the most lovely and most injured of her sex groans in captivity! but, till her liberation is effected, as you value her life (my worthless one I will not mention), keep secret the contents of this letter; were they prematurely known, there is no doubt but her death would be the immediate consequence. Oh! Lady, pray for her; pray that the efforts of a sorrowing and repentant wretch may be successful in rescuing virtue, and preserving innocence: and may that heaven, which must ever regard purity like thine, ever render abortive all schemes that wickedness may plan against thee!"

  No language could do justice to the feelings of Madeline on perusing this letter; but the astonishment, the ecstasy, with which the knowledge of her friend's existence inspired her, soon gave way to apprehensions for her father. She trembled to think of the horrors which D'Alembert might entail upon him in revenge for the disappointment of his hopes. "It will gladden his cruel and malicious soul (cried she) to plunge my father into the gulf of destruction—that gulf, into which the discovery of his own crimes must precipitate himself."

  Her heart throbbing with impatience, she anxiously listened for her father. The moment he appeared, she flew to him, and put the letter into his hand. Her looks prepared him for something wonderful, and he eagerly cast his eye over it.

  "Oh, villains! (exclaimed he, ere he had half perused it), what punishment can be adequate to your crimes! My child (resumed he, after finishing the letter, tenderly embracing her as he spoke), thou art indeed, as the good must ever be, the peculiar care of Providence. Oh! with the most heartfelt gratitude do I acknowledge its goodness in preserving you from the snare which was set for you:—this instant would I expose the execrable contrivers of it to the fate they merit; this instant, notwithstanding the power which treachery has given them over me, brand them with infamy, did I not fear, in consequence of some part of this letter, taking any step of the kind till after the liberation of the unhappy Madame D'Alembert is effected. It would be an ill requital for the kindness of my dear lamented friend if, to gratify myself by punishing immediately an injury meditated against my child, I occasioned the destruction of her's."

  "Oh! my father (cried Madeline, whose heart was now solely occupied by fears on his account), think not of punishing the monsters—think only how you may avoid their malice."

  "Avoid it! (exclaimed St. Julian, looking sternly at her); no, I will brave it, I will brave their threats—I will brave the horrors they may draw upon me, to have the satisfaction of punishing myself their meditated injury against you."

  This was what Madeline had dreaded; his indignation at their designs against her would, she feared, transport him beyond all consideration for himself.

  She threw herself at his feet, and with tears besought him to sacrifice his resentment to his safety. "You have ever told me, ever taught me to believe (she exclaimed), that you tenderly regarded your Madeline; Oh! now, my father, prove that regard by endeavouring to preserve a life with which her's is entwined."

  Her entreaties had at length the desired effect; passion gave way to pity; and, raising her from the ground, while he pressed her to his heart, St. Julian told her that the value she set upon his life made him in some degree value it himself. "I will therefore go (said he), to Lafroy—he is faithful and clever, and consult with him how I may best brave the coming storm: for, like you, I am convinced that, when once the villainy of D'Alembert is discovered, and consequently his hopes relative to you overthrown, he will reveal all he knows concerning me."

  "Oh, go—go (cried Madeline, disengaging herself from his arms); go directly to Lafroy, and be quick, I entreat you, my father, in your return."

  She followed him to the gallery, determined to wait there till he came back. A considerable time elapsed without bringing him; and the fears of Madeline were at length so excited by his long absence, that she was just going in quest of him, when she saw him and Lafroy approaching.

  "I fear you have been uneasy at my not returning sooner (said he); but it required time to deliberate on what was to be done."

  "What have you determined on?" said Madeline as they entered the dressing-room, and closed the door.

  "On parting," replied he, in an accent of the deepest sorrow.

  "On parting!" repeated Madeline, stepping back, and looking wildly at him.

  "Yes; to remain in the castle, would be to await quietly the fate to which D'Alembert will expose me."

  "It would indeed (said Lafroy); I have no doubt but that the moment his baseness is discovered, Monsieur D'Alembert will reveal every particular he knows concerning you: and I am sorry to say, from my knowledge of the Marquis's disposition, I am sure he will admit of no circumstance as a palliation of the murder of Lord Philippe."

  Madeline shuddered at the word murder, and involuntarily averted her head from Lafroy.

  "Murder sounds harshly in my daughter's ears," cried St. Julian in rather a resentful tone.

  "I beg your pardon, my Lord (said Lafroy), for h
aving spoken unguardedly; nothing, I can assure your Lordship, would distress me so much as to offend or give pain to either you or Lady Madeline; 'tis my most ardent wish to serve you both."

  "And whither (cried Madeline, turning to her father), Oh! whither, if you quit this castle, can you betake yourself?"

  "With the most wild and romantic solitudes of the Alps I am well acquainted (said he), and amongst them I mean to seek a shelter."

  "The holy man, who was so kind to my mother and her unfortunate family, may then again befriend you," cried she.

  "Alas! (exclaimed St. Julian) he is gone long since to receive the blessed reward his virtues merited: about eight years ago I was assured of his death by the termination of our correspondence."

  "Oh! my father (cried Madeline, grasping his arm), may I not accompany you?"

  "Lord! my Lady (exclaimed Lafroy), surely you could not think of such a thing; surely you could not think of abandoning all prospect of rank and independence?"

  "Yes, (replied Madeline); to have the power of mitigating a father's distresses, I would abandon every prospect this world could present."

  "But by accompanying him you would rather increase than mitigate his distresses. Situations which, on his own account, he would not mind, he would then tremble at on your's. Besides, you would retard the expedition it is necessary for him to make, and prevent his exploring the places best calculated for affording him an asylum."

  "What reason can be assigned, what excuse offered to the Marquis for his quitting the castle, clandestinely quitting it," demanded Madeline.

  "He must write a letter to the Marquis (resumed Lafroy), to be delivered the day after his departure, informing him that the misfortunes of his early life had given him such a distaste to society, that he had formed the resolution of renouncing the world; a resolution which, for fear of opposition, he would not acquaint him with till he had put it into execution."