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

by Eliza Parsons

  When a little recovered from the astonishment which this horrible phantom had excited, she was, she said, hastening towards home, when the voice of her young lady, which she believed to be that of the spirit, increased her terror.

  Laurette could not forbear smiling at the latter part of the recital, and though she could not account for the strange unnatural appearance she described, she was persuaded that the screams and flutterings in the air which had so powerfully affected the girl's fancy, were occasioned by the sudden flight of a number of owls that inhabited the tops of the turrets. But it was difficult to convince Lisette that it could otherwise be accounted for than by the interposition of supernatural agency.

  Father Benedicta, who had frequently been at the castle since the departure of Madame Chamont, having been informed of the strange incident that had been the cause of it, expressed much surprise and uneasiness. As he was not ignorant of Della Croisse's escape from captivity being effected by her means, he naturally suspected the Marchese to be the primary cause. He knew that under an inscrutable disguise he was capable of executing the most daring villainy; though accustomed to think with candour, and act with gentleness, the mild precepts of his religion did not render Father Benedicta insensible to the vices of others, neither had they obliterated all traces of former resentment.

  He reflected with concern upon the unprotected situation of Laurette, and endeavoured to dissuade her from the indulgence of unavailing sorrow. As she appeared to derive comfort from his society, his visits were more frequently repeated than before the commencement of her misfortunes, and he had the satisfaction of finding, that when he expatiated upon the indispensable necessity of guarding against that intellectual weakness, which is sometimes dignified with the name of sensibility, and of the incontestable advantages arising from an undiminished fortitude, that she listened to him not only with attention, but with gratitude.

  Though the Father had resolved to discover, if possible, whither Madame Chamont was conveyed, and by what authority she was forced from the castle, he executed his intentions with secrecy, lest it should occasion the indulgence of unwarranted hope. Yet though he extended his enquiries with perseverance and solicitude, they were ineffectual, and he was finally compelled to relinquish an enterprise that was attended with so little success.

  Laurette was for some time irresolute whether to write to Enrico immediately, to inform him of this unhappy event, or to defer it till some future period. The former plan seemed to be the most eligible, as his endeavours would be exerted in the cause; but the mournful intelligence she had to communicate, so entirely deprived her of the power of action, that though she several times began to frame an epistle, she was long before she accomplished her design.

  The idea that probably before the arrival of that letter Enrico might be no more, would sometimes present itself to her disordered fancy, with a thousand dreadful accompaniments: She saw him, in her terrified imagination, borne bleeding and lifeless from the field; her heart sickened at the thought, till a shower of tears that fell in large drops upon the paper, which she had prepared for the purpose of writing to him, relieved her almost bursting bosom.

  She recollected every amiable qualification he possessed, his graceful, his dignified deportment, the uniform delicacy of his manners, his tenderness, and filial affection. When she remembered these, and the expression of his countenance at the parting interview, and saw the groves through which they had walked, and the flowers they had together admired, her feelings were too painful to be endured, and she quitted abruptly the place, as if desirous of escaping from the memorials of her former happiness.

  A letter from the Marchese to his steward now arrived at the castle, which contained an account of the death of the Marchesa. She had suffered much from a lingering and severe illness, with which she had been afflicted some time. Having been separated from her husband soon after her marriage, she had resided, during this state of premature widowhood, in a mansion on a German estate, in a distant part of the country.

  The Marchese, who had been long weary of his present residence, the Castello St Aubin, determined immediately on the decease of his lady, to have the mansion where she had resided repaired and modernized for his reception.

  This occasioned the removal of Paoli, who had orders to visit the estate, to observe what repairs might be requisite, and to employ a sufficient number of hands to accomplish the work with all possible expedition. Having informed Laurette of these particulars, and of his intention of returning as soon as the business was transacted, the steward made some little necessary arrangements, and commenced his journey.

  Laurette, in the meantime, dedicated her hours to the most worthy and useful employments, and with the assistance of the good Friar, the Father Benedicta, was soon enabled to reflect upon the past, and to anticipate the future, with some degree of tranquillity.

  Her virtues were of the most active kind: she employed means of being acquainted with the necessities of the indigent, and experienced the delightful gratification of contributing to their comforts.

  This diffusive humanity, which acquired additional excellence from its being united with youth and beauty, so exalted her in the estimation of those who were its objects, that they mingled admiration with gratitude; and though they lamented the loss of their former benefactress, who had so suddenly and so strangely disappeared, they soon discovered that her young charge possessed all those valuable and endearing qualifications which had rendered her so deservedly beloved.

  Though Laurette, in the course of her reading, had met with some fictitious tales of distress, those abounding in tender description, and that irresistibly affect the fancy, were in some measure prohibited. Madame Chamont, though she had retired early from society, and of course had mixed but little with the world, was sufficiently acquainted with the human heart to be convinced that works of this kind might have a dangerous tendency. She therefore discountenanced in her young pupil that unlimited indulgence, in the passive feelings of sensibility, which inevitably unfits the mind for any undertaking that requires firm and vigorous exertion; she knew that, when deeply affected by tales of imaginary woe, the mind too often sinks into imbecility; and when abstracted from the influence of romantic delusion, it beholds real objects of compassion divested of those false and glowing colours in which they have been exhibited by the song of the Poet, or the pen of the Novelist—it beholds them without that sympathetic interest which would extend the arm of active benevolence for their relief.

