THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 21
CHAPTER X
And shall no lay of death
With pleasing murmur sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall no tear wet her grave?
SAYERS
On the
following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame Montoni, who had
slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had also returned with her
health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni's demands revived, though it yet
struggled with her fears, which Emily, who trembled for the consequence of
further opposition, endeavoured to confirm.
Her aunt,
as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which delighted in contradiction,
and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstances were offered to her
understanding, not to enquire into their truth, but to seek for arguments, by
which she might make them appear false. Long habit had so entirely confirmed
this natural propensity, that she was not conscious of possessing it. Emily's
remonstrances and representations, therefore, roused her pride, instead of
alarming, or convincing her judgment, and she still relied upon the discovery
of some means, by which she might yet avoid submitting to the demand of her
husband. Considering, that, if she could once escape from his castle, she might
defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive separation, live in comfort on the
estates, that yet remained for her, she mentioned this to her niece, who
accorded with her in the wish, but differed from her, as to the probability of
its completion. She represented the impossibility of passing the gates, secured
and guarded as they were, and the extreme danger of committing her design to
the discretion of a servant, who might either purposely betray, or accidentally
disclose it.—Montoni's vengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention
was detected: and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to regain
her freedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame Montoni's safety,
and persevered in advising her to relinquish her settlement, without braving
further outrage.
The struggle
of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her aunt's bosom, and she
still brooded over the chance of effecting an escape. While she thus sat,
Montoni entered the room, and, without noticing his wife's indisposition, said,
that he came to remind her of the impolicy of trifling with him, and that he
gave her only till the evening to determine, whether she would consent to his
demand, or compel him, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He
added, that a party of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and that he
expected that she would sit at the head of the table, where Emily, also, must
be present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of uttering an absolute
refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty, during this entertainment,
though circumscribed, might favour her further plans, she acquiesced, with
seeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after, left the apartment. His command
struck Emily with surprise and apprehension, who shrank from the thought of
being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such as her fancy represented these to
be, and the words of Count Morano, now again recollected, did not sooth her
fears.
When she
withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with even more simplicity
than usual, that she might escape observation—a policy, which did not avail
her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's apartment, she was met by Montoni, who
censured what he called her prudish appearance, and insisted, that she should
wear the most splendid dress she had, even that, which had been prepared for
her intended nuptials with Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her aunt
had carefully brought with her from Venice. This was made, not in the Venetian,
but, in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, to the
utmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut tresses were negligently bound
up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on her neck. The simplicity of a
better taste, than Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in this dress, splendid as
it was, and Emily's unaffected beauty never had appeared more captivatingly.
She had now only to hope, that Montoni's order was prompted, not by any
extraordinary design, but by an ostentation of displaying his family, richly
attired, to the eyes of strangers; yet nothing less than his absolute command
could have prevailed with her to wear a dress, that had been designed for such
an offensive purpose, much less to have worn it on this occasion. As she
descended to dinner, the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over her
countenance, and heightened its interesting expression; for timidity had made
her linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and, when she entered the
hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread, Montoni and his guests were
already seated at the table. She was then going to place herself by her aunt;
but Montoni waved his hand, and two of the cavaliers rose, and seated her
between them.
The
eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an aquiline nose,
and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, when his mind was agitated,
and, even in its state of rest, retained somewhat of the wildness of the
passions. His visage was long and narrow, and his complexion of a sickly
yellow.
The
other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a different cast, yet
Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; his eyes, of a dark
grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was a sun-burnt brown, and the
contour of his face, though inclined to oval, was irregular and ill-formed.
Eight
other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in an uniform, and had
all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness, of subtle design, or of
licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyed them, she remembered the scene
of the preceding morning, and again almost fancied herself surrounded by
banditti; then, looking back to the tranquillity of her early life, she felt
scarcely less astonishment, than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in
which they sat, assisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy from the
style of its architecture, from its great extent, and because almost the only
light it received was from one large gothic window, and from a pair of folding
doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a view of the west rampart, with
the wild mountains of the Apennine beyond.
The
middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enriched with
fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble; beyond these,
long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till their extent was lost in
twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants, as they advanced through
these, were returned in whispering echoes, and their figures, seen at a
distance imperfectly through the dusk, frequently awakened Emily's imagination.
She looked alternately at Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene;
and then, remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and the
simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief and surprise
again occupied her mind.
When her
thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied she observed an
air of authority towards his guests, such as she had never before seen him
assume, though he had always been distinguished by an haughty carriage; there was
something also in the manners of the strangers, that seemed perfectly, though
not servilely, to acknowledge his superiority.
