THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 23
VOLUME 3
CHAPTER I
I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
The moment on 't; for 't must be done
to-night.
MACBETH
Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annette
had heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over the portal, as
well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching night. That the
circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined her to conceal, he had
himself told to so indiscreet an hearer as Annette, appeared very improbable,
though he had now charged her with a message, concerning the intended
interview. He requested, that Emily would meet him, unattended, on the terrace,
at a little after midnight, when he himself would lead her to the place he had
promised; a proposal, from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague
fears darted athwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding
night, and which she neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequently
occurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning Madame
Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had deceived her
by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into some of the desperate
designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion, that Madame Montoni no longer
lived, thus came, accompanied by one not less dreadful for herself. Unless the
crime, by which the aunt had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment,
unconnected with profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very
likely to act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to
whom Montoni knew that his wife's estates must descend. Emily remembered the
words, which had informed her, that the contested estates in France would
devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband,
and the former obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that
she had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant, recollecting Barnardine's
manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she had then fancied,
that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at the recollection, which
confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet him on the terrace. Soon after,
she was inclined to consider these suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations
of a timid and harassed mind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such
preposterous depravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and her
niece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to carry her
so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined to endeavour to check
its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes extend into madness. Still,
however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting Barnardine, on the terrace, at
midnight; and still the wish to be relieved from this terrible suspense,
concerning her aunt, to see her, and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate
what to do.
'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that
hour?' said she, recollecting herself, 'the sentinels will stop me, and Signor
Montoni will hear of the affair.'
'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of,' replied Annette. 'That is what
Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say it unlocks the
door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the end of the east
rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on watch. He bade me say,
too, that his reason for requesting you to come to the terrace was, because he
could take you to the place you want to go to, without opening the great doors
of the hall, which grate so heavily.'
Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed
to be honestly given to Annette. 'But why did he desire I would come alone,
Annette?' said she.
'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my
young lady to come alone?—Surely I may come with her!—What harm can I do? But
he said "No—no—I tell you not," in his gruff way. Nay, says I, I have
been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it's a hard matter if I
can't keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing but—"No—no—no."
Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will tell you a great secret, that
was told me a month ago, and I have never opened my lips about it yet—so you
need not be afraid of telling me. But all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, I
went so far as to offer him a beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a
keep sake, and I would not have parted with it for all St. Marco's Place; but
even that would not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you
know, ma'am, who you are going to see.'
'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'
'He! No, ma'amselle, that he did not.'
Emily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep a
secret.
During the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with doubts
and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this
Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she scarcely
knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself alternately swayed her
determination, and night came, before she had decided upon her conduct. She
heard the castle clock strike eleven—twelve—and yet her mind wavered. The time,
however, was now come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest
she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette
follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her
return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly still, and the
great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of dreadful contention,
now returned only the whispering footsteps of the two solitary figures gliding
fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed only to the feeble lamp they
carried. Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars and by the catching
lights between, often stopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the
distant obscurity of the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she
feared to turn her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out
from behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery,
without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and,
charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that she might be
heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which she did not dare to
take herself because of the men on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark
terrace. Every thing was so still, that she feared, lest her own light steps
should be heard by the distant sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the
spot, where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking
onward through the gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a
deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his,
till it spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine,
who had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on
the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he
had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, to
follow him to the door, through which he had entered the terrace.
While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and,
observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was certain,
that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could little befriend
Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when Barnardine unclosed the
gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the
pavement, made her shrink from following him alone, and she refused to go,
unless Annette might accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely
refused to permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful
circumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt,
that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the portal.
He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the
extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a few
steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to light her,
Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately recollected a former
conversation of Annette, concerning it, with very unpleasant emotions. She
looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the
gothic points of the windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied
the place of glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns,
that had once supported the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement,
and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that
made it more terrific. Emily's heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he
turned out of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. 'Down these
steps, lady,' said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared to lead
into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous
tone, whither he was conducting her.
'To the portal,' said Barnardine.
'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily.
'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to
unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.'
Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had
gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further.
'Come, lady,' said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the
flight, 'make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.'
'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yet pausing.
