CHAPTER V

The midnight clock has toll’d; and hark, the bell

Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?

It pauses now; and now with rising knell

Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.

MASON

When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered that

she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to the

accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the

expression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, and

watched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, by

the corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappy

fate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and

imperious conduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings,

thought of her only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she

could not avoid musing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so

fatal to her aunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of

misfortune, from which she saw no means of escaping,—the marriage with

Montoni. But, when she considered this circumstance, it was “more in

sorrow than in anger,”—more for the purpose of indulging lamentation,

than reproach.

In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only

avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but that

part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a

contagion in death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the

funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the

memory of Madame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved,

when, on the evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the

interment was to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would

not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think that the

remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one

relative, or friend to pay them the last decent rites, that she

determined to be deterred by no considerations for herself, from

observing this duty. She would otherwise have shrunk from the

circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were to

be carried by men whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them for

murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which Montoni

had chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the reliques of a

woman, whom his harsh conduct had, at least, contributed to destroy.

Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by

Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in

cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it,

till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of the

men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty that

Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrown

open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch

they carried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on

their shoulders, while the third preceding them with the light,

descended through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower

vault of the chapel within the castle walls.

They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,

which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence

and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily’s mind,

occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard

the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the

ivied battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the

bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the

chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, the

bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched

door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw

imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;—saw the corpse of her aunt carried

down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch

at the bottom to receive it—all her fortitude was lost in emotions of

inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who

was cold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the

summit of the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on

the pillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view.

Then, the gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what

she considered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended

to the vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that

pierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that

was opened to receive the corpse, again appalled her.

After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the

vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the

body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni’s

men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burial

service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerable

figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn and

affecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in which

they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the

dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. The

fierce features and wild dress of the _condottieri_, bending with their

torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were

contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black

garments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light

gleaming strongly showed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and

the few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while, beside

him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon

Annette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell

over her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed in grief

so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed

untimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrown

between the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken

ground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently

interred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that

alone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenes more

horrible than even that which was pictured at the grave of the

misguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.

When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and

surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was

restrained by the presence of the _condottieri_, who, as they now led

the way to the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy

order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted

safely to his convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and

even horror. When they reached the court, the monk gave her his

blessing, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the

portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette, lighting

another, preceded Emily to her apartment. The appearance of the friar

and the expression of tender compassion, with which he had regarded

her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest

supplication, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform

the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this

person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a monastery,

situated among the mountains at a few miles distance. The Superior, who

regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with aversion, but with

terror, had probably feared to offend him by refusing his request, and

had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate at the funeral, who, with

the meek spirit of a christian, had overcome his reluctance to enter

the walls of such a castle, by the wish of performing what he

considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel was built on consecrated

ground, had not objected to commit to it the remains of the late

unhappy Madame Montoni.

Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of

mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed.

She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to

permit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she

could scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did

so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure

allowed her little hope, that he would now consent to it. But the

horror, which his presence inspired, made her defer, from day to day,

the mention of this subject; and at last she was awakened from her

inactivity only by a message from him, desiring her attendance at a

certain hour. She began to hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt

was no more, the authority he had usurped over her; till she

recollected, that the estates, which had occasioned so much contention,

were now hers, and she then feared Montoni was about to employ some

stratagem for obtaining them, and that he would detain her his

prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought, instead of overcoming her

with despondency, roused all the latent powers of her fortitude into

action; and the property, which she would willingly have resigned to

secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved, that no common sufferings

of her own should ever compel her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt’s

sake also she determined to preserve these estates, since they would

afford that competency, by which she hoped to secure the comfort of

their future lives. As she thought of this, she indulged the tenderness

of tears, and anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with

affectionate generosity, she might tell him they were his own. She saw

the smile, that lighted up his features—the affectionate regard, which

spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant, she believed

she could brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of Montoni might

be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the first time since her

aunt’s death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she

determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni

was over.

With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to

hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino

and another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered with

papers, which he appeared to be examining.