During
dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. They talked with
energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character of the reigning Doge
and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the state of Rome. When the repast
was over, they rose, and, each filling his goblet with wine from the gilded
ewer, that stood beside him, drank 'Success to our exploits!' Montoni was
lifting his goblet to his lips to drink this toast, when suddenly the wine
hissed, rose to the brim, and, as he held the glass from him, it burst into a
thousand pieces.
To him,
who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the quality of
breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, that some of his guests
had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred, and he ordered all the gates
to be closed, drew his sword, and, looking round on them, who stood in silent
amazement, exclaimed, 'Here is a traitor among us; let those, that are
innocent, assist in discovering the guilty.'
Indignation
flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew their swords; and Madame
Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was hastening from the hall, when her
husband commanded her to stay; but his further words could not now be
distinguished, for the voice of every person rose together. His order, that all
the servants should appear, was at length obeyed, and they declared their
ignorance of any deceit—a protestation which could not be believed; for it was
evident, that, as Montoni's liquor, and his only, had been poisoned, a
deliberate design had been formed against his life, which could not have been
carried so far towards its accomplishment, without the connivance of the
servant, who had the care of the wine ewers.
This man,
with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness of guilt, or the
fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained instantly, and confined in a
strong room, which had formerly been used as a prison. Thither, likewise, he
would have sent all his guests, had he not foreseen the consequence of so bold
and unjustifiable a proceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented himself
with swearing, that no man should pass the gates, till this extraordinary
affair had been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife retire to her
apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her.
In about
half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily observed, with
horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and heard him denounce
vengeance on her aunt.
'It will
avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact; I have proof of
your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a full confession;—there is
nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood; your accomplice has confessed
all.'
Emily's
fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard her aunt accused of
a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment, admit the possibility of
her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agitation did not permit her to reply;
alternately her complexion varied from livid paleness to a crimson flush; and
she trembled,—but, whether with fear, or with indignation, it were difficult to
decide.
'Spare
your words,' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'your countenance makes
full confession of your crime.—You shall be instantly removed to the east
turret.'
'This
accusation,' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'is used only as an
excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. You do not believe me
guilty.'
'Signor!'
said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answer with my life, is
false. Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the severity of his countenance,
'this is no moment for restraint, on my part; I do not scruple to tell you,
that you are deceived—most wickedly deceived, by the suggestion of some person,
who aims at the ruin of my aunt:—it is impossible, that you could yourself have
imagined a crime so hideous.'
Montoni,
his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If you value your own
safety,' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent. I shall know how to interpret
your remonstrances, should you persevere in them.'
Emily
raised her eyes calmly to heaven. 'Here is, indeed, then, nothing to hope!'
said she.
'Peace!'
cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to fear.'
He turned
to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who vehemently and wildly
remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: but Montoni's rage heightened with
her indignation, and Emily, dreading the event of it, threw herself between
them, and clasped his knees in silence, looking up in his face with an
expression, that might have softened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was
hardened by a conviction of Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion of
it made him eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike insensible to
the distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom he made no
attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when he was called out of
the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door, Emily heard him turn
the lock and take out the key; so that Madame Montoni and herself were now
prisoners; and she saw that his designs became more and more terrible. Her
endeavours to explain his motives for this circumstance were almost as
ineffectual as those to sooth the distress of her aunt, whose innocence she
could not doubt; but she, at length, accounted for Montoni's readiness to
suspect his wife by his own consciousness of cruelty towards her, and for the
sudden violence of his present conduct against both, before even his suspicions
could be completely formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly
whatever he was led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, in
accomplishing it.
Madame
Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a possibility of
escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on the subject, who was now
willing to encounter any hazard, though she forbore to encourage a hope in her
aunt, which she herself did not admit. How strongly the edifice was secured,
and how vigilantly guarded, she knew too well; and trembled to commit their
safety to the caprice of the servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old
Carlo was compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's interest
to be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and Emily knew
Ludovico only from her report. At present, however, these considerations were
useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up from all intercourse, even
with the persons, whom there might be these reasons to reject.
In the
hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listened anxiously to
the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimes fancied she heard the
clashing of swords, and, when she considered the nature of the provocation,
given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, it appeared probable, that nothing less
than arms would terminate the contention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all
her expressions of indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained
silent, in that kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often succeeds
to the uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, that
dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.
An
uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstances of the past
hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and her thoughts were
various and rapid, though without tumult.
From this
state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at the chamber-door,
and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voice of Annette.
'Dear
madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,' said the poor girl.
