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

by Eliza Parsons

  She looked pale, and seemed to have been weeping, but her beauty was nothing impaired by the sorrow she appeared to have indulged. A loose robe was negligently thrown over her lovely person, without care or art; it was of the purest white, long, and open at the bosom, displaying to advantage her fine disordered hair, that wandered about her neck loose and unconfined. Her eyes, which were yet filled with tears, were directed towards the heavens, and her thoughts seemed to have ascended with them.

  Enrico was at present undistinguished, for he had placed himself behind the spreading branches of a larch, and was sensible only to the charming object of his affection. She sighed, and in the same moment he heard his own name pronounced in a soft and tremulous accent, accompanied by some words too indistinct to be heard. Unable to endure the increasing tenderness that was stealing upon his mind, he sprang forwards from the deep shade that had afforded him concealment, and requested that she would descend, and walk with him in the gardens.

  Confused at being thus unexpectedly exposed to the gaze of her lover, she blushed, and drying away the tears that had fallen unrestrainedly upon her cheeks, she forced a smile upon her features, and agreed to meet him at the portal.

  Having bound her beautiful locks with a turban, which she usually wore, not because it was authorized by custom, but as it was a mode of dress recommended by Madame Chamont, who imagined that it became her, which was ornamented with a wreath of roses and violets, worked by her own delicate fingers; she threw a thin shade upon her shoulders, and left her apartment.

  She met Enrico at the door of the great hall, who was impatiently waiting her arrival; and, on observing with pity the extreme sadness that was depicted upon his countenance, held out her hand to him, and asked him, with a soft yet melancholy smile, if he was ill?

  Transported with the tenderness of her manner beyond the powers of expression or utterance, he could only press it eagerly to his lips, and then hold it to his heart, as if he would never part with it again. At length Laurette gently disengaging herself, asked him how long he had been in the gardens, and whether he was inclined to prolong his walk, or to wait in the terrace parlour till the Signora was risen?

  "Have you not promised to ramble with me," returned Enrico, "and would you deny me a pleasure—" here he paused, "the last I may ever experience" he would have added, but his voice faltered; and Laurette perceiving his emotions, without attempting a reply, took his offered arm, and walked with him along the lawn.

  The door of the pavilion being open, they involuntarily entered it; and proceeding to the last of the apartments that opened into the shrubbery, seated themselves upon a small sofa at the extremity. A large marble table was placed before it, which was scattered over with leaves of music; at one end of it lay a small lute, the property of the Signora, who sometimes, when alone, had resorted thither, that she might be enabled to beguile the moments of solitude with a song.

  Laurette took it up, and played a little melancholy air; it was a cantata from Metestasio, but too applicable to her present feelings to bestow the charm of content. It breathed the sorrows of disastrous love; and as she played, "she waked her own sad tale from every trembling string".

  At the conclusion of it, her lips faltered, the colour forsook her cheek, and forgetting the lesson of fortitude which she had been so lately instilling in to the mind of Enrico, and the resolution she had made to wear, at least, the appearance of it in his presence, she was compelled to lean upon the side of the sofa for support; and tears, which she could no longer suppress, fell in large drops upon the lute.

  Enrico, who had been lost to every other circumstance in the harmony of her voice, now thought she had fainted, and would have caught her in his arms; but an effort of fortitude revived her, and disengaging herself from his embrace, she would have spoke to have quieted his fears, but the entrance of Anselmo prevented her. He had been for some time in quest of his master, and finding that the door of the pavilion was unfastened, had ventured to intrude. His business was to inform him that the horses were in readiness, and to know if he had any further commands.

  Enrico started as if he had received a summons for death; and after walking to the other end of the apartment with hasty and agitated steps, paused for an instant to recompose his disordered spirits. In a few moments he assumed an appearance of composure, and returning again towards Laurette, who had just risen from the sofa, he fixed his fine eyes upon her's, with a look too expressive to be misunderstood, and then added—

  "The moment of separation, which has been long painfully anticipated, is arrived; and nothing but the sweet consolatory hope that I shall still live in your remembrance, could reconcile me to this cruel exile."

  Laurette was unable to reply; and having led her from the pavilion, he reminded her again of her former promises, and, with an aching and oppressed heart, gazed tenderly upon her pale but lovely face, and heard her innocent farewell.

  The Signora, who was but just arisen, came forwards to meet them at the outer gate, and wishing Enrico much happiness with the appearance of much sincerity and kindness, he mounted his horse; and, after lingering some time for one more look at the beautiful Laurette, till the white folds of her robe were lost in distance, he left the boundaries of the castle, and pursued his journey.

  Overcome with grief for the present, and sorrowful presages for the future, our heroine returned pensively towards the mansion; and being unable to conceal the uneasiness that preyed upon her heart, retired to her apartment, that she might weep, and indulge it in secret. The hope that Enrico would succeed in his enterprise, was too feeble to sustain her; for the length of time that had elapsed since Madame Chamont was forced from the castle, and the many ineffectual measures that had been already employed, promised nothing of success to any future ones that could be adopted. Sometimes she imagined that the Marchese was materially concerned in it; and at others, though many collected circumstances seemed to justify the opinion, she dismissed it, as uncandid and illiberal.

