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

by Eliza Parsons

  Madame Chamont thanked the nun gratefully for her attention, who being much exhausted by this slight exertion, uttered a benediction, and then closing her eyes, fell into a gentle doze.

  As soon as she awaked from this short slumber, the sisterhood were summoned, by the ringing of a bell, to attend the mass.

  The Monk was now arrayed in his priestly robes, and the ceremony was performed with a degree of solemnity that was at once awful and impressive.

  Madame Chamont attended to these pious rites with a devout enthusiasm peculiar to her character; they reminded her of the last moments of her revered mother, and sighs, which she was unable to subdue, frequently convulsed her bosom.

  As soon as these holy acts of devotion were concluded, the Lady Abbess and the rest of the assembly, except the nuns whose business it was to attend upon the dying, arose to depart. But the former being recalled by the Monk, at the request of the sister Cecilia, remained in the apartment, whilst Madame Chamont retired in procession with the rest of the nuns.

  Had she not been withheld by earthly connexions, how willingly would Madame Chamont have committed herself to this holy retirement. The placid countenances of the sisters, the gentleness, the humility of their deportments, the air of solemnity that dignified their movements, were so grateful to her feelings, that she was tempted to believe, from a transient review of the subject, that peace was only to be enjoyed in the solitude of a cloister.

  The deepening shades of the evening now convinced her of the necessity of quitting the convent, and calling for Laurette, who had remained below in the Abbess's parlour, they returned to the castle.

  The next day the Father Benedicta was commissioned by the Superior, to inform Madame Chamont of the death of sister Cecilia, which event had taken place a few hours after her departure; and also to request, if her spirits were equal to the task, that she would attend the funeral of the nun, which was fixed for the evening of the ensuing day.

  Seduced by that pleasing melancholy which scenes of solemnity inspire, she assented to the proposal; and calling the Monk into a saloon which was unoccupied, she besought him to acquaint her with some circumstances relative to the departed sister, particularly that of her name and former residence.

  "Her name," replied the Father, "which I am now permitted to disclose, is Di Capigna."

  Madame Chamont started; a blush passed suddenly across her cheek, but instantly disappeared, leaving it more wan than before.

  "Her place of residence," resumed the Father, "before the commencement of her misfortunes, was Naples." Madame Chamont's countenance became still paler; whilst, without appearing to observe her emotions, the Monk continued.

  "She formed an attachment in early youth, an attachment not more unfortunate than dangerous. Her lover was an Italian Noble of high rank and immense possessions, but of libertine unstable principles; he had been long initiated in all the arts of intrigue; and being entirely divested of that energy of soul which resists evil inclinations, became a slave to every passion that tyrannizes in the heart of man. He seduced her affections under the appearance of sincerity, and finally prevailed upon her to relinquish the protection of her only surviving parent, and to become an inmate of his mansion.

  "The father of the misguided Signora was no sooner informed of his daughter's dishonour, than it began to have an alarming effect upon his constitution: he raved incessantly of his child, though he persisted in refusing to see her; and soon afterwards fell a victim to his own and his daughter's calamities.

  "The Signora was no sooner acquainted with his death, which she was conscious of having hastened, than she fled from her lover, and suddenly became the most austere of penitents. She undertook a pilgrimage to the Chapel of Loretto, and afterwards consigned her youth, beauty, and almost matchless accomplishments to the shades of a cloister.

  "It is now upwards of fourteen years," resumed the Father, "since she entered into the convent; and whatever irregularities may have marked her former conduct, her penitence, her tears, and her sufferings have been sufficient to expiate them.—Yes, her late exemplary life," continued the Monk, after a momentary pause, "whatever errors she may have committed previous to her retirement, we may venture to hope, with humility, will ensure her eternal felicity."

  The conversation was here interrupted by the presence of Laurette, who advancing towards the Father with an easy and sprightly air, drew her chair near his, and seated herself by his side.

  The holy Benedicta, who loved her with parental affection, gazed placidly upon her beautiful face, and then taking her hand, continued—"The death of the sister Cecilia presents to all, particularly to the young and the sanguine, an awfully important lesson; let us consider it, my daughters, and endeavour to profit by it—She was once rich, lovely, and celebrated; but, by one act of unrestrained error, became miserable, despised, and abject. A whole life of austerity was scarcely sufficient to purify her contaminated soul, and to prepare it for that unknown change that awaits us all. The sting of conscience is, perhaps, the most acute pang which the regenerated mind can endure. It is a wound we carry unhealed to the grave; and at the hour of separation, when the parting spirit requires every aid that conscious integrity can bestow, is, unless softened by the interposition of divine grace, more dreadfully afflictive than at any other period of existence."

  Madame Chamont perceiving that the latter part of this discourse was delivered in a faltering voice, raised her tearful eyes from the ground, on which they had long been riveted, and fixing them upon the countenance of the Father, saw it was distorted by emotion: he seemed to feel acutely the terrible sensation he had been describing, and finding himself observed, embarrassment deprived him of the power of proceeding.