  CHAPTER X

  I'll read you matter deep and dangerous.

  As full of peril and adventurous spirit

  As to o'erwalk a current, roaring loud.

  On the unsteadfast foot of a spear.

  The gentle mind of Laurette, though strengthened by effort, was yet tenderly alive to mournful impressions, which solitude and the native softness of her disposition rendered sometimes irresistible. The silence of Enrico increased her apprehensions, and though she endeavoured to dissipate her fears, and to sweeten with hope the cup of affliction, her anguish was sometimes too keen to be subdued, and her life became a series of sufferance and exertion.

  Paoli's absence being protracted beyond what he had intimated as necessary, it began to be a matter of doubt whether it was his intention to return, or to remain stationary in the family of the Marchese; till the trampling of hoofs, heard in the silence of evening, put an end to conjecture.

  Laurette was sitting in her apartment when he arrived, endeavouring to find comfort in employment, when a message from the steward, which was delivered by Lisette, summoned her into the saloon, where he was in waiting to receive her. As soon as she entered, he presented her with a letter. She was unacquainted with the hand-writing, but, on opening it, found it bore the signature of the Marchese de Montferrat. So unexpected a circumstance covered her with confusion, and she perused it with apparent emotion.

  He expressed much astonishment at the intelligence that had been recently conveyed to him c
oncerning the departure of Madame Chamont, and also informed her that it was his intention to remove her, in a few weeks, from her present residence to a less ancient castle, that was preparing for himself, in the principality of Salzburg. He was, he added, by unforeseen events, prevented from repairing thither immediately himself; but, as it would soon be in readiness for her reception, he had given orders for his steward to convey her to the mansion, where it was his intention for her to remain during the winter season. He concluded with desiring her not to regret the loss of her protectress, as all possible means of discovering the authors of so unjustifiable a proceeding should be instantly employed.

  Laurette examined the contents of this letter with mingled distress and astonishment. To leave that beloved retreat, which had been her home from earliest infancy; to be allowed to ramble no more over those beautiful mountains, which had been the scenes of youthful festivity, and which were endeared to her by the remembrance of former happiness, was a subject of painful reflection; but when she recollected that the felicity which she had once experienced in those delightful shades was annihilated, and that those who had shared it with her were separated from her, perhaps for ever, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to a destiny which, from the unlimited power which the Marchese possessed over her, she considered as unavoidable.

  Paoli, in the meantime, began to make every necessary preparation for a speedy removal. And as it appeared probable to Laurette that he was to remain in the castle mentioned by the Marchese in the absence of his lord, she endeavoured, though with little hopes of success, to soften the native moroseness of his disposition with the undeviating sweetness of her own. But though she frequently attempted to engage him in conversation, she usually failed in her design; for his mind was so entirely absorbed in its own reflections and concerns, that he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. Yet as the suspicion which she once faintly entertained, respecting his having entered into a conspiracy with the ruffians who had forced Madame Chamont into the woods, was now entirely removed, she beheld him with less aversion.

  As the time drew near which was to separate her from the scenes of her earliest happiness, she found it difficult to support that serene tranquillity of soul which she so ardently desired to retain, though she did not fail to exert every effort in her power to preserve that uniformity of conduct she had been taught to estimate and admire.

  When Father Benedicta again repeated his visit, Laurette informed him of the letter she had received from the Marchese, and also of his intention of removing her to another castle in a distant part of the country, whither she was soon to be conveyed.

  The surprise and uneasiness expressed in the countenance of the Father when the intelligence was communicated, could not pass unobserved by his lovely young pupil, who beheld him with a silent and fixed attention.

  He asked eagerly under whose protection she was to be placed, and whether the Marchese was to reside on this estate during her continuance there.

  Assured of the sincerity of his friendship, and grateful for the interest he had ever discovered in her concerns, Laurette presented him with the letter. Having perused it, he sighed, shook his head mournfully, and, as if anxious to escape from enquiry, arose to depart: "I shall see you again, my child," cried the Monk tenderly, as she followed him towards the door.

  Laurette regarded him steadfastly as he spoke, and thought she perceived a tear steal down his placid cheek. She would have enquired the cause, but her heart was too full for utterance, and having attended him to the portal, she watched him as he proceeded along the avenue till he was lost in distance, and then returning to the saloon, placed herself in one of the recesses of the windows, and indulged the acuteness of her feelings in secret.

  It was evident from the words of the Friar, as well as from the tone in which they were delivered, that there was something either in the stile of the epistle, or in the proposal it contained, that did not accord with his ideas of propriety. She wished she had been collected enough to have requested the avowal of his sentiments, and looked forwards to another interview with somewhat of impatience.

  The Marchese she had never seen, consequently, though he had offered her his castle, he was uninfluenced by affection. She had been taught to believe that he was her only surviving friend and protector; yet, as he had never conciliated her esteem by winning offices of kindness, her gratitude was unmingled with tenderness.