'The door
is locked,' answered the lady.
'Yes,
ma'am, but do pray open it.'
'The
Signor has the key,' said Madame Montoni.
'O
blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette.
'Assist
us to escape,' said her mistress. 'Where is Ludovico?'
'Below in
the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best of them!'
'Fighting!
Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni.
'Why the
Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.'
'Is any
person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice. 'Hurt! Yes,
ma'amselle,—there they lie bleeding, and the swords are clashing, and—O holy
saints! Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming this way—I shall be murdered!'
'Fly!'
cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door.'
Annette
repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.
'Be calm,
madam,' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to be calm, I am not
frightened—not frightened in the least, do not you be alarmed.'
'You can
scarcely support yourself,' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God! what is it they
mean to do with us?'
'They
come, perhaps, to liberate us,' said Emily, 'Signor Montoni perhaps is—is
conquered.'
The belief
of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew faint as she saw him
in imagination, expiring at her feet.
'They are
coming!' cried Madame Montoni—'I hear their steps—they are at the door!'
Emily
turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of utterance. The
key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni appeared, followed by
three ruffian-like men. 'Execute your orders,' said he, turning to them, and
pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but was immediately carried from the room;
while Emily sunk, senseless, on a couch, by which she had endeavoured to
support herself. When she recovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that
Madame Montoni had been there, together with some unconnected particulars of
the preceding transaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew all her
terror. She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in search of some means of
intelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither her own danger, or an idea of
escaping from the room, immediately occurred.
When her
recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went, but with only a
faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened. It was so, and she then
stepped timidly out into the gallery, but paused there, uncertain which way she
should proceed. Her first wish was to gather some information, as to her aunt,
and she, at length, turned her steps to go to the lesser hall, where Annette
and the other servants usually waited.
Every
where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of contention, and
the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along the passages, struck her
mind with dismay. Emily might now have appeared, like an angel of light,
encompassed by fiends. At length, she reached the lesser hall, which was silent
and deserted, but, panting for breath, she sat down to recover herself. The
total stillness of this place was as awful as the tumult, from which she had
escaped: but she had now time to recall her scattered thoughts, to remember her
personal danger, and to consider of some means of safety. She perceived, that
it was useless to seek Madame Montoni, through the wide extent and intricacies
of the castle, now, too, when every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; in
this hall she could not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon it might
become their place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to her chamber,
she dreaded again to encounter them on the way.
Thus she
sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke on the silence, and
grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voices and steps approaching.
She then rose to go, but the sounds came along the only passage, by which she
could depart, and she was compelled to await in the hall, the arrival of the
persons, whose steps she heard. As these advanced, she distinguished groans,
and then saw a man borne slowly along by four others. Her spirits faltered at
the sight, and she leaned against the wall for support. The bearers, meanwhile,
entered the hall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, or even notice
Emily, she attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and she again sat
down on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight became confused;
she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet the groans of the wounded
person still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, the tide of life seemed
again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and her senses revived. She
had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her consciousness, but had contrived
to support herself on the bench; still without courage to turn her eyes upon
the unfortunate object, which remained near her, and about whom the men were
yet too much engaged to attend to her.
When her
strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave the hall, though her
anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, had
thus made a discovery of herself. Towards her chamber she now hastened, as fast
as her steps would bear her, for she still perceived, upon her passage, the
sounds of confusion at a distance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way
through some obscure rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose looks had
terrified her before, as well as those parts of the castle, where the tumult
might still rage.
At
length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of the corridor,
felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillness reigned in this
remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur of the most distant sounds
now reached. She sat down, near one of the casements, and, as she gazed on the
mountain-view beyond, the deep repose of its beauty struck her with all the
force of contrast, and she could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of
savage discord. The contending elements seemed to have retired from their
natural spheres, and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for
there alone the tempest now reigned.
Emily
tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantly listen for
some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all, however, was
lonely and still. As a sense of her own immediate danger had decreased, her
apprehension concerning Madame Montoni heightened, who, she remembered, had
been fiercely threatened with confinement in the east turret, and it was
possible, that her husband had satisfied his present vengeance with this
punishment. She, therefore, determined, when night should return, and the
inhabitants of the castle should be asleep, to explore the way to the turret,
which, as the direction it stood in was mentioned, appeared not very difficult
to be done. She knew, indeed, that although her aunt might be there, she could
afford her no effectual assistance, but it might give her some comfort even to
know, that she was discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; for
herself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared more
tolerable, than this exhausting suspense.