  But the pang of remorse was not of long continuance; hope reanimated his breast, and the same placid expression which his features usually wore, returned with more affecting interest.

  He was unconscious of Madame Chamont's being informed of his story, though he knew that she had released his friend from captivity, and consequently that she had made herself acquainted with some of the most remarkable events of La Roque's past life. Perhaps there was nothing that the Father so ardently desired as to conceal from the knowledge of the world the dissipated follies of his youth, though the cause of this reluctance to reveal them could not be easily ascertained; as of all men he was the most meek, humble, and unassuming, the least apprehensive of censure, and by no means solicitous to secure the applause of the multitude. To his God only, he was accountable for his actions, and not to frail humanity. In his service he preserved an uniform austerity of life, suffering all the mortifications and bodily inflictions which the severity of his order required. By this method he endeavoured to erase from his mind the melancholy remembrance of the past; or, if it could not be forgotten, at least to blunt the poignancy of his feelings with the comforts of religion, attended by the elevated, and not presumptive hope, that the atonement was accepted.

  When the Monk had regained his composure, he continued the subject till the chime of the vesper-bell, which was heard faintly on the wind, warned him of the hour of prayer, and precipitated his departure from the castle.

  On the succeeding day Madame Chamont prepared, at the request of her friend, to attend the funeral of the sister Cecilia; and putting on a long black robe, with a veil of the same colour, but little different either in form or texture to those worn by the order of Penitents, she took her missal, her crucifix, and her rosary, and repaired to the convent.

  She was met at the gate by a friar, who usually attended for the purpose of opening it, and on enquiry for the Abbess, was directed to the Refectoire, where the nuns, who had taken the eternal veil, were already assembled.

  They all arose on her entrance, and courteously offered her a seat by the fire, which, as the evening was cold and damp, she consented to accept. When the first salutations were over, a mournful silence ensued, which was interrupted at intervals by deep and heartfelt sighs, proceeding from the fart
her end of the room.

  Curiosity induced Madame Chamont to turn; it was Father Benedicta, who had taken a place in a remote corner, to conceal what he mistook for weakness, but what was really the effect of his humanity.

  The hollow tolling of the bell, and the entrance of four lay brothers, who passed hastily through the room, and departed at a contrary door, announced the moment was at hand in which the remains of the beautiful penitent was to be consigned to its last cold and cheerless abode.

  As soon as these religious men had passed through the Refectoire, the Superior gave orders for the assembly to remove to the edge of the chapel-yard, to wait there till the body was disposed in the order in which it was to be conveyed, and to be in readiness to attend it from thence to the place of destination.

  Having arrived within the gate of the burial-ground, they stopped, and in a few minutes beheld the melancholy procession stealing solemnly towards the spot. The coffin was supported by the four lay brothers from the Carthusian Monastery, who were commissioned to attend for the purpose; a friar walked before, holding in one hand a crucifix of ebony, and in the other a small image of the Virgin; six of the same order moved slowly behind bearing torches, followed by the novices and boarders of the convent; these advanced at a short disttance, bearing baskets of myrtle, laurel, and other evergreens, to decorate the new-made grave of their departed sister.

  The procession was now joined by the Lady Abbess, Madame Chamont, and the train of nuns, who proceeded between the corpse and the following monks, till they reached the door of the chapel; here they were met by Father Benedicta, who being the sister Cecilia's Confessor, was requested to officiate at the last mournful office, that of interment.

  Having arrived at the interior of the edifice, the coffin was deposited in a recess scooped out in the wall for similar occasions, beneath the image of a Magdalen in the act of penitence. The chapel was dimly lighted, except near the altar, which was splendidly adorned with a profusion of valuable paintings and consecrated tapers. At some distance from this stood the venerable Father: a gleam of light, which fell upon his face, marked the shadowy lines of sorrow softened by resignation; the hood which he usually wore being thrown back upon his shoulders, as soon as the service was begun, the whole of his countenance was visible and impressive.

  At first his voice was low and faltering but as he resumed the discourse, his words regained their accustomed solemnity of expression, his features no longer retained the cloud of dejection but assumed the vivid glow of hope and confidence.

  An exhortation to survivors succeeded, delivered with all the moving graces of eloquence: every auditor listened with reverence as the holy Father proceeded, and felt impressed with the spirit and fire of devotion as he continued to expatiate upon the beauty of holiness, and the misery inseparable from vice and immorality.

  As soon as this was concluded, the nuns, who had seated themselves in the aisles during the ceremony, attended by the monks and the rest of the congregation, advanced towards the burial-ground, whither the deceased was borne, in the same order as before, till they reached the edge of the grave. As they passed along the chapel on their way towards the place, strains, almost divine, echoed through the cloisters, which being aided by the voices of the choir, had a charmingly sublime effect, tending to preclude as unholy every earthly idea, and to wrap the mind in deep religious musings.

