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

by Eliza Parsons

  "Well, Mademoiselle, (said he, as he approached her) I have settled every thing, I hope, to your satisfaction. My friend has kindly promised to attend you to Paris, and is now going to L—, which is about two leagues off, to procure a proper conveyance for you."

  "You must thank your friend for me (said Madeline, rising) for I have not language to express the gratitude I feel for his promised protection."

  "My friend Oliver is a good soul (cried Lafroy), and does not require thanks."

  "No! (exclaimed Oliver), I do not, indeed!"

  "I think you had better now retire to a chamber, and try to take some repose, ere you commence your journey," said Lafroy.

  "Do, Mademoiselle (cried Oliver), my daughter will be happy to attend you."

  "I have taken care (said Lafroy, in a whispering voice to her), to guard you against all impertinent curiosity. I told a plausible story about you, and expressly desired that no one but Oliver's daughter should attend you;—she is a good girl, and has promised to make up a bundle of her clothes for you to take to Paris; when once there, you can easily procure others.—Excuse me if I ask, whether you do not want your purse replenished?"

  "No, (replied Madeline), I do not; I have money enough, I am sure, to defray the expenses of my journey, and the sale of some valuable trinkets I have about me will, I hope, enable me, without inconvenience, to rejoin my father."

  "As to the expenses of your present journey, they are already defrayed (said Lafroy); do not, my dear young lady, speak upon the subject; the money I acquired in your family can never be better expended than in the service of any one belonging to it."

  "I cannot express my feelings (cried Madeline, melting into tears); 'tis only Heaven, Lafroy, that can properly reward your humanity."

  "I must now bid you farewell, my dear lady (said Lafroy); if I stay much longer from the Castle I fear being missed, and my absence at this juncture would, I make no doubt, excite suspicion.—farewell! May Heaven and all its holy angels for ever watch over you!"

  "Stop for one instant (cried Madeline, catching his arm). Oh! Lafroy! I entreat—I conjure you—the moment a letter arrives from my father, to forward it to me. I shall be all impatience—all agony—all distraction—till I hear of his safety, and know where or when I may rejoin him!"

  "Rest assured (said Lafroy), that I shall do every thing you can wish. Once more, my dear young lady, farewell! Oliver has a letter to deliver to my aunt, which I wrote in the cottage; I am confident she will do every thing in her power to make you happy."

  Madeline mournfully shook her head.—"Alas! (she cried to herself) any effort to make me happy will now, I fear, be unavailing."

  "Come, Mademoiselle (said Oliver, as Lafroy turned from her), you had better step into the house."

  "I will (replied Madeline, as with streaming eyes she still pursued the steps of Lafroy); but first tell me how long you think it will be ere you return with a carriage."

  "About three hours, I think, (said Oliver); I shall ride to L—, and will, you may assure yourself, make as much haste as possible."

  He now led her into the house, and conducted her to a chamber, at the door of which he left her, telling her, as he retired, that he should send his daughter Theresa to her with a light and supper. Left to herself, Madeline, instead of indulging tears and lamentations, tried to suppress both, and regain some little degree of composure.—

  "I am embarked upon a stormy sea (said she), and I must resolutely brave its dangers if I hope to gain a port of safety."

  She every instant expected Theresa, but the minutes passed away without bringing her; this was a circumstance Madeline did not by any means regret, as solitude and silence best suited her present feelings. She continued a considerable time deeply ruminating over past events, when she was suddenly awakened from her reverie by strains of soft music from without the house; they were strains at once tender and solemn, and while they delighted, affected her to tears.—She went to a window, but just as she had gently opened it, for the purpose of more distinctly hearing them, they entirely ceased. The beautiful prospect, however, which the window commanded of the opposite mountains and the river, prevented her withdrawing immediately from it. It was a prospect to which the beams of a rising moon, and the stillness of the night gave additional charms—a stillness which (to borrow a description from a much-admired work) rendered the voice of the mountain waterfalls tremendous, as they all, in their variety of sounds, were re-echoed from every cavern, whilst the summits of the rocks began to receive the rays of the rising moon, and appeared as if crowned with turrets of silver, from which the stars departed for their nightly round.