  What the Father Benedicta had uttered, agreed but too well with the words of the mysterious Monk, though those of the latter were of more dreadful import; and she remembered and reflected upon them with increasing emotion. That he was the person whom she had seen in the chapel of the ruin, she believed nearly amounted to conviction; both from his dress, the height of his stature, and the attention with which he had regarded them; this, added to the circumstance of his following them, as if to be assured of the exact place of their residence, was sufficient to confirm the suspicion.

  It appeared reasonable to suppose, from the former conduct of the Father, that he would loiter about in the evenings, in the hope of meeting with her; but whatever symptoms of curiosity she had formerly betrayed respecting her birth, and of being acquainted with the manner in which he had obtained the possession of the picture, so much of terror was mingled with it, and so little did she believe it would avail her any thing as to her future happiness, to be informed of her birth and connexions, since she had no relation to claim, or to protect her, that she resolved rather to avoid than precipitate an interview, which could be productive of no real good, and might possibly augment her uneasiness.

  Accustomed from earliest youth to place an unlimited confidence in the wisdom and goodness of Providence, she determined to act in every respect with caution and dignity, and to endure those temporal and unavoidable evils, which are the common lot of humanity, with patient firmness.

  Had she not been so strictly enjoined to secrecy as to preclude the advantage arising from the advice and participation of disinterested friendship, she would have met him without reluctance; but thus situated, another conference, even could it have been effected with ease and safety, she was aware might lead to future inquietude and danger; and therefore resolved to take no direct measures to further his scheme, but rather to avoid any future opportunity of conversing with him, unless some succeeding event should make another interview necessary or desirable.

  The violent emotions Enri
co had betrayed, when he related the conversation that had passed between himself and the pious Carthusian, would have determined her, had she not already by a solemn promise bound herself to perpetual silence upon the subject, not to disclose what she had seen and heard, lest they should confirm his worst and most terrible surmises. From the words of the mysterious Monk she had every thing to fear, and nothing had happened, or was likely to happen, at present, to obviate or remove the painful impressions which they had left upon her mind.

  But thus being prepared to encounter calamity, she resolved, if possible, not to yield to its influence; but, by opposing the most vigorous efforts of her fortitude, to endure what could not be remedied, and to gain at least, by her most strenuous endeavours, the applause of her own heart.

  The picture which he had delivered, she wore constantly in her bosom, suspended by the small string of brilliants to which it was fastened, though she so entirely concealed it in the folds of her robe, that it could not be perceived.

  That it was really the portrait of her mother, was beyond a doubt. The resemblance that it bore to herself she was perfectly aware of, for the mild pensive east of the countenance, the soft cloud upon the brow, the smile that played upon the lip, and the expression of the whole, were too striking to escape the penetration of the most transient observer.

  As Laurette fixed her eyes upon the portrait, some portion of her former curiosity returned; she was anxious to be informed of the destiny of her parents, though it was probable they had been long since numbered with the dead. Her tears streamed anew when she reflected upon her hard unhappy lot, the obscurity of her birth, her family (if any of them were still in existence) unknown to her; commanded to beware of the only person whom she had been taught to revere as a protector; deprived of the guardian of her infancy and childhood; and with no human being, except Enrico and the Father Benedicta, to interest themselves in her welfare; and these, from the peculiarity of their situations, precluded from affording immediate assistance, however necessary.

  The Signora had indeed hitherto behaved to her with uniform kindness, and she had no reason to apprehend that it was likely to be of short continuance; for she appeared to possess a strong and well-informed mind, a correct judgment, not easily to be led into error, and much feminine grace and softness, which rendered it unlikely that she should be misled by the sophistical arguments of designing falsehood, or be induced to yield to the influence of decided wrong. The pains she had already taken to console and re-assure her, were striking proofs of her friendship; and this being one of the most substantial comforts that her lot afforded, she resolved to endeavour to conciliate her esteem by every gentle attention which her situation allowed.

  To this conduct the natural sweetness of her disposition would have directed her, unbiassed by other motives; but she now saw the necessity of securing one friend, at least, in the place destined for her future residence, who might be inclined to assist her on any future emergency.

  A gentle tapping at the door roused her from these deep and melancholy reflections, and arising hastily from the side of the bed, on which she had been sitting, she opened it, and beheld the Signora, who being desirous of diverting her thoughts from the subject of her grief, proposed a walk along the grounds. She could not, she added, alluding to her late accident, undertake an extensive ramble beyond the boundaries of the castle; but the day was too fine to be allowed to pass without taking advantage of it, and she hoped she would indulge her with her society, as she was anxious to have her opinion respecting some intended improvements.

  Laurette instantly assented, and succeeded so well in the endeavour of tranquillizing her spirits, that she appeared little less animated than usual. The fineness of the weather assisted her efforts; and the vivacity of her companion, who exerted herself to soften the affliction of her friend, tended to comfort and re-assure her.

