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

by Eliza Parsons

  But the form of Laurette was more visibly improved than even that of Enrico. Being some years younger, she had just attained the age when the playful simplicity of childhood is exchanged for the more fascinating charms of the lovely girl. The peculiar elegance of her mind, which her amiable monitress had refined and cultivated with unceasing attention, was finely portrayed in her features, which were soft, pensive, and interesting; and though not exactly answering to the description of a perfect beauty, possessed a something which beauty alone could not have bestowed.

  The presence of the young Chevalier diffused universal gladness throughout the mansion. The domestics, who had conceived for him an early regard, were anxious to convince him of their esteem, by the most marked and assiduous attentions, which he never failed to repay with that insinuating gentleness of demeanor which is frequently more eloquent than words.

  Dorothée, who loved him with a degree of tenderness but little inferior to that of a parent, could not restrain the tears which surprise and transport had excited on his arrival; and would frequently pause longer than her duty required, to hear him enumerate the difficulties he had encountered, the hardships he had undergone, and the dangers to which he had been exposed.

  But the pleasures which his profession afforded was a topic still more productive of delight; and Madame Chamont, who listened to him with undivided attention, beheld with satisfaction, that the mind of her son was too strong to suffer either from the intoxication of success, or the depression of disappointment.

  When the subject was of a kind to awaken pity, Enrico marked with affectionate concern the intelligent looks of Laurette. He saw the blush overspread her cheek, then fade, and as suddenly disappear, as conversation unfolded the powers and energies of her soul. The lifted eye directed upwards in the language of sympathy, and the tear that trembled beneath its lid, which gave new softness, expression, and character to her appearance, he beheld with a degree of admiration which he found it impossible to conceal.

  As the only amusements which this sequestered situation afforded were of the most simple kind, they were usually enjoyed in the open air; under the thick shade of an oak or a plane tree, they would frequently pass many hours listening to the harmony of the birds, and, in the calm serenity of the evening, would extend their rambles along the most wild and unfrequented paths, till the bat flitted silently by them, and the cottage lights seen at intervals between the dark foliage of the trees, reminded them of the approach of night; whilst the music of the nightingale, immersed in the deep gloom of the woods, broke softly upon the stillness of the hour.

  In these little excursions Laurette would sometimes seat herself upon a stile or a fragment of rock, and taking her lute, which she knew how to touch with exquisite pathos, would play some charming air which she accompanied with her voice, till the soul of Enrico was lost in an extasy of delight, from which he was reluctantly awakened.

  But their favourite walk was through a thick grove of beeches and laburnums, that led to a little sequestered dell; there the distant murmur of a waterfall gave a soothing tranquillity to the scene, whose monotony was only occasionally interrupted by the lively tones of the oboe, or the pipe of the shepherd, who having led his flock from their pastures, had retired from the immediate scene of his labours and his cares, and placing himself at the root of an elm or an acacia, beguiled the moments with a song.

  Such were the innocent delights of the rural inhabitants of this lonely retreat; to Enrico they had the additional advantage of novelty; but when he recollected that he must soon relinquish them, must leave Laurette, his revered parent, all that was dear to him, perhaps for ever, a sigh would agitate his breast, and an involuntary tear would oftentimes start into his eye.

  Madame Chamont was not insensible to these emotions, nor unsuspicious of the cause; she observed, with tender anxiety, the looks of her son when the subject of his departure was touched upon, and saw the colour fade from the cheek of Laurette as the necessity of it was mentioned, with evident concern. The suspicion that she was the daughter of the Marchese de Montferrat, and consequently nearly allied to Enrico, was a sufficient cause for distress; and as every circumstance she had collected seemed to confirm the justice of the supposition, the evidence, upon the whole, nearly amounted to conviction.

  This growing tenderness, if not opposed, might ripen, she considered, into a deep and lasting attachment; yet to give a hint of disapprobation, without adding a reason sufficient to justify such a proceeding, would seem arbitrary and capricious, and from its not being conducted with an appearance of openness, might probably fail in the design.