  "Ah! (cried Madeline, to whose recollection the present scene brought those she had been accustomed to), perhaps at this very moment my father gazes upon a landscape as sublime and beautiful as the one I now behold, with sadness, at the uncertainty of his Madeline ever again enjoying with him the works of nature."

  She ceased, for again she heard the soft breathing of the oboe, though at a considerable distance from the house.

  Thro' glades and glooms the mingl'd measure stole,

  Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay,

  Round an holy calm diffusing,

  Love of peace, and lonely musing,

  In hollow murmurs died away.

  The pensive pleasure which communicated itself to the feelings of Madeline, as with deep attention she listened to the enchanting strains, was soon interrupted by the now unwelcome appearance of her long expected visitor.

  "Dear Mademoiselle! (cried she, as Madeline turned from the window to receive her), dear Mademoiselle! (as she laid down a little tray with refreshments) I hope you will have the goodness to excuse my not coming to you before, but I would not come to you till I brought you something to eat; do pray sit down and try this omelet! I flatter myself you will find it good."

  "I am afraid (said Madeline), I have been the cause of a vast deal of trouble to you."

  "Of pleasure, instead of trouble (replied the little voluble Theresa); but, Lord! Mademoiselle (continued she, going to it, and putting it down), how could you bear the window up so cold a night?"

  "I opened it (said Madeline, as she seated herself at the table), for the purpose of listening to the most enchanting music I ever heard. Pray who plays so divinely on the oboe?"

  "My brother," replied Theresa.

  "Your brother! (repeated Madeline, somewhat surprised), why he seems a perfect master of music."

  "Yes, that he is (said Theresa), and of many other accomplishments too. Lord! if I had but the key of that cabinet; for you must know, Mademoiselle, we are now in his room; it being the best in the house, my father procured it for you, I could show you such drawings of his as would I dare say astonish you: there is one hangs just over your head, a view of some fine place he saw, for he has been a great traveller."

  Madeline stood up to examine it; but, Oh! what was her surprise, what the feelings of that moment, on beholding the landscape which de Sevignie had sketched of her native valley.

  "Are you sure (cried Madeline, looking wildly at Theresa), are you sure your brother drew this landscape—are you sure it is not a copy instead of an original?"

  "Very sure indeed (replied Theresa); he told me himself he had drawn it, and I know he would not utter a falsehood."

  "Yes (cried Madeline to herself), 'tis evident de Sevignie is the son of a cottager, and every thing which before appeared strange and mysterious in his conduct, is now explained. Oh! de Sevignie, had no false pride restrained you—had you candidly, explicitly confessed your situation, what happiness might now have been our's! for well am I convinced that neither my father nor my friend would have objected to our union when once thoroughly assured of your worth."

  "What is your brother's name?" asked Madeline, wishing to remove every doubt, as to what she suspected, from her mind.

  "Henri de Sevignie Melicour. Melicour is the name of his family, and he was called Henri de Sevignie after a
great gentleman who stood godfather to him, and by whose desire he received so different an education from the rest of his family."

  "And did he do nothing more than desire him to be well educated?" said Madeline.

  "Why—yes—he made him handsome presents at times, and enabled him to travel and keep fine company; and I believe that lately he would have made a certain provision for him, but that they have disagreed."

  "Disagreed!" repeated Madeline, in an agitated voice.

  "Yes—Henri's patron wants him to marry some great young lady, who has fallen desperately in love with him, and he has positively refused to do so."

  "Who is the lady?" asked Madeline, in a voice scarcely intelligible.

  "I really don't know, Ma'am; if I did, I would tell you; but my father never entrusts me with a secret, lest I should blab it; though I am sure I should never think of doing so; and so 'tis only by listening here, and listening there, I ever come to the knowledge of any thing. Poor Henri! my father has also quarrelled with him, because he has rejected this great offer: 'tis a cruel thing to do so; for, to be sure, it is but natural to suppose he would accept it, if he could; but when a person is already in love, what can one do?"