Meanwhile,
Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and somewhat alarmed for her,
whom, in the confusion of the late scene, various accidents might have
befallen, and it was improbable, that she would have failed to come to her
apartment, unless something unfortunate had happened.
Thus the
hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious conjecturing. Being not
once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it appeared, that Montoni had wholly
forgotten her, and it gave her some comfort to find, that she could be so
unnoticed. She endeavoured to withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that
preyed upon them, but they refused controul; she could neither read, or draw,
and the tones of her lute were so utterly discordant with the present state of
her feelings, that she could not endure them for a moment.
The sun,
at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams faded from the
clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over them, and gradually involved
the features of the country below. Soon after, the sentinels passed on the
rampart to commence the watch.
Twilight
had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal obscurity of her chamber
recalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered, that to procure a light she must
pass through a great extent of the castle, and, above all, through the halls,
where she had already experienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed, in the
present state of her spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to her; it
would also prevent the possibility of her finding her way to the turret, and
condemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the fate of her aunt; yet she
dared not to venture forth for a lamp.
Continuing
at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering gleam of evening, a
thousand vague images of fear floated on her fancy. 'What if some of these
ruffians,' said she, 'should find out the private stair-case, and in the
darkness of night steal into my chamber!' Then, recollecting the mysterious
inhabitant of the neighbouring apartment, her terror changed its object. 'He is
not a prisoner,' said she, 'though he remains in one chamber, for Montoni did
not fasten the door, when he left it; the unknown person himself did this; it
is certain, therefore, he can come out when he pleases.'
She
paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she considered it to be
very improbable, whoever he was, that he could have any interest in intruding
upon her retirement; and again the subject of her emotion changed, when,
remembering her nearness to the chamber, where the veil had formerly disclosed
a dreadful spectacle, she doubted whether some passage might not communicate
between it and the insecure door of the stair-case.
It was
now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat with her eyes fixed on
the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark of light; it twinkled and
disappeared, and then again was visible. At length, with much care, she fanned
the embers of a wood fire, that had been lighted in the morning, into flame,
and, having communicated it to a lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a
satisfaction not to be conceived, without a review of her situation. Her first
care was to guard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed
against it all the furniture she could move, and she was thus employed, for
some time, at the end of which she had another instance how much more
oppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; for, having then
leisure to think over all the circumstances of her present afflictions, she
imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and these real and ideal subjects of distress
alike wounded her mind.
Thus
heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the sullen notes of the
great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, unmingled with any sound, except
the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, who came to relieve guard. She now thought
she might venture towards the turret, and, having gently opened the chamber
door to examine the corridor, and to listen if any person was stirring in the
castle, found all around in perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she left the room,
than she perceived a light flash on the walls of the corridor, and, without
waiting to see by whom it was carried, she shrunk back, and closed her door. No
one approaching, she conjectured, that it was Montoni going to pay his
mid-night visit to her unknown neighbour, and she determined to wait, till he
should have retired to his own apartment.
When the
chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened the door, and,
perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily crossed into a passage, that
led along the south side of the castle towards the stair-case, whence she
believed she could easily find her way to the turret. Often pausing on her way,
listening apprehensively to the murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully
onward into the gloom of the long passages, she, at length, reached the
stair-case; but there her perplexity began. Two passages appeared, of which she
knew not how to prefer one, and was compelled, at last, to decide by chance,
rather than by circumstances. That she entered, opened first into a wide
gallery, along which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of
the place awed her, and she started at the echo of her own steps.
On a
sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing from whence it
came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For some moments, she stood in
an attitude of listening expectation, shrinking almost from herself and
scarcely daring to look round her. The voice came again, but, though it was now
near her, terror did not allow her to judge exactly whence it proceeded. She
thought, however, that it was the voice of complaint, and her belief was soon
confirmed by a low moaning sound, that seemed to proceed from one of the
chambers, opening into the gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame
Montoni might be there confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was
checked by considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself to a
stranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this person, whoever it
was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow, that he was a prisoner.
While
these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in hesitation, the
voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she then perceived it to be that of
Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, she went in joy to answer her.
'Ludovico!'
cried Annette, sobbing—'Ludovico!'
'It is
not Ludovico, it is I—Mademoiselle Emily.'
Annette
ceased sobbing, and was silent.
'If you
can open the door, let me in,' said Emily, 'here is no person to hurt you.'
'Ludovico!—O,
Ludovico!' cried Annette.
Emily now
lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard increasing, she was even
nearly about to leave the door, when she considered, that Annette might,
possibly, know something of the situation of Madame Montoni, or direct her to
the turret. At length, she obtained a reply, though little satisfactory, to her
questions, for Annette knew nothing of Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily
to tell her what was become of Ludovico. Of him she had no information to give,
and she again asked who had shut Annette up.