  The mysterious silence that had been preserved concerning her birth, she had often considered with surprise; she was called Laurette, but no other name was added; and when she ventured to extend her enquiries, her questions were either evaded, or remained entirely unanswered. When blessed with the protection of Madame Chamont, the subject was attended with curiosity, and not with regret; but now that protection was withdrawn, it returned forcibly upon her mind. She had been told she was an orphan, but every hint that could tend to a farther knowledge of this mystery was carefully avoided.

  These reflections, which the forlornness of her situation suggested, added to the uncertainty of the fate of Madame Chamont and Enrico; so entirely occupied her thoughts, that the taciturnity of the steward, and the presaging gloom of his aspect were unobserved, or beheld with indifference. But on being assured that Dorothée and Lisette were to attend her to her place of destination, her spirits became suddenly reanimated and she began to prepare for her journey with redoubled alacrity.

  As to ramble alone in the wood, or along the solitary glens of the mountains, was a charm the most suited to her mind, she yielded to the impulse of her feelings, and often, in the meek hour of twilight, would gaze with a tranquil kind of melancholy upon those dear, those much-loved scenes she was soon to resign for ever.

  One evening, on her return from one of these lonely excursions, she seated herself against a window in the room which she always called her own, because it contained the implements of her studies and her amusements.

  When wrapped in pensive reflections, as she was gazing upon the moon gliding silently along through a clear and cloudless sky, she observed a white figure, somewhat answering to the description that Lisette had given of the phantom which had occasioned her alarm, move slowly beneath the arch of the window.

  Though Laurette had before treated this appearance as an illusion, she now felt a superstitious dread stealing upon her mind. Fear, for a moment, arrested her faculties, but an effort of fortitude releasing them, she arose and opened the casement. In a few minutes the same figure emerged from the deep shade of the trees, and approached towards the window.

  She started and was retreating, till the sound of her own name, uttered in a deep and hollow tone, riveted her to the spot. She stopped—it was again repeated, and venturing to raise her eyes towards the object of her terror, she beheld a person standing before her, of a pale and melancholy aspect, clad in the habit of a monk; he was tall and of a singular physiognomy, he wore no cowl nor even a cloak, and his dress being entirely white, except a narrow black scapulary, added much to the ghastliness of his appearance.

  As he moved towards the casement, he waved his hand, in token for her to stop, and again repeating the name of Laurette, with deeper emphasis, "Beware," cried he, "of the Marchese de Montferrat."

  Laurette trembled, but was unable to articulate; she scarcely knew whether the being addressing her was human or supernatural; a sensation of mingled terror and awe almost overcame her, and it was with difficulty that she could prevent herself from falling.

  The Monk, not seeming to regard her emotion, drew a miniature from beneath his garment, and then surveying her for a moment in silence, added—"Will you, in consideration of my holy office, utter a solemn promise, which nothing shall prevail upon you to violate, never to disclose to any individual living what I am about to relate?"

  Laurette's tremor increased; but not being allowed time for reflection, and having no idea that a person in the garb of a religious could act so inconsistently with that devout character as to exact a promise which she coul
d not make with impunity, she gave her answer in the affirmative.

  "Will you swear then," resumed the Father, raising his voice still higher, which acquired deeper energy of expression as he proceeded, "by the ever spotless and holy Maria, by the accepted souls of the departed, and by the blessed assembly of the Saints and Martyrs, to keep this vow inviolable, till I shall call upon you to attest the truth of what I shall hereafter declare, at some future and, perchance, far distant period."

  Laurette tremblingly assented to the proposition, and the Father repeating the form in which he wished it to be delivered, she pronounced it after him.

  When this impressive vow was recited agreeable to the desire of the Father, he presented Laurette with the miniature which he held suspended by a chain of brilliants, and then softening his voice, added, "Take this, it is the portrait of thy mother; wear it as an invaluable gift, and to-morrow, as soon as vespers are concluded, meet me at the equestrian statue in the inner court. Recollect the solemnity of your promise, and I will unfold to you an important secret."

  She was going to reply, but before she was sufficiently collected, he had glided amongst the trees, and had disappeared.

  "The portrait of my mother!" cried Laurette, fixing her eyes upon the picture with a look of indescribable astonishment, "is it possible; and have I then a parent living?" But in an instant remembering that the delivery of the miniature by no means implied that she was still in existence, a slight degree of disappointment was communicated to her heart.

  Dorothée, who entered the room to kindle a fire, broke unwelcomely upon her solitude; but mindfull of the injunctions of her mysterious visitor, Laurette arose, and, after secreting the portrait, assumed an appearance of composure.

  As soon as she was again alone, and her thoughts were somewhat recomposed, she began to muse upon this singular occurrence. If this was the person who had excited so much alarm in the bosom of Lisette, it was strange that his nocturnal rambles had not been regularly continued, as since that time no one had been seen about the grounds in the least answering to that description; and as the subject of his visits was undoubtedly herself, and the secret he had to declare was of so important a nature, it was natural to suppose, instead of avoiding her, he would have loitered within the boundaries of the mansion, in the hope of meeting with her.