'To the portal,' repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, 'I will wait no
longer.' As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing to
provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps, they
proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of which were
dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that crept along the ground,
made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expected every moment to see it
extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find his way. As they advanced,
these vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring,
stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of iron
gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light,
the vaults beyond, and, near her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an
open grave. Such an object, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed
her; but now she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was
the grave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was
leading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to which he had
conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place suited for murder,
a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror might be committed, and no
vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was so overwhelmed with terror, that, for
a moment, she was unable to determine what conduct to pursue. She then
considered, that it would be vain to attempt an escape from Barnardine, by
flight, since the length and the intricacy of the way she had passed would soon
enable him to overtake her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whose
feebleness would not suffer her to run long with swiftness. She feared equally
to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal to accompany
him further certainly would do; and, since she was already as much in his power
as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded, she, at length, determined
to suppress, as far as she could, the appearance of apprehension, and to follow
silently whither he designed to lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now
waited till Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as her sight glanced again upon
the grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for whom it was prepared. He took
his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face without speaking. She
faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking the torch, passed on; and
she followed, trembling, to a second flight of steps, having ascended which, a
door delivered them into the first court of the castle. As they crossed it, the
light shewed the high black walls around them, fringed with long grass and dank
weeds, that found a scanty soil among the mouldering stones; the heavy
buttresses, with, here and there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a
freer circulation of air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to the
castle, whose clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers
and arch of the portal itself. In this scene the large, uncouth person of
Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. This Barnardine
was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed the kind of half-boots,
or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, to appear, and shewed only the point
of a broad sword, which he usually wore, slung in a belt across his shoulders.
On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which
was a short feather; the visage beneath it shewed strong features, and a
countenance furrowed with the lines of cunning and darkened by habitual
discontent.
The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed
silently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and not the
treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously up at the first
casement, that appeared above the lofty arch of the portcullis; but it was
dark, and she enquired, whether it belonged to the chamber, where Madame Montoni
was confined. Emily spoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her
question, for he returned no answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern
door of the gate-way, which brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case,
that wound up one of the towers.
'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' said Barnardine.
'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend.
'She lies in the upper chamber,' said Barnardine.
As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities in
the wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon the grim and
sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the desolation of
the place—the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black with age, and a suit
of antient armour, with an iron visor, that hung upon the walls, and appeared a
trophy of some former victory.
Having reached a landing-place, 'You may wait here, lady,' said he,
applying a key to the door of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell the Signora
you are coming.'
'That ceremony is unnecessary,' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice to
see me.'
'I am not so sure of that,' said Barnardine, pointing to the room he had
opened: 'Come in here, lady, while I step up.'
Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him
further, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would not leave
her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod lamp, that stood on
the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who stepped forward into a large old
chamber, and he closed the door. As she listened anxiously to his departing
steps, she thought he descended, instead of ascending, the stairs; but the
gusts of wind, that whistled round the portal, would not allow her to hear
distinctly any other sound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no
step in the room above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety
increased, though she considered, that the thickness of the floor in this
strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upper chamber.
The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished Barnardine's step
descending to the court, and then thought she heard his voice; but, the rising
gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to be certain on this point, moved
softly to the door, which, on attempting to open it, she discovered was
fastened. All the horrid apprehensions, that had lately assailed her, returned
at this instant with redoubled force, and no longer appeared like the
exaggerations of a timid spirit, but seemed to have been sent to warn her of
her fate. She now did not doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps
in this very chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same
purpose. The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine,
when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some moments,
she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she might attempt an
escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps neither on the stairs, or in
the room above; she thought, however, that she again distinguished Barnardine's
voice below, and went to a grated window, that opened upon the court, to
enquire further. Here, she plainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the
blast, that swept by, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning
could not be interpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue
from the portal below, flashed across the court, and the long shadow of a man,
who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily, from the
hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that of Barnardine; but
other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon convinced her he was not
alone, and that his companion was not a person very liable to pity.
When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she held
up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of an escape. It
was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak, shewed no casement
but the grated one, which Emily had left, and no other door than that, by which
she had entered. The feeble rays of the lamp, however, did not allow her to see
at once its full extent; she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron
chair, fastened in the centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending
on a chain from the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for
some time, with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for
the purpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings of
the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she concluded, that they were
instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor wretch had once been
fastened in this chair, and had there been starved to death. She was chilled by
the thought; but, what was her agony, when, in the next moment, it occurred to
her, that her aunt might have been one of these victims, and that she herself
might be the next! An acute pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold
the lamp, and, looking round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously,
in the iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started
from it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here again she
looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a dark curtain,
which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn along the whole side
of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance of this curtain struck her, and
she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and apprehension.
It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded,
to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by a
recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly unveiled in
an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing, that it concealed the
body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit of desperation, and drew it
aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of low couch, which was
crimsoned with human blood, as was the floor beneath. The features, deformed by
death, were ghastly and horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the
face. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager,
frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell
senseless at the foot of the couch.
When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among
whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then bore her
along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme languor of
her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to feel any distinct
fear. They carried her down the stair-case, by which she had ascended; when,
having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and one of the men, taking the torch
from Barnardine, opened a small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as
he stepped out upon the road, the light he bore shewed several men on
horseback, in waiting. Whether it was the freshness of the air, that revived
Emily, or that the objects she now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly
spoke, and made an ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of
the ruffians, who held her.
Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voices
answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, a light
flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for the torch, and
the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance, under the shelter
of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had taken the light from the
porter, holding it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a horse,
round which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh features received
the full glare of the torch; while the broken ground beneath them, the opposite
walls, with the tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled
watch-tower above, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away,
left the remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.
'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as he
approached the horsemen. 'Dispatch—dispatch!'
'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' replied the man who was buckling
it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily, calling
feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the ruffians disputed on
which to place her, the one designed for her not being ready. At this moment a
cluster of lights issued from the great gates, and she immediately heard the
shrill voice of Annette above those of several other persons, who advanced. In
the same moment, she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of
ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but with hope,
for, at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers, that
might await her within the castle, whence so lately, and so anxiously she had
wished to escape. Those, which threatened her from without, had engrossed all
her apprehensions.
A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni,
however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that numbers were
against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly interested in the affair they
had undertaken, galloped off, while Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in
the darkness, and Emily was led back into the castle. As she re-passed the
courts, the remembrance of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with
all its horror, to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close,
that shut her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself,
and, almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think, that
any thing less precious than liberty and peace was to be found beyond them.
Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soon
followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious affair. Though she
now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, and scarcely knew what
she said in reply to his impatient enquiries, her answers and her manner
convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntary part in the late scheme, and
he dismissed her upon the appearance of his servants, whom he had ordered to
attend, that he might enquire further into the affair, and discover those, who
had been accomplices in it.
Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mind
allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then, again, the
dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed, came to her
fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified Annette the more, as Emily
forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject of it, for she feared to trust
her with so fatal a secret, lest her indiscretion should call down the
immediate vengeance of Montoni on herself.
Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the
secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the intolerable
weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette, and, when she spoke,
either did not hear her, or answered from the purpose. Long fits of abstraction
succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly, but her voice seemed not to make any
impression on the sense of the long agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent,
except that, now and then, she heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.
Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to inform
Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without having made any
discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description, which this
girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow her immediately to the chamber.
At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of
recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rose from
her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke to her in
accents somewhat softened from their usual harshness, but she regarded him with
a kind of half curious, half terrified look, and answered only 'yes,' to
whatever he said. Her mind still seemed to retain no other impression, than that
of fear.
Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having
attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, after ordering
Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform him, in the
morning, of her condition.
When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that
had been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor-Signor Montoni.
Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she did not recollect
it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed into abstraction.
With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined
with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing, turned
with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified, went towards the
door, that she might bring one of the female servants to pass the night with
them; but Emily, observing her going, called her by name, and then in the
naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would
not forsake her.—'For since my father died,' added she, sighing, 'every body
forsakes me.'
'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knew
me.'
'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She now
wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at length sunk to
sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt her tears. This
girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these moments all her former
fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched alone by Emily, during the whole
night.
CHAPTER II
unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook!
IL PENSEROSO
Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the bed,
and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances of the
preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to retain no trace of
what had passed, and she was still gazing with surprise on Annette, when the
latter awoke.
'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.
'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are you
sitting by me thus?'
'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,—very ill indeed! and I am sure I
thought—'
'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the
past.—'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by frightful
dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting—'surely it was nothing more
than a dream!'
She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,
said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over now.'
'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and shuddering
instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of the circumstance to
which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to a disordered fancy; but,
when she had explained to what her own speech alluded, Emily, recollecting the
attempt that had been made to carry her off, asked if the contriver of it had
been discovered. Annette replied, that he had not, though he might easily be
guessed at; and then told Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who,
endeavouring to command the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt had
occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth, she heard
scarcely a word that was said.
'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be even
with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it out myself;
so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had opened the door at the
end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you; for, says I, I am sure
no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy? So, sure enough, he had not
bolted the door after him, and, when I opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the
torch, at the other end of the passage, which way you were going. I followed
the light, at a distance, till you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there
I was afraid to go further, for I had heard strange things about these vaults.
But then, again, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by the
time Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved to follow you, and I did
so, till you came to the great court, and there I was afraid he would see me;
so I stopped at the door again, and watched you across to the gates, and, when
you was gone up the stairs, I whipt after. There, as I stood under the
gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and several men talking; and I heard
them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing you out, and just then, he had
like to have caught me, for he came down the stairs again, and I had hardly
time to get out of his way. But I had heard enough of his secret now, and I
determined to be even with him, and to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed
it to be some new scheme of Count Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into
the castle, but I had hard work to find my way through the passage under the
chapel, and what is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they
had told me about, though I would not go into that place again by myself for
all the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were up, so we had soon a
train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that Barnardine and his rogues, all
together.'
Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length
she said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;—where is he?'
Annette asked who was meant.
'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily. 'I would speak with him;' and Annette,
now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding night, respecting her
young lady, rose, and said she would seek him herself.
This honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to him; and
Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began to believe, that it
was by the direction of Morano, that poison had formerly been mingled with his
wine.
The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under the
anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; but he had
mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he was condemning the
cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only the state of suffering, to
which it had reduced him. As these sufferings abated, his former views revived,
till, his health being re-established, he again found himself ready for
enterprise and difficulty. The porter of the castle, who had served him, on a
former occasion, willingly accepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the
means of drawing Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither
he had been carried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to another
at several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon by Barnardine,
who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette, the most probable
means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back his servants to the castle, while
he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with an intention of carrying her
immediately to Venice. How this, his second scheme, was frustrated, has already
appeared; but the violent, and various passions with which this Italian lover
was now agitated, on his return to that city, can only be imagined.
Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of her
request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar room, in
about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily on her mind, that
Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not distinctly know what good purpose
this could answer, and sometimes she even recoiled in horror from the
expectation of his presence. She wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely
dared to believe the request would be granted, that he would permit her, since
her aunt was no more, to return to her native country.
As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much,
that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely be called
a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could be said, either
concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was equally hopeless as to the
event of her entreaty, and terrified as to its effect upon the vengeful spirit
of Montoni. Yet, to pretend ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree,
to be sharing its criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on
which Emily could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.
While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, that
Montoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits were then relieved,
for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight of apprehension. Annette said,
she fancied the Chevaliers were going out to the wars again, for the court-yard
was filled with horses, and she heard, that the rest of the party, who went out
before, were expected at the castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,'
added she, 'say to his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring home a rare
deal of booty.—So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safe conscience, send
his people out a-robbing—why it is no business of mine. I only wish I was once
safe out of this castle; and, if it had not been for poor Ludovico's sake, I
would have let Count Morano's people run away with us both, for it would have
been serving you a good turn, ma'amselle, as well as myself.'
Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruption
she would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive, absorbed in
thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kind of solemn tranquillity,
such as is often the result of faculties overstrained by suffering.
When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music,
that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree of interest, and
of which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness. The influence of
superstition now gained on the weakness of her long-harassed mind; she looked,
with enthusiastic expectation, to the guardian spirit of her father, and,
having dismissed Annette for the night, determined to watch alone for their
return. It was not yet, however, near the time when she had heard the music on
a former night, and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects,
she sat down with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; but
her mind, refusing controul, became restless and agitated, and she went often
to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she heard a voice, but
then, every thing without the casement remaining still, she concluded, that her
fancy had deceived her.
Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the distant
sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed to reign
over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where she was soon
recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusual sounds, not of
music, but like the low mourning of some person in distress. As she listened,
her heart faltered in terror, and she became convinced, that the former sound
was more than imaginary. Still, at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble lamentation,
and sought to discover whence it came. There were several rooms underneath,
adjoining the rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the sound probably
rose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, whether any
light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive, were quite
dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she thought she saw
something moving.
The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to
distinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch, and she
removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, that she might escape
notice, during her further observation.
The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the
rampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something like a human
form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced her it was no sentinel.
As it drew near, she hesitated whether to retire; a thrilling curiosity
inclined her to stay, but a dread of she scarcely knew what warned her to
withdraw.
While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was
stationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a foot-fall; and
the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious form she saw, subdued her
spirits, so that she was moving from the casement, when, on a sudden, she
observed the figure start away, and glide down the rampart, after which it was
soon lost in the obscurity of night. Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on
the way it had passed, and then retired within her chamber, musing on this
strange circumstance, and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a
supernatural appearance.
When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other
explanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises of
Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappy person, who,
having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither a captive; and that
the music she had formerly heard, came from him. Yet, if they had plundered
him, it still appeared improbable, that they should have brought him to the
castle, and it was also more consistent with the manners of banditti to murder
those they rob, than to make them prisoners. But what, more than any other
circumstance, contradicted the supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it
wandered on the terrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her
dismiss immediately her first surmise.
Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtained
admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficulties and
dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if he had so far
succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement at midnight was not the
conduct he would have adopted, particularly since the private stair-case,
communicating with her apartment, was known to him; neither would he have
uttered the dismal sounds she had heard.
Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who had
designs upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, that
probability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could be that
haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents and in such sweet
music (for she was still inclined to believe, that the former strains and the
late appearance were connected,) she had no means of ascertaining; and
imagination again assumed her empire, and roused the mysteries of superstition.
She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her
doubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to address the
figure, if it should appear again.
