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 were gone up the stairs,

I whipt after. There, as I stood under the gateway, 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 courtyard 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 control, 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, everything 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. Everything 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 staircase, 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.