  There was something in the manners of Laurette at once so endearing and fascinating, that no one could be acquainted with her without feeling for her the most lasting affection; she entered with so lively an interest into the joys and sorrows of others, and mingled such an amiable concern with her assiduities, so entirely divested of art or unnatural refinement, that she appeared to the Signora, who had been also schooled in adversity, and whose native levity of disposition had been checked, though not entirely annihilated, by the correcting hand of Misfortune, as one of the most perfect creatures she had ever seen. The amiable sentiment she had conceived for her fair young friend, induced her to dwell upon the affecting incidents of her past life, which she had before briefly and imperfectly related, and upon the remembrance of those sorrows, which time had softened, but not thoroughly erased; that, by convincing her that she was not singularly unfortunate, she might teach her to endure her calamities with patience, and convince her also of the possibility of finally triumphing over them.

  By a long course of useful and extensive reading, united to an uncommon strength of memory, she was enabled to recollect many anecdotes in real life, and many passages from the most polished writers and historians of the age, which made her not only an entertaining, but an intelligent companion, every way formed to engage the affections of our heroine, and to deserve her confidence.

  Having wandered for some time through the lawns and shrubberies, and taken a general survey of the improvements, they discontinued their walk; and music, conversation, and other innocent amusements shortened the cares and fatigues of the day. In the evening, Laurette avoided taking her accustomed stroll, lest she should see her ghostly visitor, whom she determined, for the present at least, sedulously to avoid, since so little comfort could be expected from intelligence which she was not permitted to disclose.

  CHAPTER VI

  Nor peace, nor ease that heart can know.

  Which, like the needle true.

  Turns at the touch of joy or woe.

  But, turning, trembles too.

  -GREVILLE

  Some weeks passed before Laurette heard from Enrico, and being alarmed at this delay, she became anxious and dispirited; sometimes fearing that the warmth of his disposition had led him into some dangerous enterprise, and at others, that he was ill, or had met with some unexpected obstacle in his pursuit. She was at last, however, relieved from this painful suspense by a letter bearing his signature, which contained no other unpleasant intelligence than that he had been at present unsuccessful in his enquiries, though he was not yet without hopes of obtaining the welcome information; and concluded with desiring that she would write to him immediately, and relate every thing that had happened.

  She had stepped into an anti-chamber to read the epistle, and was deeply engaged in the perusal of it, when the trampling of hoofs drew her attention towards the window, and she perceived in the gloom of the evening, for it was nearly dark, two men on horseback advancing towards the gate. In one of them she imagined she recognized the person of Paoli; but the dim grey of the twilight prevented her from being certain that she was right in her conjecture, till she heard him call loudly for Ambrose, and then saw him alight from his horse, and, attended by a stranger, whom she believed to be one of the inferior servants belonging to the Castello St Aubin, cross the second court, and enter the private door, where she had gained admittance on her arrival.

  The return of Paoli, thus suddenly and unexpectedly, to the castle, indicated, she supposed, the approach of his Lord; and willing to be assured of the truth of the conjecture, she gained the top of the stairs, meaning to descend and inform herself of the whole, when an universal trembling seized her, and being unable to proceed, she leaned upon the spiral balustrade, in that state of breathless suspense which frequently precedes some new and much-dreaded event. Soon afterwards she heard a passing footstep in the hall, and saw through the iron rails, over which she bent, the Signora ascending the foot of the stairs. Knowing that she would afford her the gratification she desired, Laurette returned to the room she had quitted, and seating herself on a small settee by the fire, endeavour
ed to prepare herself for what might happen.

  The looks of the Signora as she entered, announced some hasty intelligence, and before Laurette had power to request to be made acquainted with the nature of it, she was told that the Marchese was already within a day's journey of the castle, and meant to reach it on the following day; that he had sent his steward and one of the inferior servants to apprize them of his intention, that all things might be in readiness for his reception, and was proceeding on his way with all imaginable speed.

  Though this was little more than Laurette expected, the moment she was assured it was Paoli, the certainty that the Marchese was really upon the road, and already so near the end of his journey, almost overcame her; and she turned suddenly so pale, that the Signora was compelled to throw open the casement, and to lead her towards the window. In a few minutes she revived; and after thanking her amiable companion for her attention, consented to walk into the air.

  Leaning upon the arm of her friend, she descended slowly the marble stair-case, and crossing the hall, stood for a few minutes at the portico, surveying the placid face of the heavens, illuminated with innumerable stars, and then proceeded along the court. When she had passed through the great gate, she turned a fearful and enquiring eye amid the trees of the avenues, expecting every moment to see the white robes of the Monk glaring among the dark branches of the fir or the mountain-ash, and fancying she heard the deep tones of his voice in the hollow murmurs of the wind, amid the faded and almost leafless woods.

  A small repast was prepared for them on their return, of which Laurette scarcely partook, and soon afterwards retired to her bed. The night was spent in broken and uneasy slumbers, the intervals of repose were short and disturbed, and the visions of her sleep were confused and terrible. Unrefreshed by this transient respite from real calamity, and unable to gain any comfortable repose, she arose by the dim light of early morning, and amused herself for some hours in her apartment, with reading that fine, melting, and descriptive kind of poetry, for which the bards of Italy are so highly and justly celebrated.