'Ludovico,'
said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up. When I ran away from the
dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew where, for safety; and, in
this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me into this chamber, and
locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. But he was in such a hurry
himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he told me he would come, and let me
out, when all was quiet, and he took away the key with him. Now all these hours
are passed, and I have neither seen, or heard a word of him; they have murdered
him—I know they have!'
Emily
suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne into the
servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was Ludovico, but she
concealed the circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured to comfort her. Then,
impatient to learn something of her aunt, she again enquired the way to the
turret.
'O! you
are not going, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake, do not go, and
leave me here by myself.'
'Nay,
Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,' replied Emily.
'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will endeavour to release you.'
'O holy
Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself all night! I shall be
frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of hunger; I have had nothing to
eat since dinner!'
Emily
could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses of Annette,
though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could to sooth her. At
length, she obtained something like a direction to the east turret, and quitted
the door, from whence, after many intricacies and perplexities, she reached the
steep and winding stairs of the turret, at the foot of which she stopped to
rest, and to re-animate her courage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed
this dismal place, she perceived a door on the opposite side of the stair-case,
and, anxious to know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, she tried to
undraw the bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her face, as she
unclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the sudden current
had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed to a distance; and
again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she perceived only the faint outline
of the walls and of some towers, while, above, heavy clouds, borne along the
wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and wrap the night in thicker darkness.
As she gazed, now willing to defer the moment of certainty, from which she
expected only confirmation of evil, a distant footstep reminded her, that she
might be observed by the men on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took
her lamp, and passed up the stair-case. Trembling came upon her, as she
ascended through the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place
of death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its character. Her
spirits faltered. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come hither only to learn a
dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible spectacle; I feel that my senses
would not survive such an addition of horror.'
The image
of her aunt murdered—murdered, perhaps, by the hand of Montoni, rose to her
mind; she trembled, gasped for breath—repented that she had dared to venture
hither, and checked her steps. But, after she had paused a few minutes, the
consciousness of her duty returned, and she went on. Still all was silent. At
length a track of blood, upon a stair, caught her eye; and instantly she
perceived, that the wall and several other steps were stained. She paused,
again struggled to support herself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling
hand. Still no sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; a
thousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded to enquire
farther—dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, and yet could not
resolve, now that she was so near the termination of her efforts, to desist
from them. Having again collected courage to proceed, after ascending about
half way up the turret, she came to another door, but here again she stopped in
hesitation; listened for sounds within, and then, summoning all her resolution,
unclosed it, and entered a chamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays
through the darkness, seemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As
she stood examining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains of
her unfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of the
room, and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, for an instant,
motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind of desperate resolution,
she hurried towards the object that excited her terror, when, perceiving the
clothes of some person, on the floor, she caught hold of them, and found in her
grasp the old uniform of a soldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and
other arms. Scarcely daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some
moments, to gaze on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so
much comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not there,
that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring farther; when, on
turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the second flight an
appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was yet another chamber to be
explored, she again followed the windings of the ascent. Still, as she
ascended, the track of blood glared upon the stairs.
It led
her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but she was unable to
follow it farther. Now that she was so near the sought-for certainty, she
dreaded to know it, even more than before, and had not fortitude sufficient to
speak, or to attempt opening the door.
Having
listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or destroy her fears,
she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding it fastened, called on
Madame Montoni; but only a chilling silence ensued.
'She is
dead!' she cried,—'murdered!—her blood is on the stairs!'
Emily
grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had scarcely presence of
mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a step.
When her
recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again attempted to open
it, and, having lingered for some time, without receiving any answer, or
hearing a sound, she descended the turret, and, with all the swiftness her
feebleness would permit, sought her own apartment.
As she
turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from whence Montoni
came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to behold him, shrunk back into
the passage soon enough to escape being noticed, and heard him close the door,
which she had perceived was the same she formerly observed. Having here
listened to his departing steps, till their faint sound was lost in distance,
she ventured to her apartment, and, securing it once again, retired to her bed,
leaving the lamp burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed
mind, to which images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think it
possible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but, when she
recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible spirit of
vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when she remembered his
general character, the looks of the men, who had forced Madame Montoni from her
apartment, and the written traces on the stairs of the turret—she could not
doubt, that her aunt had been carried thither, and could scarcely hope, that
she had not been carried to be murdered.
The grey
of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily closed her eyes
in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a respite from suffering.
To be
continued
