THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 16
'There,'
said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'is Udolpho.'
Emily
gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be
Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the gothic
greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey stone,
rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on
its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as
the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still
tipped with splendour. From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole
edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and
sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance
on all, who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its
features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its
clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath
whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.
The
extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in her mind,
and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under the trees. At
length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and, soon after, reached the
castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal bell, which was struck upon to
give notice of their arrival, increased the fearful emotions, that had assailed
Emily. While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates,
she anxiously surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed
her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls
of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary. From the
parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the whole. The
gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was
defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets, embattled, where,
instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants, that had taken root
among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled
past, over the desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain,
pierced and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge
portcullis, surmounting the gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts
extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline,
appearing on a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of
war.—Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening.
While
Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within the gates, and
the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant of the castle appeared,
forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admit his lord. As the
carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and
she seemed, as if she was going into her prison; the gloomy court, into which
she passed, served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to
circumstance, suggested even more terrors, than her reason could justify.
Another
gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and more wild than the
first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its desolation—its lofty
walls, overtopt with briony, moss and nightshade, and the embattled towers that
rose above,—long-suffering and murder came to her thoughts. One of those
instantaneous and unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even
strong minds, impressed her with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished,
when she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening,
which a light, glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches,
only rendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer partial
gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strong contrast
with their shadows, that stretched along the pavement and the walls.
The
sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any other
preparations for his reception, than could be had in the short interval, since
the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forward from Venice; and this, in
some measure, may account for the air of extreme desolation, that everywhere
appeared.
The
servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the muscles of his
countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.—Montoni noticed the salutation by a
slight motion of his hand, and passed on, while his lady, following, and
looking round with a degree of surprise and discontent, which she seemed
fearful of expressing, and Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall
in timid wonder, approached a marble stair-case. The arches here opened to a
lofty vault, from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was
hastily lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, leading into
several upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly from the
pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible.
Having
crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through an ante-room, they
entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted with black larch-wood,
the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were scarcely distinguishable from
darkness itself. 'Bring more light,' said Montoni, as he entered. The servant,
setting down his lamp, was withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing,
that the evening air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should
like a fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.
While he
paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat silently on a
couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant returned, Emily was
observing the singular solemnity and desolation of the apartment, viewed, as it
now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large Venetian
mirror, that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall figure of Montoni
passing slowly along, his arms folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume,
that waved in his hat.
From the
contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the apprehension of what
she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of Valancourt, far, far distant!
came to her heart, and softened it into sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but,
trying to conceal her tears, she walked away to one of the high windows, that
opened upon the ramparts, below which, spread the woods she had passed in her
approach to the castle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond,
and their indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon, where
a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley between was sunk in darkness.
The scene
within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door, was scarcely less
gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at the gates, now entered,
bending under a load of pine-branches, while two of Montoni's Venetian servants
followed with lights.
'Your
excellenza is welcome to the castle,' said the old man, as he raised himself
from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has been a lonely place a long
while; but you will excuse it, Signor, knowing we had but short notice. It is
near two years, come next feast of St. Mark, since your excellenza was within
these walls.'
'You have
a good memory, old Carlo,' said Montoni: 'it is there-about; and how hast thou
contrived to live so long?'
'A-well-a-day,
sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through the castle in winter, are
almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes of asking your excellenza to
let me leave the mountains, and go down into the lowlands. But I don't know how
it is—I am loth to quit these old walls I have lived in so long.'
'Well,
how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' said Montoni.
'Why much
as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing. There is the north
tower—some of the battlements have tumbled down, and had liked one day to have
knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on the head. Your excellenza must
know'—
'Well,
but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.
'Aye, the
repairs,' said Carlo: 'a part of the roof of the great hall has fallen in, and
all the winds from the mountains rushed through it last winter, and whistled
through the whole castle so, that there was no keeping one's self warm, be
where one would. There, my wife and I used to sit shivering over a great fire
in one corner of the little hall, ready to die with cold, and'—
'But
there are no more repairs wanted,' said Montoni, impatiently.
'O Lord!