  When the procession arrived at the consecrated spot, the tones of the organ were still heard, and the voices that accompanied it, being softened by distance, sounded to the ear of enthusiasm like the chant of angels.

  Madame Chamont listened with indescribable sensations till the notes died into silence, and the Father made a sign for the coffin to be committed to the earth. A short prayer was then delivered with much fervency and emphasis, which was often interrupted by the sobs of the audience, who loved the sister Cecilia with the most refined affection and tenderness. Madame Chamont's tears flowed fast; and as she returned towards the convent, her feelings became so acute that she was compelled to take the arm of a nun for support.

  As it was nearly dark when the funeral rites were concluded, the Abbess used many arguments to prevail upon her friend to continue with her during the night; but unwilling to leave her young charge, who she considered might be uneasy at her absence, declined the proposal; and, attended by one of the superior domestics of the convent, walked thoughtfully towards the castle.

  Deeply impressed by the awful scene she had witnessed, Madame Chamont retired early to her room, and feeling little inclination to sleep, placed herself in a large antique chair which was fixed at the side of her bed, and taking her pen, her customary resource in the moments of dejection, she endeavoured to beguile the solitary hours by inscribing the following lines to the memory of the unfortunate Signora Di Capigna:

  DIRGE

  Meek Flower, untimely doom'd to fade.

  Ere half thy op'ning sweets were known.

  To pine in drear Misfortune's shade.

  Alike forgotten and unknown.

  Tho' rob'd in more than mortal charms.

  To quit thy peerless earthly frame.

  o waste thy sweets in Death's cold arms.

  That slowly, but relentless came.

  Ah! what avails the vermeil dye.

  The charm that Beauty's step attends.

  The ruby lips, the halcyon eye.

  And ev'ry grace that Nature lends;

  Since all must meet the direful blow:

  Nor could thy powers, Oh! Genius, save;

  For thee the tear shall ever flow.

  To grace thy silent, early grave.

  And there no thistle rude shall grow.

  No weedy flower of baleful hues;

  But there the mournful poppy blow.

  And bathe thy turf with opiate dews.

  No spectre wan shall haunt the way.

  Nor screaming owl with boding cry;

  But Cynthia's bird, of sweetest lay.

  Shall sooth the zephyr's evening sigh.

  When Madame Chamont had finished this little plaintive memorial, she began to ruminate upon the subject of Father Benedicta's discourse on the evening preceding the funeral. As the beautiful nun was indisputably proved to be the Signora Di Capigna, agreeable to her former supposition; from her own declaration she was assuredly not the mother of Laurette, as she had verbally confessed, within a few hours of her death, that she never had a daughter; which was perfectly consistent with the assertion which her letter contained previous to this event. This certainly communicated a slight gleam of satisfaction to her mind; for if Laurette was not the daughter of this unfortunate nun, it appeared highly probable that she was the orphan child of some deceased friend of the Marchese's, whom pity had induced him to patronize; and possibly, should time and reflection fix the attachment between her and Enrico upon a still firmer basis, no adverse circumstances might prevent their union.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Oh! Conspiracy!

  Sham'st thou to show thy dang'rous brow by night.

  When evils are most free? Oh! then by day

  Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough

  To mask thy monstrous visage?

  -SHAKESPEARE

  Paoli had not been long resident in the castle before Madame Chamont was convinced, that the uneasy apprehensions she had experienced previous to his arrival, were not groundless; and that the noble part she had taken in liberating the unfortunate from the grasp of oppression, an unforeseen accident had early discovered.

  The sullen reserve which had hitherto marked the behaviour of the steward, and was peculiar to his character, was soon after his arrival augmented; and he frequently fixed his eyes upon Madame Chamont, when he accidentally and unavoidably met her, with a look conveying a shrewd and malicious expression. This she perceived with some appearance of emotion; whilst her tormentor, who seemed to derive pleasure from her embarrassment, endeavoured, as much as possible, to increase that distress he was conscious of having exci
ted, with a repetition of his former conduct.

  That he had already visited the dungeon, and that his suspicions were directed to her, nearly amounted to conviction; but why he should suspect her, as the immediate cause of La Roque's escape from captivity, without some recent information which might lead to the conjecture, was at once strange and unaccountable. But from this state of surmise and perplexity she was soon afterwards relieved, by the certainty that a full discovery was the consequence of a trifling inadvertency; which convinced her that she had every thing to fear from the rage of her enemies, and that on her part the most strenuous exertions of heroic fortitude were necessary.

  The bracelet which she had dropped from her arm, whose loss she lamented because adorned by the portrait of her father, was found by Paoli amid the files and other instruments which she had employed in the accomplishment of her design, in the dungeon of the turret.