“I sent for you, Emily,” said Montoni, raising his head, “that you

might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my

friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to

this paper:” he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some

lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She

took it, and was going to write—when the design of Montoni came upon

her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and

refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at her

scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily,

who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, that

her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to

sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in

affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her

steady perseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his

manner, and bade her follow him to another room. There he told her,

that he had been willing to spare himself and her the trouble of

useless contest, in an affair, where his will was justice, and where

she should find it law; and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade,

rather than to compel, her to the practice of her duty.

“I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,” he added, “am the heir

of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to me

in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, I

would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to

you in my hearing—that these estates would be yours, if she died

without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power

to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more

sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I am

not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive, as

sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess an

understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have none of

those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the female

character—such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makes

women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If

I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereign

contempt these common failings of your sex.”

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew

him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless

he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had

forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident,

that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to

sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.

“Judging as I do,” resumed Montoni, “I cannot believe you will oppose,

where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish to

conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justice on

your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the

alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, you

shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a short period;

but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of the

Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of your

error.”

Emily calmly said,

“I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be

misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present

instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never

betray my right.”

“I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,” rejoined

Montoni, sternly. “You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a

subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon

the conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, it

seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist

in this strain—you have everything to fear from my justice.”

“From your justice, Signor,” rejoined Emily, “I have nothing to fear—I

have only to hope.”

Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to

say. “I find that you are weak enough,” he resumed, “to credit the idle

assertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, it

is of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and

I must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering

as you are compelling me to prepare for you.”

“You may find, perhaps, Signor,” said Emily, with mild dignity, “that

the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that I

can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.”

“You speak like a heroine,” said Montoni, contemptuously; “we shall see

whether you can suffer like one.”

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt’s sake she had thus resisted,

she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retired

to the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of the

papers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described;

and, since she knew of no better place of concealment, than this,

returned them, without examining their contents, being fearful of

discovery, while she should attempt a perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought

again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she might

expect from opposition to his will. But his power did not appear so

terrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride was

in her heart, that taught it to swell against the pressure of

injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a

cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For

the first time, she felt the full extent of her own superiority to

Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now, she had only

feared.

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on

going to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three

ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several

gentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain at

the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed under

it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features of

Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the

day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at

the table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of

doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a

person, of a mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be,

was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary in her being at

this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety

of her air, with her own consent, that a very painful surmise arose,

concerning her character. But the thought was so shocking to Emily,

whose affection the fascinating manners of the Signora had won, and

appeared so improbable, when she remembered these manners, that she

dismissed it almost instantly.

On Annette’s appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these

strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn.

“They are just come, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “with two Signors from

Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.—But what

can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to come

freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seem

merry enough, I am sure.”

“They were taken prisoners, perhaps?” said Emily.

“Taken prisoners!” exclaimed Annette; “no, indeed, ma’amselle, not

they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three

times, to the Signor’s you know, ma’amselle, and it was said, but I did

not believe a word of it—it was said, that the Signor liked her better

than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true,

said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.”

Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were,

as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the

subject, and spoke of distant France.

“Ah, ma’amselle! we shall never see it more!” said Annette, almost

weeping.—“I must come on my travels, forsooth!”

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she

scarcely herself indulged.

“How—how, ma’amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.

Valancourt, too?” said Annette, sobbing. “I—I—am sure, if Ludovico had

been in France, I would never have left it.”

“Why do you lament quitting France, then?” said Emily, trying to smile,

“since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.”

“Ah, ma’amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle,

serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!”

“Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time

will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish

with pleasure.”

Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense of

her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again

to lament the irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and

powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be

sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The

enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold,

and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she involuntarily

exclaimed, “Are these, indeed, the passages, that have so often given

me exquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?—Was it in my mind, or

in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,” said she, pausing.

“But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not

tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power.”

Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved

her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought

cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the

consideration of her own situation.

In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she

would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni’s associates, she walked

for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further

end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was

the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and

seemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was.

Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead,

particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conduct

of Montoni.

As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling

with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the

character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that

they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herself

in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she

considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates,

amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was at

this moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to

her imagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence,

and her resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all the

horrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an

encounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. The

disputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever

he should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and

freedom; but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her

heart, and plunge her into the distractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy

twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom of the

oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of the

corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by the

glimmering window, that terminated it.

Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed

faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to

render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwilling

to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet

come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment,

where she had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a

spectacle so horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with

emotions of indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It

now brought with it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done,

which the late conduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit

the gallery, while she had power to do so, she heard a sudden step

behind her.—It might be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to

look, she saw, through the gloom, a tall figure following her, and all

the horrors of that chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment,

she found herself clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep

voice murmur in her ear.

When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she

demanded who detained her.

“It is I,” replied the voice—“Why are you thus alarmed?”

She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light,

that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did

not permit her to distinguish the features.

“Whoever you are,” said Emily, in a trembling voice, “for heaven’s sake

let me go!”

“My charming Emily,” said the man, “why will you shut yourself up in

this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with me

to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of the

party;—you shall not repent the exchange.”

Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.

“Promise, that you will come,” he continued, “and I will release you

immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.”

“Who are you?” demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and

indignation, while she still struggled for liberty—“who are you, that

have the cruelty thus to insult me?”

“Why call me cruel?” said the man, “I would remove you from this dreary

solitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?”

Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who were

with Montoni when she attended him in the morning. “I thank you for the

kindness of your intention,” she replied, without appearing to

understand him, “but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leave

me.”

“Charming Emily!” said he, “give up this foolish whim for solitude, and

come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part of

it; you, only, are worthy of my love.” He attempted to kiss her hand,

but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate

herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before

he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by

terror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice, and

his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raise

herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained,

listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by not

hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the private

staircase, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened only

on the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secure

it, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that

Montoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing

from her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had

made her brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to

be now utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her

honour, she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night,

to give up all claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni

would suffer her to depart from Udolpho.

When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,

though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds,

that appeared to issue from the staircase.

Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette

did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but,

not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in

uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.

Emily often stole to the staircase door to listen if any step

approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to

watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolate

couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of her

deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequently

called upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned,

was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant

music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this to

be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and

stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to come

from a lower room.

In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full

of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet

and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if

this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It

stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like

a celestial strain, soothing, and reassuring her;—“Pleasant as the gale

of spring, that sighs on the hunter’s ear, when he awakens from dreams

of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.”*

(*Note: Ossian. [A. R.])

But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the

taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her

native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when

a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To this

well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her

heart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant,

peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents,

the taste and simplicity of her former life—all rose to her fancy, and

formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted with

the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded

her—that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, and

shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings.

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the

strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew

from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet

beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the

succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately

recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the

fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had

then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her

memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,

in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the

circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then

heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted, like

lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that

revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so

astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not

resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,

and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose

again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,

listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of

Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,

that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which

induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She

remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where she

had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen

pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,

before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself

unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than

probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her

attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender

admiration;—who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at that

time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her

acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the

fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to

believe that he was the author of the sonnets.

As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness

contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the

sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did not

recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the

instrument, now ceased.

She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then,

not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too

much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called

from the casement, “Is that song from Gascony?” Her anxious attention

was not cheered by any reply; everything remained silent. Her

impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but

still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among the

battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a

belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she had

spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared certain, had

Valancourt heard and recognised, he would instantly have replied to.

Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of prudence, and not

an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; but the surmise that

led to this reflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and

grief; for, if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable that

he was here a prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom

were at that time engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some

attempt to reach her. Had he even recollected Emily’s voice, he would

have feared, in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of

the men, who guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she

dreaded;—dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she

was anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she

still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with

the fear.

She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen,

and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when,

wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she found it

utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt and

apprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose from

the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace the

room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence to

her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of this

anxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, and

conclude her present state of torturing suspense.