  "In love! (repeated Madeline), do you think your brother is in love?"

  "Yes, I am sure he is."

  "But how sure: did he ever tell you he was?"

  "No—but one can easily guess he is, by the alteration in his looks and manner.—Lord, he is grown so pale, and so melancholy, he mopes about the whole day by himself; and at night he wanders away to the bleak mountains, where he passes whole hours playing that melancholy music, which almost breaks one's heart to hear."

  "It does indeed," said Madeline with a deep sigh.

  "Bless me, Mademoiselle, how pale you look; let me give you a glass of wine."

  Madeline felt almost fainting, and took one in silence; after which, recovering a little, she begged Theresa to leave her—"I will lay down upon the bed (cried she), and try to rest myself till your father returns."

  "Well, Mam'selle (said Theresa), since you desire it, I will bid you good night; but had I not better draw the window-curtains, and leave you a light?"

  "No, (replied Madeline), I prefer the shadowy light of the moon to any other; good night, as soon as your father comes back, let me be called."

  Theresa promised she should, and retired.

  "Oh! de Sevignie, dear, unhappy de Sevignie! (exclaimed Madeline the moment she was left to herself), what an aggravation of my misery is the knowledge of your wretchedness—is the conviction of its being experienced on my account?—Yes, I well recollect your telling me, that it was on my account your youth was wasted, your hopes o'erthrown, your prospects blasted!—Yet, notwithstanding your sufferings, I could cruelly, unjustly condemn you, and expose you to the censure of others; falsely and rashly I judged your conduct, and for ever shall I regret my doing so.

  "It was him no doubt (she continued), whom I beheld near the monumental pillar of Lord Philippe; from his vicinity to the castle, he must have heard of the occurrences which took place there, and he wandered to the forest perhaps from a hope of seeing me.

  "What would he feel if now acquainted with the reverse in my situation? what will he not feel when he hears it—when he hears that his Madeline was sheltered beneath the roof of his father? But perhaps the latter circumstance he may never learn;—if it would add to his misery, Oh! may he never hear it!—Oh! may sorrow and unavailing regret be removed from his heart;—may his hopes be revived, his prospects rebrightened, and may—!" She paused—she could not bring herself to wish him united to another—could not bring herself to wish that he should take another to his heart, and expunge her for ever from it. "And yet am I not selfish (cried she), in still desiring to retain his regard? our union is now impossible; for was he even to see me again (which 'tis very improbable he ever will), and offer me his hand, I would reject it;—reject it, because I could not now in dowry with my heart, bring any thing but simple wishes for his happiness. My destiny is fixed; the lonely solitude of my father shall be my home: and should he descend before me to the grave, the remainder of my days I'll pass within a cloister."

  Exhausted by fatigue and agitation, she threw herself upon the bed, but sleep was a stranger to her eye-lids: she wept bitterly—wept o'er her misfortunes—yet wept with a kind of pleasure at the idea of her tears falling upon the pillow on which, perhaps, de Sevignie had often sighed forth her name.

  The day was just dawning, when she heard the rumbling of a distant carriage. She directly started from the bed, and the next instant Theresa entered the chamber.

  "My father is come, Mademoiselle (said she), and impatient for you to be gone; I have brought you a hat, and given him a bundle of things for you."

  Madeline, as she tied on the hat, thanked her for her kindness and attention; and then with a fervent, though silent prayer for the happiness of de Sevignie, whom she never more expected to hear of, or behold, she quitted the chamber.

  Oliver was waiting for her in the hall; he told her he had left the chaise at the opposite side of the river, but that they had only to cross the bridge, which was but a little way above the cottage, to reach it. He offered her his arm, which, weak and trembling, she accepted, and in a few minutes found herself within the carriage.