  To a young and susceptible mind like that of Enrico, the beauty and accomplishments of Laurette could not be indifferent; and when he compared her with many of her sex whom he had accidentally seen on his travels, whose manners contrasted with hers were coarse or unnatural; her superiority was too evident not to attract his admiration, and that admiration was of too exalted and refined a nature not to terminate in a softer passion.

  Yet this increasing affection, though it might have been easily discovered by a common observer, was for some time concealed from the objects by whom it was mutually inspired. They felt they were uneasy in each other's absence without suspecting the cause, and looked forwards to the moment of departure with painful inquietude.

  The subject was too unpleasant to be unnecessarily introduced, yet time flew rapidly away, and after a month spent in this enviable retreat, he was in hourly expectation of an order from his Colonel to summon him to join his regiment. This, notwithstanding his military ardour, his thirst for honour and immortal glory, he now dreaded as the approach of death; since it would tear him from society which was become necessary to his happiness, from quiet, innocence, and rural life.

  Yet constrained by situation to submit, without murmuring, to his destiny, he combated as much as possible the sensibility that assailed him, endeavouring to mitigate what he could not subdue, the poignancy of uneasy reflections, by the cold, and frequently ineffectual, dictates of reason.

  Fearing lest his passion for retirement, which was endeared to him by objects too tenderly beloved, should extinguish every vigorous, active, and noble principle of his mind, he frequently retired voluntarily from the presence of Laurette; and, in the vain attempt of reconciling himself to this approaching separation, would walk alone upon the borders of the wood; hoping, by this method of communication with himself, that he might be enabled to recall the natural fortitude of his mind, which had yielded without reflection to the impulse of a premature attachment.

  Yet though he wished so far to conquer his feelings as not to sink into effeminacy, and to disgrace the soldier, he did not wish to be insensible to the virtues and graces of Laurette, which, on a nearer examination of his heart, he discovered to be the indissoluble spell that had bound his affections to the place.

  Was it possible that he could have beheld her perfections with indifference, he would have sunk in his own estimation; he did not wish not to love her; but he wished to love her with that moderation which would not interfere with the performance of his duty; and should he be so fortunate as to conciliate her regard, to look forward to her as the invaluable reward of his perseverance and virtue.

  Unconscious of what was passing in the mind of Enrico, Laurette, in these temporary absences, sometimes appeared pensive and dispirited; she observed after his return from the wood, which was always his walk when alone, an air of thoughtfulness in his deportment, and oftentimes of dejection, that awakened solicitude, and led to anxious enquiry.

  Madame Chamont, who was a silent, but not an unconcerned spectator of what was passing, was often absorbed in musing and abstraction, whilst yet in their presence; but this being natural to her disposition was disregarded, as the suspicion that their attachment was the cause, never occurred to the minds of the lovers.

  But these little absences arising from melancholy reflection, though frequent, were not lasting; a lively air, a ramble in the forest
, or the artless tale of a cottage girl, delivered with that genuine simplicity of expression which will continue to interest whilst nature has a charm, was sufficient to restore them to animation, and even to gaiety.

  How rapturous were the sensations of Enrico when sometimes alone with Laurette, he would linger amid the lonely recesses of the mountains, and would point out to her the peculiar beauties of the landscape; beauties which she had before observed, but never with such charming sensations. How soon did the sun appear to sink upon the bosom of the waters, and the night shades to fall upon the surrounding objects. And how lovely did she seem to him amid scenes so picturesque; how delicate, how indescribable were the emotions her beauty and innocence inspired.

  Hurried away by a sanguine and warm imagination, he would sometimes indulge hopes which a more experienced mind would have rejected as fallacious; and at other times a causeless anxiety would prey upon his spirits, and suspend every faculty of his soul.

  After a six weeks" residence in the castle, the dreaded order, which had been daily expected, arrived, and he now perceived, more than ever, the necessity of conquering those feelings which, though in themselves amiable, and the object that excited them every way worthy, might, considering his situation, have a dangerous tendency.

