THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 33
CHAPTER IV
Now it is the time of night,
That, the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his spite,
In the church-way path to glide.
SHAKESPEARE
On the next night, about the same hour as before,
Dorothee came to Emily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which
had been particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended
along the north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, as
Emily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent of the
castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose observations
Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might excite enquiry, and raise
reports, such as would displease the Count. She, therefore, requested, that
Emily would wait half an hour, before they ventured forth, that they might be
certain all the servants were gone to bed. It was nearly one, before the
chateau was perfectly still, or Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the
chamber. In this interval, her spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the
remembrance of past events, and by the prospect of entering again upon places,
where these had occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years.
Emily too was affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of
fear. From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them,
they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, at first,
carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity and alarm, that
Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support her feeble steps.
They had to descend the great stair-case, and,
after passing over a wide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led
to the suite of rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the
open corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers of
the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from thence, descending
the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall itself. Proceeding through the
servants hall, where the dying embers of a wood fire still glimmered on the
hearth, and the supper table was surrounded by chairs, that obstructed their
passage, they came to the foot of the back stair-case. Old Dorothee here
paused, and looked around; 'Let us listen,' said she, 'if any thing is
stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hear any voice?' 'None,' said Emily, 'there
certainly is no person up in the chateau, besides ourselves.'—'No, ma'amselle,'
said Dorothee, 'but I have never been here at this hour before, and, after what
I know, my fears are not wonderful.'—'What do you know?' said Emily.—'O,
ma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on the
left is the one we must open.'
They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the
stair-case, Dorothee applied the key to the lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she
endeavoured to turn it, 'so many years have passed since this was opened, that
I fear it will not move.' Emily was more successful, and they presently entered
a spacious and ancient chamber.
'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the
last time I passed through this door—I followed my poor lady's corpse!'
Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected
by the dusky and solemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed
on through a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than the
rest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence.
'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee
faintly, 'we are going into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens
into it. Ah, ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'
Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which
the apartment was furnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to
compose her spirits.
'How the sight of this place brings all that passed
formerly to my mind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since
all that sad affair happened!'
'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.
Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked
round the apartment, and they listened—but, every thing remaining still, the
old woman spoke again upon the subject of her sorrow. 'This saloon, ma'amselle,
was in my lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted up
according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can now hardly
see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the best—ah! how I have
seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!—all this grand furniture came from
Paris, and was made after the fashion of some in the Louvre there, except those
large glasses, and they came from some outlandish place, and that rich
tapestry. How the colours are faded already!—since I saw it last!'
'I understood, that was twenty years ago,' observed
Emily.
'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well
remembered, but all the time between then and now seems as nothing. That
tapestry used to be greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous
book, or other, but I have forgot the name.'
Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited,
and discovered, by verses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each
scene, that it exhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient
romances.
Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she
rose, and unlocked the door that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and
Emily passed into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious,
that the lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when she
entered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcely trusted
herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It was some time before
Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which the Marchioness was said to
have died; when, advancing to the upper end of the room, she discovered the
high canopied tester of dark green damask, with the curtains descending to the
floor in the fashion of a tent, half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they
had been left twenty years before; and over the whole bedding was thrown a
counterpane, or pall, of black velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily
shuddered, as she held the lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains,
where she almost expected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering
the horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in the
turret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning from the
bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! methinks I
see my lady stretched upon that pall—as when last I saw her!'
Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked
involuntarily again within the curtains, but the blackness of the pall only
appeared; while Dorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the
bed, and presently tears brought her some relief.
'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was
here I sat on that terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last
words, and saw all her sufferings—HERE she died in my arms!'
'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said
Emily, 'let us go. Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much
affect you.'
'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising, and
going towards a small door near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily
followed with the light, into the closet of the late Marchioness.
'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee,
pointing to a portrait of a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked
when she came first to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like
you, then—and so soon to be cut off!'
While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively
examining the picture, which bore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though
the expression of the countenance in each was somewhat different; but still she
thought she perceived something of that pensive melancholy in the portrait,
which so strongly characterised the miniature.
'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I
may look at you together,' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied
with, exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it,
thought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though she could not
now recollect who this was.
In this closet were many memorials of the departed
Marchioness; a robe and several articles of her dress were scattered upon the
chairs, as if they had just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black
satin slippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long black
veil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was dropping to
pieces with age.
