CHAPTER VII
Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. MILTON
It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not berelated amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, ortogether with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in thecastle.
On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointedhour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reachedit, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of theportico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprisewas soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage ofdisappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told hisservants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early in themorning, for terra-firma. Scarcely believing what his servants told, heleft his gondola, and rushed into the hall to enquire further. The oldwoman, who was the only person left in care of the mansion, persisted inher story, which the silent and deserted apartments soon convinced himwas no fiction. He then seized her with a menacing air, as if he meantto wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the same time asking her twentyquestions in a breath, and all these with a gesticulation so furious,that she was deprived of the power of answering them; then suddenlyletting her go, he stamped about the hall, like a madman, cursingMontoni and his own folly.
When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from herfright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, indeed, verylittle, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that Montoni was goneto his castle on the Apennine. Thither he followed, as soon as hisservants could complete the necessary preparation for the journey,accompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his people,determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni. When his mindhad recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and histhoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him certaincircumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct of Montoni:but how the latter could have been led to suspect an intention, which,he had believed, was known only to himself, he could not even guess. Onthis occasion, however, he had been partly betrayed by that sympatheticintelligence, which may be said to exist between bad minds, and whichteaches one man to judge what another will do in the same circumstances.Thus it was with Montoni, who had now received indisputable proof of atruth, which he had some time suspected--that Morano's circumstances,instead of being affluent, as he had been bidden to believe, weregreatly involved. Montoni had been interested in his suit, by motivesentirely selfish, those of avarice and pride; the last of which wouldhave been gratified by an alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the formerby Emily's estate in Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price ofhis favour, should be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage.In the meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of theCount's boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening,preceding the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain informationof his distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer,that Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in thissupposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by thesubsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet himon that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which was tosecure to him his reward, failed in his engagement. Such a circumstance,indeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless character, and at atime when his mind was engaged by the bustle of preparation for hisnuptials, might have been attributed to a cause less decisive, thandesign; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant to interpret it his ownway, and, after vainly waiting the Count's arrival, for several hours,he gave orders for his people to be in readiness to set off at amoment's notice. By hastening to Udolpho he intended to remove Emilyfrom the reach of Morano, as well as to break off the affair, withoutsubmitting himself to useless altercation: and, if the Count meant whathe called honourably, he would doubtless follow Emily, and sign thewritings in question. If this was done, so little consideration hadMontoni for her welfare, that he would not have scrupled to sacrificeher to a man of ruined fortune, since by that means he could enrichhimself; and he forbore to mention to her the motive of his suddenjourney, lest the hope it might revive should render her moreintractable, when submission would be required.
With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others totallydifferent, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across the ruggedApennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle, Montoni didnot believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself, unless he hadmeant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily admitted him;but the enraged countenance and expressions of Morano, as he entered theapartment, instantly undeceived him; and, when Montoni had explained, inpart, the motives of his abrupt departure from Venice, the Count stillpersisted in demanding Emily, and reproaching Montoni, without evennaming the former stipulation.
Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling ofit till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested byMontoni's apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his ownapartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the character ofMontoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the hope, whichhe had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to neglect the presentpossibility of obtaining Emily by other means. To his confidentialvalet he told his design of carrying away Emily, and sent him back toMontoni's servants to find out one among them, who might enable him toexecute it. The choice of this person he entrusted to the fellow's owndiscernment, and not imprudently; for he discovered a man, whom Montonihad, on some former occasion, treated harshly, and who was now readyto betray him. This man conducted Cesario round the castle, through aprivate passage, to the stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; thenshewed him a short way out of the building, and afterwards procured himthe keys, that would secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded forhis trouble; how the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had alreadyappeared.
Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who hadbeen ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castlewalls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secretdeparture, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano'sdesigns, than it was necessary for them to execute. They, however,indulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each other;and from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But, before heventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured toobtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placedhimself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily'sapartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in vain,though the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him. When he wasconvinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened long enoughto his conversation, to understand his scheme, he immediately alarmedMontoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs of the Count.
Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except thathe wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;overlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders foradditional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audienceto several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into aprivate apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour.Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a partof the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the upperservants of the family, and to provide them with every necessaryrefreshment.--When he had done this, he was bidden to return to hismaster.
Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woodsbelow, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deeprevenge against Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for asurgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerabledistance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds beingexamined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any positiveopinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but giving hispatient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet, remained atthe cottage to w
atch the event.
Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been sufferedto sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the confusionof slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released from theaddresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly relieved from apart of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed them; that whichremained, arose chiefly from a recollection of Morano's assertions,concerning the schemes of Montoni. He had said, that plans of thelatter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet that he knew them tobe terrible. At the time he uttered this, she almost believed it to bedesigned for the purpose of prevailing with her to throw herself intohis protection, and she still thought it might be chiefly so accountedfor; but his assertions had left an impression on her mind, which aconsideration of the character and former conduct of Montoni did notcontribute to efface. She, however, checked her propensity to anticipateevil; and, determined to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune,tried to dismiss thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placedherself at a window, to select into a landscape some features of thescenery without.