Your excellenza, yes—the wall of the rampart has tumbled down in three places;
then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery, have been a long time so bad,
that it is dangerous to go up them; and the passage leading to the great oak
chamber, that overhangs the north rampart—one night last winter I ventured to
go there by myself, and your excellenza'—
'Well,
well, enough of this,' said Montoni, with quickness: 'I will talk more with
thee to-morrow.'
The fire
was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped the dust from a
large marble table that stood near it, and then left the room.
Montoni
and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several attempts at
conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while Emily sat endeavouring
to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At length, in a tremulous voice, she
said, 'May I ask, sir, the motive of this sudden journey?'—After a long pause,
she recovered sufficient courage to repeat the question.
'It does
not suit me to answer enquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor does it become you to make
them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may be no further harassed, and
I recommend it to you to retire to your chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a
more rational conduct, than that of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility,
which, to call it by the gentlest name, is only a weakness.'
Emily
rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,' said she to her aunt, with an assumed
composure, that could not disguise her emotion.
'Good
night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, which her niece
had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearment brought tears to
Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and was retiring; 'But you do not know
the way to your chamber,' said her aunt. Montoni called the servant, who waited
in the ante-room, and bade him send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few
minutes, Emily withdrew.
'Do you
know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed the hall.
'Yes, I
believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling place! I have
been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber, over the south
rampart, and I went up this great stair-case to it. My lady's room is at the
other end of the castle.'
Emily
ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they passed through
which, Annette resumed her chat—'What a wild lonely place this is, ma'am! I
shall be quite frightened to live in it. How often, and often have I wished
myself in France again! I little thought, when I came with my lady to see the
world, that I should ever be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never
have left my own country! This way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost
believe in giants again, and such like, for this is just like one of their
castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too, hopping
about in that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its huge
pillars, than any thing else.'
'Yes,'
said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious thought, 'if we come
to the corridor, about midnight, and look down into the hall, we shall
certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps, and the fairies tripping in
gay circles to the sound of delicious music; for it is in such places as this,
you know, that they come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you
will not be able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight: and, if once
they hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant.'
'O! if you
will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the corridor, this very night,
and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it shall not be my fault if the show
vanishes.—But do you think they will come?'
'I cannot
promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it will not be your
fault if the enchantment should vanish.'
'Well,
ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I am not so much
afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a plentiful many of
them about the castle: now I should be frightened to death, if I should chance
to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walk softly! I have thought, several
times, something passed by me.'
'Ridiculous!'
said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies.'
'O ma'am!
they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says these dismal galleries
and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in; and I verily believe, if I
LIVE long in them I shall turn to one myself!'
'I hope,'
said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of these weak fears;
they would highly displease him.'
'What,
you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette. 'No, no, I do know
better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleep sound, nobody else in the
castle has any right to lie awake, I am sure.' Emily did not appear to notice
this remark.
'Down
this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case. O! if I see any
thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'
'That
will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she followed the winding of
the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then Annette, perceiving
that she had missed her way, while she had been so eloquently haranguing on
ghosts and fairies, wandered about through other passages and galleries, till, at
length, frightened by their intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for
assistance: but they were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the
other side of the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the
left.
'O! do
not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will only lose yourself
further.'
'Bring
the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our way through these
rooms.'
Annette
stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light held up to shew
the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half of it. 'Why do you
hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see whither this room leads.'
Annette
advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and ancient
apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others wainscoted with
cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was, seemed to be almost as
old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur, though covered with
dust, and dropping to pieces with the damps, and with age.
'How cold
these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette: 'nobody has lived in them for many,
many years, they say. Do let us go.'
'They may
open upon the great stair-case, perhaps,' said Emily, passing on till she came
to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light to examine that of a
soldier on horseback in a field of battle.—He was darting his spear upon a man,
who lay under the feet of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating
attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of
vengeance, and the countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as
resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light
hastily over several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of
black silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped
before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus carefully be
concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. 'Holy Virgin! what can this mean?'
exclaimed Annette. 'This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice.'
'What
picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture—a picture,' replied Annette,
hesitatingly—'but I never could make out exactly what it was about, either.'