'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's
hand laid it there; it has never been moved since!'
Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again.
'I well remember seeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the
night before her death, when she had returned from a little walk I had
persuaded her to take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her
how much better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me;
but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, that night.'
Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil,
threw it suddenly over Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her,
descending even to her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee
intreated that she would keep it on for one moment. 'I thought,' added she,
'how like you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;—may your life, ma'amselle,
be a happier one than hers!'
Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil,
laid it again on the dressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every
object, on which her eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large
oriel window of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a
prayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee had mentioned
concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window, before she
observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, as if it had been
carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so often awakened it.
'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for,
when my dear lady died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber
either; and my lord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as
they did when my lady was removed for interment.'
While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on
the lute, which was a Spanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a
hesitating hand, she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They
were out of tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at their
well-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This is the lute
my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she played upon it—it was on
the night that she died. I came as usual to undress her, and, as I entered the
bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music from the oriel, and perceiving it was
my lady's, who was sitting there, I stepped softly to the door, which stood a
little open, to listen; for the music—though it was mournful—was so sweet!
There I saw her, with the lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell
upon her cheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her
voice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, and wipe away
her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had often listened to my
lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it made me cry, almost, to
hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there was the book open on the
table beside her—aye, and there it lies open still! Pray, let us leave the
oriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 'this is a heart-breaking place!'
Having returned into the chamber, she desired to
look once more upon the bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door,
leading into the saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into
it, thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of the room.
Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or it is probable
this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not have affected her in
the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal her emotion from Dorothee,
who, however, observing her countenance change, enquired if she was ill.
'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these
rooms is unwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she
must pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had appeared,
this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she sad down on the
side of the bed.
Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a
consideration of the melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot,
endeavoured to cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began
to relate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting, that it
might increase Emily's emotion, but because they were particularly interesting
to herself. 'A little before my lady's death,' said she, 'when the pains were
gone off, she called me to her, and stretching out her hand to me, I sat down
just there—where the curtain falls upon the bed. How well I remember her look
at the time—death was in it!—I can almost fancy I see her now.—There she lay,
ma'amselle—her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpane was not
upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was laid out upon
it.'
Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as
if she could have seen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the
white pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes
wandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without speaking,
she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the action, and by the look of
terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to the bed, where, in
the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted, and fall again.
Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and
gazing upon the bed; and, at length, said—'It is only the wind, that waves it,
ma'amselle; we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp,
too.—It is only the wind.'
She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall
was more violently agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her
terrors, stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only
had occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the pall
moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a human countenance
rose above it.
Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out
of the chamber as fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open
the doors of all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached the
stair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the female servants
slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived of all presence of
mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion of her terror from the
astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, when she could speak, endeavoured to
laugh at her own fright, and was joined by Emily, no remonstrances could
prevail with the servants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the
remainder of the night in a room so near to these terrific chambers.
Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment,
they then began to talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange
circumstance, that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her
own perceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their truth. Having now
mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked the
housekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened, by which
a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorothee replied, that she
had constantly kept the keys of the several doors in her own possession; that,
when she had gone her rounds through the castle, as she frequently did, to
examine if all was safe, she had tried these doors among the rest, and had
always found them fastened. It was, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person
could have got admittance into the apartments; and, if they could—it was very
improbable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold and forlorn.
Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers
had, perhaps, been watched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed
them into the rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in
the oriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed.
Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she
recollected, that, on entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the
outer door, and this, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed
by any of the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have excluded
every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she now persisted in
affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen was nothing human, but
some dreadful apparition.
Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever
nature might be the appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural,
the fate of the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and this
unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her sufferings,
affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, to which, after having
detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not have yielded, had she been
ignorant of the unhappy story, related by the housekeeper. Her she now solemnly
conjured to conceal the occurrence of this night, and to make light of the
terror she had already betrayed, that the Count might not be distressed by
reports, which would certainly spread alarm and confusion among his family.
'Time,' she added, 'may explain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch
the event in silence.'
Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected
that she had left all the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not
having courage to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some
effort, so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to
the foot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended,
whose resolution being re-assured by this circumstance, she consented to go,
and they left Emily's apartment together.
No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed
along the halls and galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back
stair-case, Dorothee's resolution failed again; having, however, paused a
moment to listen, and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily
below, and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber, she
fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, and returned to
Emily.