  Induced by the most honourable motive to preserve a perpetual silence upon the subject, he had never yet verbally hinted to Laurette his prepossession in her favour, and he resolutely determined not to make an open declaration of his passion, either to her or to his mother, but to strive to render himself agreeable to both, by those ardent and vigorous exertions in his military capacity, which might eventually lead to independence and to happiness.

  Though to subdue the sentiment of affection, which occasioned this intellectual weakness, was impracticable, he succeeded in the endeavour of concealing it; and was congratulating himself on the success attending it till the evening preceding his departure, when some of those mournful presages, which too frequently assail minds of extreme sensibility, threw him somewhat off his guard.

  He was then sitting with Laurette in an oriel window, commanding an extensive view, in the serene hour of moonlight; when the idea presented itself that he might probably never more be placed in so enviable a situation, since a few hours must inevitably separate him from his dearest connexions, and that death, or some wayward circumstances, might prevent the fruition of those fondly indulged hopes which had hitherto supported him.

  Agitated by this surmise, he seized the hand of Laurette, and pressing it to his lips with an impassioned exclamation, an immediate disclosure of his sentiments would have succeeded, had not the retiring dissidence of her manners checked the momentary impulse, and given him up to the guidance of discretion.

  When the time of departure arrived, which was early on the following morning, a severe trial awaited him. The uneasiness expressed in his looks was understood by his mother, who mingled tears with embraces; whilst Laurette, whose feelings were not less awakened or acute, was condemned by the laws of delicacy, which are sometimes severe and arbitrary, to conceal them under an appearance of tranquillity.

  Having torn himself from a scene too tender for his present frame of mind, with a breast throbbing with emotion, he waved his hand to Madame Chamont and Laurette, whose eyes anxiously followed him through the portal, and departed from the castle.

  That tender and interesting kind of dejection that steals upon the spirits after the departure of a beloved friend, we often fondly indulge; it is one of those amiable propensities that the heart cherishes and approves. When under the dominion of this pleasing melancholy, we love to retire from observation, to recollect every parting expression, and to feed upon the remembrance of the past; every affecting incident connected with those we have lost, every interesting situation in which we have seen them, recurs to the memory, and excites moving and pensive reflections.

  It was this affectionate impulse that led Madame Chamont beneath the spreading branches of an oak, where, in the society of Enrico, she had often sat secluded from the influence of a mid-day sun; and where they had sometimes partaken of a simple repast.

  It was this stealing tenderness that soothes whilst it wounds, that directed Laurette to the side of a foaming rivulet, which fell in a natural cascade from a rocky acclivity, to whose murmurs they had often listened with the most pleasurable emotions when they visited the lonely dell.

  But here she found it impossible to remain without enduring the most poignant regret. Tears, which she was unable to restrain, fell fast upon her cheek, and she was compelled to retire from the spot she had chosen, that she might exchange it for one less mournful and sequestered.

  Enrico had not been gone many days from the castle before the arrival of Paoli was announced. So unpleasant a visitor was not considered as an acquisition to the happiness of its inhabitants, which occasioned him to be received by all, though not with incivility, yet with coldness. His presence was always a restraint upon the conduct of Madame Chamont, but at this time fear also was mingled with aversion.

  The circumstance of La Roque's delivery, though she reflected upon it with satisfaction and self-complacency, was not unattended with certain presages, which neither reason nor fortitude could subdue; that he would repair to the turret, and also to the dungeon, in the expectation of finding the body of his prisoner, she considered as highly probable; that he would be both surprised and irritated at the disappointment, and would take some pains to discover the author of it, was equally certain; but that the suspicion should fail upon her, or any of the family, she was willing to hope was unlikely.

  CHAPTER VII

  The midnight clock has told and hark! the bell

  Of Death beats slow; heard ye the note profound?

  It pauses now, and now with rising knell.

  Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

  -MASON

  The strange variety of events that had recently occupied the thoughts of Madame Chamont, prevented her from paying her respects to the Lady Abbess so frequently as had been her custom; who beginning to feel uneasy at her absence, sent a message by Father Benedicta to invite her to the convent. Not more anxious to obtain that consolation which the conversation of the Superior afforded, than to be released from the society of the steward, whose haughtiness of deportment rather increased than diminished, she readily acquiesced; and Laurette, who was usually the companion of her walks, was allowed to accompany her on her visit.

  The features of the venerable Abbess were animated with a smile as she came forward to receive them, but an expression of deep dejection soon afterwards succeeded.

  Believing that she had met with some new cause of distress, Madame Chamont would have requested permission to have shared it with her; but fearful of intruding upon the sacredness of her sorrow, she remained silent with her eyes fixed upon the ground, till the Superior, in a voice which she could scarcely command, informed her that the sister Cecilia was so ill, that all hopes, founded on human assistance, were likely to prove inefficacious. "But as her life," resumed the Abbess, "has displayed an example of the most uniform piety, penitence, and submission; so her serenity at the approach of death indicates that the hope of acceptance she has cherished is not founded on error. If you will attend me to her cell," continued the Superior, "you will witness the most perfect tranquillity in the midst of exquisite suffering."

  Madame Chamont, who had every reason to believe that the beautiful vestal had of late carefully avoided meeting with her, though she could not easily account for it, would have excused herself from visiting her cell; observing, that the presence of a stranger, in the last moments of existence, might be considered as an intrusion. But every objection that she offered was instantly removed by the Abbess, who seemed so anxiously to desire her attendance, that she was compelled to yield to the proposition. As they were proceeding along the cloisters on their way to the chamber, they were met by a nun, who advancing hastily towards the Superior, informed her that for the last t
wo hours the sister Cecilia had been rapidly declining; and, as the moment of her departure was supposed to be near, her Confessor was in waiting to perform the usual ceremony for the repose of her soul.

  The Abbess replied only with a sigh, and a look directed eloquently towards heaven, and then taking the hand of Madame Chamont, with the fond affection of a mother, led her to a small door between two columns which opened into the apartment.

  Here on a mattress, at the end of the room, lay sister Cecilia. She was attended by two nuns, who were seated on stools by her side, and who, by the silent movement of their lips, appeared to be engaged in devotion.

  Beneath a dim gothic casement on the eastern side of the apartment, stood Father Benedicta. He held a missal in his hand, and seemed to be so entirely abstracted from worldly affairs as not to observe their entrance.

  The fair sufferer, who was apparently too near death to feel any acute pain, cast a glance of filial tenderness upon the Abbess, and another, not less affectionate, towards Madame Chamont. Her fine blue eyes were not so radiant as before her illness, but in other respects she was but little altered; her features still retained the same interesting expression, and though overspread with that livid hue, which indicates approaching dissolution, were still lovely.

  "Daughter," said the Superior, seating herself on the bed by her side, "I have brought Madame Chamont to see you; I thought a visit from her would not be unpleasant."

  The nun smiled serenely, and then, with a motion of her hand, invited her to come forwards; whilst the Abbess walked towards the window where the Confessor was stationed.

  "Perhaps I have been unkind to you," cried sister Cecilia, addressing herself to Madame Chamont, in low and mournful accents; "you have discovered a tender interest in my misfortunes, and I have hitherto denied you my confidence. You wrote to ask me if I ever had a daughter, or had cause to lament the loss of one? The answer I returned was as true as it was concise—I never had one. But had I not previously taken a vow never to disclose any incident of my past life to any other than my Confessor, the amiable sympathy you discovered for my irremediable calamities, would have induced me to reveal them; but this sacred vow, which has long bound me to secrecy, reaches but to the confines of the grave. Father Benedicta is acquainted with my story, and has my permission to give you any information you may desire upon this subject immediately on my decease."