'Remove
the veil, Annette.'
'What! I,
ma'amselle!—I! not for the world!' Emily, turning round, saw Annette's
countenance grow pale. 'And pray, what have you heard of this picture, to
terrify you so, my good girl?' said she. 'Nothing, ma'amselle: I have heard
nothing, only let us find our way out.'
'Certainly:
but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, Annette, while I lift
the veil.' Annette took the light, and immediately walked away with it, disregarding
Emily's call to stay, who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber,
at length followed her. 'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, when
she overtook her, 'what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you
so unwilling to stay when I bid you?'
'I don't
know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'nor any thing about the
picture, only I have heard there is something very dreadful belonging to it—and
that it has been covered up in black EVER SINCE—and that nobody has looked at
it for a great many years—and it somehow has to do with the owner of this
castle before Signor Montoni came to the possession of it—and'—-
'Well,
Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say—that you know
nothing about the picture.'
'No,
nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never to tell:—but'—
'Well,'
rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between her inclination to
reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the consequence, 'I will enquire no
further'—-
'No,
pray, ma'am, do not.'
'Lest you
should tell all,' interrupted Emily.
Annette
blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity of this suite of
apartments, and found themselves, after some further perplexity, once more at
the top of the marble stair-case, where Annette left Emily, while she went to
call one of the servants of the castle to shew them to the chamber, for which
they had been seeking.
While she
was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; an unwillingness to
tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked her enquiries on this
subject, as well as concerning some alarming hints, which Annette had dropped
respecting Montoni; though her curiosity was entirely awakened, and she had
perceived, that her questions might easily be answered. She was now, however,
inclined to go back to the apartment and examine the picture; but the
loneliness of the hour and of the place, with the melancholy silence that
reigned around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the
mystery attending this picture, to prevent her. She determined, however, when
day-light should have re-animated her spirits, to go thither and remove the veil.
As she leaned from the corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyes wandered
round, she again observed, with wonder, the vast strength of the walls, now
somewhat decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that rose from the hall, and
supported the roof.
A servant
now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her chamber, which was in a
remote part of the castle, and at the very end of the corridor, from whence the
suite of apartments opened, through which they had been wandering. The lonely
aspect of her room made Emily unwilling that Annette should leave her
immediately, and the dampness of it chilled her with more than fear. She begged
Caterina, the servant of the castle, to bring some wood and light a fire.
'Aye,
lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here,' said Caterina.
'You need
not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette; 'every room in the castle feels
like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here; for my part, I wish myself
at Venice again.' Emily waved her hand for Caterina to fetch the wood.
'I
wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said Annette, while
Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and spacious, like the
others she had seen, and, like many of them, too, had its walls lined with dark
larch-wood. The bed and other furniture was very ancient, and had an air of
gloomy grandeur, like all that she had seen in the castle. One of the high
casements, which she opened, overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid
in darkness.
In the
presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to restrain the
tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She wished much to enquire
when Count Morano was expected at the castle, but an unwillingness to ask
unnecessary questions, and to mention family concerns to a servant, withheld
her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughts were engaged upon another subject: she
dearly loved the marvellous, and had heard of a circumstance, connected with
the castle, that highly gratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to
mention it, her inclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every
instant on the point of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange
circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment;
but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much severer, and she feared to
incur it by offending him.
Caterina
now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a while, the gloom of
the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady had enquired for her, and Emily
was once again left to her own sad reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened
against the stern manners of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now,
as she had been when she first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to
which she had been accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her
particularly sensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse as this
no apprehension had prepared her to support.
To call
off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her spirits, she rose
and again examined her room and its furniture. As she walked round it, she
passed a door, that was not quite shut, and, perceiving, that it was not the
one, through which she entered, she brought the light forward to discover
whither it led. She opened it, and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a
steep, narrow stair-case that wound from it, between two stone walls. She
wished to know to what it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated
so immediately with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits,
she wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door,
therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination,
perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on the
other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remedied the
defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this remote
room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which could not be
perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to entreat of Madame
Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with her all night, but was
deterred by an apprehension of betraying what would be thought childish fears,
and by an unwillingness to increase the apt terrors of Annette.