As they stepped along the passage, leading into the
great hall, a sound of lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the
hall itself, and they stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently
distinguished the voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with
another female servant, and so terrified by the report, which the other maids
had spread, that, believing she could be safe only where her lady was, she was
going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours to laugh, or to argue her
out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, in compassion to her distress,
she consented that she should remain in her room during the night.
CHAPTER V
Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude!
Companion of the wise and good—
This is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born.
But chief when evening scenes decay
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful, soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.
THOMSON
Emily's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the
subject of her terror were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding
night spread such alarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had
frequently heard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a report soon
reached the Count of the north side of the castle being haunted. He treated
this, at first, with ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was productive of
serious evil, in the confusion it occasioned among his household, he forbade
any person to repeat it, on pain of punishment.
The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew
his thoughts entirely from this subject, and his servants had now little
leisure to brood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when
they all assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till they
feared to look round the room; started, if the echo of a closing door murmured
along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part of the castle.
On these occasions Annette made a distinguished
figure. When she told not only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all
that she had imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strange
disappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling impression on the
mind of her attentive auditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni, she would
also have freely disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now in the service of the
Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever it pointed to that subject.
Among the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de
Saint Foix, an old friend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a
sensible and amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the Lady
Blanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer. The friendship, which the
Count had long entertained for his father, and the equality of their
circumstances made him secretly approve of the connection; but, thinking his
daughter at this time too young to fix her choice for life, and wishing to
prove the sincerity and strength of the Chevalier's attachment, he then
rejected his suit, though without forbidding his future hope. This young man
now came, with the Baron, his father, to claim the reward of a steady
affection, a claim, which the Count admitted and which Blanche did not reject.
While these visitors were at the chateau, it became
a scene of gaiety and splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and
frequented, in the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually
concluded with a concert, at which the Count and Countess, who were scientific
performers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche and
Emily, whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of more skilful
execution, usually assisted. Several of the Count's servants performed on horns
and other instruments, some of which, placed at a little distance among the
woods, spoke, in sweet response, to the harmony, that proceeded from the
pavilion.
At any other period, these parties would have been
delightful to Emily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy,
which she perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power to
dissipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody of these
concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree.
She was particularly fond of walking in the woods,
that hung on a promontory, overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was
soothing to her pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded of
the Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, tranquil beauty
was united with grandeur. The paths were rude and frequently overgrown with
vegetation, but their tasteful owner would suffer little to be done to them,
and scarcely a single branch to be lopped from the venerable trees. On an eminence,
in one of the most sequestered parts of these woods, was a rustic seat, formed
of the trunk of a decayed oak, which had once been a noble tree, and of which
many lofty branches still flourishing united with beech and pines to
over-canopy the spot. Beneath their deep umbrage, the eye passed over the tops
of other woods, to the Mediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was
seen a ruined watch-tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and
rising from among the tufted foliage.
Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of
evening, and, soothed by the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from
the waves, would sit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau.
Frequently, also, she visited the watch-tower, which commanded the entire
prospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and thought of
Valancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that this tower had been
almost as frequently his resort, as her own, since his estrangement from the
neighbouring chateau.
One evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She
had sat on the steps of the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the
gradual effect of evening over the extensive prospect, till the gray waters of
the Mediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only features of the
scene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed alternately on these, and on
the mild blue of the heavens, where the first pale star of evening appeared,
she personified the hour in the following lines:—
SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR
Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,
I move along the realms of twilight air,
And hear, remote, the choral song decay
Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.
Then, as I follow through the azure void,
His partial splendour from my straining eye
Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide
His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;
Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer
Hours,
Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,
While mortals on the green earth own its
pow'rs,
As downward on the evening gale it floats.
When fades along the West the Sun's last beam,
As, weary, to the nether world he goes,
And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,
And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,
Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,
And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,
And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,
And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.
Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;
O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
That forests wild and mountains, stretching
plains
And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.
Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning
wind,
Low breathing through the woods and twilight
vale,
In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind
Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.
His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining
rill,
Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are
near,
Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!
I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;
When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily
peep,
And spy my pale star, leading on the night,—
Forth to their games and revelry they leap;
Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,
That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's
cell;
Then to the shores and moon-light brooks
repair,
Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.
The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd
shade,
With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,
On river margin of some bow'ry glade,
And strew their fresh buds as my steps
advance:
But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud,
And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace;
Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's
shroud.
