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 tonight.

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 a 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, nor 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 keepsake, 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 showed, 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. Everything 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 recognised 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,

shown 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

showed 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 showed 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 showed

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 gateway,

which brought them to the foot of a narrow staircase that wound up one

of the towers.

“Up this staircase 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 ancient 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, nor 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, showed 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 staircase, 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 showed 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 repassed 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 anything 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, “everybody 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.