Her
gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in the corridor,
and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper, sent by Madame Montoni.
Having a table near the fire, she made the good girl sit down and sup with her;
and, when their little repast was over, Annette, encouraged by her kindness and
stirring the wood into a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to
Emily, and said—'Did you ever hear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that
made the Signor lord of this castle?'
'What
wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing the curiosity,
occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on that subject.
'I have
heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking round the chamber and
drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as we travelled together: says
he, "Annette, you don't know about this castle here, that we are going
to?" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you know? But, ma'amselle,
you can keep a secret, or I would not tell it you for the world; for I promised
never to tell, and they say, that the Signor does not like to have it talked
of.'
'If you
promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do right not to mention it.'
Annette
paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle, to you I may tell
it safely, I know.'
Emily
smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself, Annette.'
Annette
replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded—'This castle, you must know,
ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, and has stood out many sieges as they
say. Now it was not Signor Montoni's always, nor his father's; no; but, by some
law or other, it was to come to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'
'What
lady?' said Emily.
'I am not
come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am going to tell you
about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived in the castle, and had
everything very grand about her, as you may suppose, ma'amselle. The Signor
used often to come to see her, and was in love with her, and offered to marry
her; for, though he was somehow related, that did not signify. But she was in
love with somebody else, and would not have him, which made him very angry, as
they say, and you know, ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when
he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have
him. But, as I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that,
for a long while, and—Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a
sound, ma'amselle?'
'It was
only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your story.'
'As I was
saying—O, where was I?—as I was saying—she was very melancholy and unhappy a
long while, and used to walk about upon the terrace, there, under the windows,
by herself, and cry so! it would have done your heart good to hear her. That
is—I don't mean good, but it would have made you cry too, as they tell me.'
'Well,
but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'
'All in
good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what is to come I
never heard till to-day. This happened a great many years ago, when Signor
Montoni was quite a young man. The lady—they called her Signora Laurentini, was
very handsome, but she used to be in great passions, too, sometimes, as well as
the Signor. Finding he could not make her listen to him—what does he do, but
leave the castle, and never comes near it for a long time! but it was all one
to her; she was just as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening,
Holy St. Peter! ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue it
burns!' She looked fearfully round the chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily,
'why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your story, I
am weary.'
Annette
still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice. 'It was one
evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it might be about the middle
of September, I suppose, or the beginning of October; nay, for that matter, it
might be November, for that, too, is the latter end of the year, but that I
cannot say for certain, because they did not tell me for certain themselves.
However, it was at the latter end of the year, this grand lady walked out of
the castle into the woods below, as she had often done before, all alone, only
her maid was with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, and
whistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, that we passed,
ma'amselle, as we came to the castle—for Benedetto shewed me the trees as he
was talking—the wind blew cold, and her woman would have persuaded her to
return: but all would not do, for she was fond of walking in the woods, at
evening time, and, if the leaves were falling about her, so much the better.
'Well,
they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she did not return:
ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came, and no lady! Well, the
servants thought to be sure, some accident had befallen her, and they went out
to seek her. They searched all night long, but could not find her, or any trace
of her; and, from that day to this, ma'amselle, she has never been heard of.'
'Is this
true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise.
'True,
ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true, indeed. But they
do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do say, that the Signora has been
seen, several times since, walking in the woods and about the castle in the
night: several of the old servants, who remained here some time after, declare
they saw her; and, since then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who
have happened to be in the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell
such things, they say, if he would.'
'How
contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing has been since
known of her, and yet she has been seen!'
'But all
this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette, without noticing the
remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not hurt either me or Benedetto, so
much as to go and tell it again.' Emily remained silent, and Annette repeated
her last sentence.
'You have
nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and let me advise you,
my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never mention what you have just
told me to any other person. Signor Montoni, as you say, may be angry if he
hears of it. But what inquiries were made concerning the lady?'