  From their quitting the cottage to their arrival in Paris, nothing happened worth relating; they were three days travelling to it, and entered it when it was almost dark. The dejection of Madeline was not in the least abated; nor could the busy hum of voices, the bustle in the streets, or the rattling of the carriages, for a moment divert her attention from her sorrows.

  After going through a considerable part of the town, the chaise stopped, and Oliver exclaimed, "We have at length reached the habitation of Madame Fleury." Madeline directly looked from the window, but could only distinguish a black wall. Oliver desired the postilion to alight, and knock at a small door he pointed to:—the postilion accordingly obeyed, and in a few minutes the door was opened by a female; but what kind of female it was too dark for Madeline to perceive.

  "Is Madame Fleury at home?" asked Oliver.

  "Lord, that she is (said the woman); it is many a good day since my mistress has been out at so late an hour as this."

  "I'll step in before you (cried Oliver to Madeline), and present Lafroy's letter; as soon as she has read it, I will come back for you."

  He accordingly left the carriage. In about fifteen minutes he returned to it—"Madame Fleury (said he, as he opened the chaise door), is impatient to see you."

  He handed Madeline across a spacious court; and they entered a hall so long and badly lighted by one small lamp, that Madeline could not perceive its termination. Here Madame Fleury waited to receive her. She took her hand, and as she led her into an old fashioned parlour, scarcely less gloomy than the hall, welcomed her to the house. "I shall be happy, my dear (said she), to render you every kindness in my power, not only on my nephew's account, but your own; for your countenance is itself a letter of recommendation."

  Madeline attempted to express her thanks, but an agony of tears and sobs—an agony excited by the idea of the forlorn situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness of strangers, suppressed her utterance; and, sinking upon a chair, she covered her face with her hands.

  "Come, come (said Madame Fleury, tapping her upon the shoulder), you must not give way to low spirits. Come, come (continued she, going to the side-board and bringing her a glass of wine), you must take this, and I'll answer for it you'll be better."

  It was many minutes, however, ere her emotions were in the least abated. As soon as Oliver saw her a little composed, he declared he must be gone. Madame Fleury asked him if he could not stay the night? he replied in the negative, saying he had some relations in Paris whom he wished to visit; and as he meant to leave it the ensuing morning, no time was to be lost.

  Madeline conjured him to remind Lafroy of his promise, which he solemnly assured her he
would; and she saw him depart, though the father of de Sevignie, without the least regret; for neither in his looks or manner was there the least resemblance to his son, or any thing which could conciliate esteem.

  As her composure returned, she was able to make observations upon her companion—observations by no means to her advantage; and she felt, that if she had been at liberty to choose a protector, Madame Fleury would have been the last person in the world the choice would have devolved upon. Like Oliver, neither her looks or manner were in the smallest degree prepossessing; the first were coarse and assured, the latter bold and vulgar.

  Almost immediately after the departure of Oliver, she ordered supper; and as they sat at table, attended by an elderly female servant, dirty and mean in her appearance, Madame Fleury tried to force consolation as well as food upon Madeline.

  "You must not, my dear (cried she), as I have said before, give way to low spirits; there is nothing hurts a young person so much as melancholy—it destroys all vivacity; and what is a young person without vivacity? why a mere log. You must reflect, that when things are at the worst, they always mend; and that a stormy night is often succeeded by a fine day. Come, take a glass of wine (continued she, filling out a bumper for herself, and another for Madeline), it will cheer your heart. Nothing does one so much good when one's melancholy as a little wine: I speak from experience; I have led a dismal life, one that has hurt my spirits very much for some years past. My nephew, I suppose, told you about the gentleman to whom this house belongs."

  Madeline bowed.

  "Well, upon his quitting it, for the purpose of travelling, all the servants were discharged; and ever since, that poor woman and I (pointing to the servant), have led the most solitary life imaginable, just like two poor lonely hermits." (Madeline could not forbear smiling at those words; very like hermits indeed, thought she, as she cast her eyes over the table, which was covered with delicacies.)—"Just like two poor lonely hermits, fasting and praying," said Madame Fleury, with a deep sigh.