The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched
its gradual progress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters,
the sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and the
battlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just tinted with
the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene. As she sat
meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which she immediately knew to be
the music and the voice she had formerly heard at midnight, and the emotion of
awe, which she felt, was not unmixed with terror, when she considered her
remote and lonely situation. The sounds drew nearer. She would have risen to
leave the place, but they seemed to come from the way she must have taken
towards the chateau, and she awaited the event in trembling expectation. The
sounds continued to approach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat
listening, gazing and unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the
shade of the woods and pass along the bank, at some little distance before her.
It went swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though she
saw, she did not much observe it.
Having left the spot, with a resolution never again
to visit it alone, at so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when
she heard voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to
it. They were the shouts of the Count's servants, who were sent to search for
her; and when she entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henri and Blanche,
he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed to have deserved.
This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind,
and, when she withdrew to her own room, it recalled so forcibly the
circumstances she had witnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely
courage to remain alone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having
renewed her fears, she, at length, sunk to repose. But this was of short
continuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, that seemed to
come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groans were distinctly
heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fell against the door, with a
violence, that threatened to burst it open. She called loudly to know who was
there, but received no answer, though, at intervals, she still thought she
heard something like a low moaning. Fear deprived her of the power to move.
Soon after, she heard footsteps in a remote part of the gallery, and, as they
approached, she called more loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door.
She then distinguished the voices of several of the servants, who seemed too
much engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls; but, Annette
soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood, that one of the maids
had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to bring into her room, where
she assisted to restore her. When this girl had recovered her speech, she
affirmed, that, as she was passing up the back stair-case, in the way to her
chamber, she had seen an apparition on the second landing-place; she held the
lamp low, she said, that she might pick her way, several of the stairs being
infirm and even decayed, and it was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this
appearance. It stood for a moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she
was approaching, and then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the
apartment, that had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound.
'Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,'
said Dorothee, 'for it could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!'
The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up
the great stair-case, had run, with a faint scream, till she reached the
gallery, where she fell, groaning, at Emily's door.
Gently chiding her for the alarm she had
occasioned, Emily tried to make her ashamed of her fears; but the girl
persisted in saying, that she had seen an apparition, till she went to her own
room, whither she was accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee,
who, at Emily's request, remained with her during the night. Emily was
perplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences of former
times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions; among these, according
to her belief, she had once witnessed an appearance, like that just described,
and on the very same spot, and it was the remembrance of it, that had made her
pause, when she was going to ascend the stairs with Emily, and which had
increased her reluctance to open the north apartments. Whatever might be
Emily's opinions, she did not disclose them, but listened attentively to all
that Dorothee communicated, which occasioned her much thought and perplexity.
From this night the terror of the servants
increased to such an excess, that several of them determined to leave the
chateau, and requested their discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith
in the subject of their alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to
avoid the inconvenience that threatened him, employed ridicule and then
argument to convince them they had nothing to apprehend from supernatural
agency. But fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason; and it was
now, that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for the
kindness he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during a night,
in the suite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said, no spirits,
and, if any thing of human form appeared—he would prove that he dreaded that as
little.
The Count paused upon the offer, while the
servants, who heard it, looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and
Annette, terrified for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to
dissuade him from his purpose.
'You are a bold fellow,' said the Count, smiling,
'Think well of what you are going to encounter, before you finally determine
upon it. However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your
offer, and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.'
'I desire no reward, your excellenza,' replied
Ludovico, 'but your approbation. Your excellenza has been sufficiently good to
me already; but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he
should appear.'
'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,'
replied the Count, throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, 'neither
can bars, or bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as
easily as through a door.'
'Give me a sword, my lord Count,' said Ludovico,
'and I will lay all the spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.'
'Well,' said the Count, 'you shall have a sword,
and good cheer, too; and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage
enough to remain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will
certainly, for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre to
yourself.'
Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of
several of his fellow servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the
event of Ludovico's rashness.
Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard
of his intention, and was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed
in the north apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself
of fears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented these to be absurd.
The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which Dorothee had
entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with the late occurrence, in
excuse for her having so privately visited the north apartments, kept her
entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension; and she tried only to sooth
Annette, who held, that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed; and who was
much less affected by Emily's consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old
Dorothee, who often, as she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes
to heaven.
To be continued