'O! a
great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to the castle
directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the judges, or the
senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not take possession of it
till so many years were gone by, and then, if, after all, the lady could not be
found, why she would be as good as dead, and the castle would be his own; and
so it is his own. But the story went round, and many strange reports were
spread, so very strange, ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'
'That is
stranger still, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, and rousing herself from her
reverie. 'But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards seen in the castle, did
nobody speak to her?'
'Speak—speak
to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to be sure.'
'And why
not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.
'Holy
Mother! speak to a spirit!'
'But what
reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had approached, and
spoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. How can you ask such shocking
questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out of the castle; and it was
in one place now, and then the next minute in quite another part of the castle;
and then it never spoke, and, if it was alive, what should it do in the castle
if it never spoke? Several parts of the castle have never been gone into since,
they say, for that very reason.'
'What,
because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away the fears that began
to steal upon her.—'No, ma'amselle, no;' replied Annette, rather angrily 'but
because something has been seen there. They say, too, there is an old chapel
adjoining the west side of the castle, where, any time at midnight, you may
hear such groans!—it makes one shudder to think of them!—and strange sights
have been seen there—'
'Pr'ythee,
Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily.
'Silly
tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this, if you please,
that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter's night that Caterina (she often
came to the castle then, she says, to keep old Carlo and his wife company, and
so he recommended her afterwards to the Signor, and she has lived here ever
since) Caterina was sitting with them in the little hall, says Carlo, "I
wish we had some of those figs to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it
is a long way off, and I am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina," says he,
"for you are young and nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim
for roasting them; they lie," says he, "in such a corner of the
store-room, at the end of the north-gallery; here, take the lamp," says
he, "and mind, as you go up the great stair-case, that the wind, through
the roof, does not blow it out." So, with that, Caterina took the
lamp—Hush! ma'amselle, I surely heard a noise!'
Emily,
whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened attentively; but
every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:
'Caterina
went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we passed, ma'am, before we
came to the corridor, here. As she went with the lamp in her hand, thinking of
nothing at all—There, again!' cried Annette suddenly—'I heard it again!—it was
not fancy, ma'amselle!'
'Hush!'
said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sit quite still, Emily
heard a low knocking against the wall. It came repeatedly. Annette then
screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly opened.—It was Caterina, come to
tell Annette, that her lady wanted her. Emily, though she now perceived who it
was, could not immediately overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing,
half crying, scolded Caterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was also terrified
lest what she had told had been overheard.—Emily, whose mind was deeply
impressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's relation, was unwilling to be
left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but, to avoid offending Madame
Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she struggled to overcome the
illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.
When she
was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of Signora Laurentini
and then to her own strange situation, in the wild and solitary mountains of a
foreign country, in the castle, and the power of a man, to whom, only a few
preceding months, she was an entire stranger; who had already exercised an
usurped authority over her, and whose character she now regarded, with a degree
of terror, apparently justified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had
invention equal to the conception and talents to the execution of any project,
and she greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose the
perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long observed the
unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witness to the stern and
contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband. To these circumstances,
which conspired to give her just cause for alarm, were now added those thousand
nameless terrors, which exist only in active imaginations, and which set reason
and examination equally at defiance.
Emily
remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her departure from
Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had said to dissuade her from
venturing on the journey. His fears had often since appeared to her
prophetic—now they seemed confirmed. Her heart, as it gave her back the image
of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret, but reason soon came with a consolation
which, though feeble at first, acquired vigour from reflection. She considered,
that, whatever might be her sufferings, she had withheld from involving him in
misfortune, and that, whatever her future sorrows could be, she was, at least, free
from self-reproach.
Her
melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along the corridor
and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long been
extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers, till a loud
gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook the doors and casements,
alarmed her, for its violence had moved the chair she had placed as a
fastening, and the door, leading to the private stair-case stood half open. Her
curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She took the lamp to the top of
the steps, and stood hesitating whether to go down; but again the profound
stillness and the gloom of the place awed her, and, determining to enquire
further, when day-light might assist the search, she closed the door, and
placed against it a stronger guard.
She now
retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; but its gloomy
light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for, by its uncertain rays,
she almost fancied she saw shapes flit past her curtains and glide into the
remote obscurity of her chamber.—The castle clock struck one before she closed
her eyes to sleep.