As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, themen, who had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangerssurprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these. There was asingularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air, thatfixed all her attention. She withdrew from the casement, while theypassed, but soon returned to observe them further. Their figures seemedso well suited to the wildness of the surrounding objects, that, as theystood surveying the castle, she sketched them for banditti, amid themountain-view of her picture, when she had finished which, she wassurprised to observe the spirit of her group. But she had copied fromnature.
Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartmentassigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who wasanxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle had beendelivered to Morano, on the preceding night. But this man, though he wastoo faithful to his master quietly to see him injured, would notbetray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, pretended to beignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count Morano, and related,as before, that he had only overheard some of the strangers describingthe plot.
Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered nowto attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek him.
Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance sosteady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,though he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man wasdismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escapeddetection.
Montoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed soonafter, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving theroom, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.--'Youshall be a witness,' said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat thecommand, I have so often refused to obey.'
Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quitthe apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she wouldstay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, andanxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliatingMontoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly.
'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and,walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continuedto meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, and on herown desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her,whom she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni's conducthad, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; buther gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in the pity thusawakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had received from her.
As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door,looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.
'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' saidshe. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'
'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.
'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo justnow told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. Asto my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things toher.'--
'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'
'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if onemust not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk--itwould be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls.But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture.'
'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'whatmakes you look so pale?--are you ill?'
'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see thispicture; return into the hall.'
'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--'thelady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to thefurthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such apicture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makesme care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as itwere, whenever I think of it.'
'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless youguard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery ofsuperstition?'
Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation ofEmily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, andlisten almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annetteurged her request.
'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is itveiled?'
'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I haveseen it, and it is not veiled!'
The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalledEmily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and badeAnnette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoiningthat part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several otherportraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb.
'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in theflower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, fullof strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, thatEmily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved.It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather thanthat of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placidmelancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.
'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' saidEmily.
'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it isa long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.
'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in abetter place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to placethe picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomestroom in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does:and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as hisgratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying herfinger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear whatshe said.
''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor neednot be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiledpicture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would beas little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.'
'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again,Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you knowany thing of that picture.'
'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servantshave seen it already!'
Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'
'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in
that; we had all alittle more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'
'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.
'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about her,'how could we get here?'
'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well,Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go.'
Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to thehall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she foundweeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance.Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's dispositionfrom her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of herdeserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumphto her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pityher. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart,that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunesof her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, calledforth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuringcloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in hermind.
Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, whenEmily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had nother husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by hispresence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.
'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I amindeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could haveforeseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when Imarried such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot?But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing whatis for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the bestjudgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married theSignor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'
Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thoughtof triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took herhand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which mightcharacterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her inthe tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whomimpatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, notto be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emilylearned the particular circumstances of her affliction.
'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in everyrespect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shutme up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to dowhatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall findthat no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would havesupposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutelyno fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best;I thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sureI would never have married him,--ungrateful, artful man!' She paused totake breath.
'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so rich asyou had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, sincethis castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are thecircumstances, that particularly affect you?'
'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment:'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortuneby play, and that he has since lost what I brought him--and that now hewould compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chiefof my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throwit away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And,and--is not all this sufficient?'
'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, that Iknew nothing of all this.'
'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is alsoabsolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neitherthis castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'
'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.
'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has treatedme with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish mysettlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutelydefied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore allmeekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now;no! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I,whose only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should bechained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'
Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could havemade Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech ofher aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with avehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the wholeinto burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of realconsolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficialcomfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her ownconsequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or ofcontempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.
'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty,or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their owndaughter!'
'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me toboast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--aquality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'
'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said, Montonithreatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away mysettlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came intothe room before. Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make medo this. Neither will I bear all this tamely. He shall hear his truecharacter from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of histhreats and cruel treatment.'
Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear madam,'said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor unnecessarily?will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'
'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I willnot submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements, too,I suppose!'
'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'
'What is it you do mean then?'
'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.
'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make them?'
'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk ofprudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'
'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said Emily.
'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, 'ofprudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the commonties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to considerprudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'
'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emilymodestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, howeverjust, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violenceagainst you.'
'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--wouldyou have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?Would you have me give up my settlements?'
'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to adviseyou on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me forsaying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliateSignor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.'
'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; Idisdain to attempt it.'
Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinatetemper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings,she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. 'Yoursituation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,' said Emily, 'asyou may
imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse thanthey are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for hispossession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, youmay look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford youa competence, should the Signor's future conduct compel you to sue forseparation.'
Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason tocomplain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that myfuture prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs areas fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, toendeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because youhappen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heartto a person, who could sympathize in my distress, but I find, that yourpeople of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may retireto your chamber.'
Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingledemotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yieldedto the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's situationhad occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, inFrance, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunesof Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also, concerning hischaracter, appeared not less so, though the particular circumstances,connected with his fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet remainedto be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own observations and thewords of Count Morano had convinced her, that Montoni's situation wasnot what it formerly appeared to be, the intelligence she had justreceived from her aunt on this point, struck her with all the force ofastonishment, which was not weakened, when she considered the presentstyle of Montoni's living, the number of servants he maintained, and thenew expences he was incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle.Her anxiety for her aunt and for herself increased with reflection.Several assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, shehad believed were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, nowreturned to her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt,that Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for apecuniary reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstancesjustified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion,that he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself,to a richer suitor.
Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni,he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, norwillingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which mighthave no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was nowinclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to think,that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible theycould apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neitherrelease her from her melancholy situation, or enable her to bear it withgreater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down fromher little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wildimagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; hisspells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they played,without awakening it.
She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom thather sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when theydid so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tendernessand regret; and there were times, when music had increased such sorrowto a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had not suddenlyceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time, when shemourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that floated byher window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that followed hisdeath.
She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber,at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. 'Mylady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her dinner tobe carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. Therehave been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think.'
Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the littletable, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thuseasily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whomEmily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at theirstrange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had beenattended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor, then?' saidEmily.
'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north endof the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor toldold Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They havebeen walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmenon the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I amfrightened whenever I see them.'
Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he waslikely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in acottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die. Emily'scountenance discovered her emotion.
'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will disguisethemselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or Iam sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enoughto hate him.'
'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but certainlyI do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any persondying by violent means.'
'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'
Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of herdispleasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'Tobe sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into alady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeableto her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castlecomes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn round, and drawhis sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!--To be sure it wasvery ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so didnot know what he was about.'
'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; andAnnette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, andher lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard enough ofthis at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'
'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be asprudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'
'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be aboutsome folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you sodeceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and notto spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to loveher; but--'
'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,gravely.
'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, youwould not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor andher talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advisedhim never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to callthem, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether youwould, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, andI have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might have felt alittle for other people, and--'
'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her: 'butmy aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or Ithink--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'
'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take alittle bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is alwaysdisturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady talking ofyou and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, oftenand often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them whata deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue anddistress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away withMons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that youconnived at his coming about the house at night, and--'
'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely impossiblemy aunt could thus have represented me!'
'Indee
d, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all ofthat. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better todiscourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had beenin fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. Butmy lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter.'
'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering hercomposure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt tome. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite dined.'
Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table.
'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when shewas alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--anaunt--who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of myreputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy offemale honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, toutter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, Imay say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, withslanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcelyhave believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what acontrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his wasdistinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let meonly remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'
Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts,the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished,that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, andstill more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of thesurrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer her to pass thegates of the castle, she tried to be contented with the romantic viewsshe beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had been employed on thefortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts were silent andsolitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a loweringsky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a kind ofmelancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turnedto observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly streamingfrom behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the castle,while the rest of the edifice was in deep shade, except, that, througha lofty gothic arch, adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace,the beams darted in full splendour, and shewed the three strangersshe had observed in the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and amomentary fear came over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and sawno other persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at theend of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was alwayslocked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, withoutmeeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thinveil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. Theylooked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian,of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of theircountenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them, struckher yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress hadformerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who walkedbetween the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, whichexpressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful villany, thatgave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so legibly written onhis features, as to be seen by a single glance, for she passed the groupswiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested on them a moment. Havingreached the terrace, she stopped, and perceived the strangers standingin the shadow of one of the turrets, gazing after her, and seemingly, bytheir action, in earnest conversation. She immediately left the rampart,and retired to her apartment.
In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the cedarchamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some othercircumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual height.He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and talk. Thegaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by anxiety. Hekept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost difficulty,he had hitherto restrained from exasperating Montoni further againstMorano, by a mention of his late taunting words.
One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the precedingevening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that ofEmily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, whosat silent, and then interrupted the subject.
When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered intoclose conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temperof Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority,by that decisive look and manner, which always accompanied the vigourof his thought, and to which most of his companions submitted, as toa power, that they had no right to question, though of eachother's self-importance they were jealously scrupulous. Amidst thisconversation, one of them imprudently introduced again the name ofMorano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the expressivelooks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had passed on thepreceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear to understand,for he continued silent in his chair, without discovering any emotion,while, the choler of Verezzi increasing with the apparent insensibilityof Montoni, he at length told the suggestion of Morano, that this castledid not lawfully belong to him, and that he would not willingly leaveanother murder on his conscience.
'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' saidMontoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of thatmadman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni'sindignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks tohimself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his confusion.'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a madman?' rejoinedMontoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man possessed by the spirit ofvengeance? But he has succeeded too well; you believe what he said.'
'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!'interrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof.'
'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know nothingof what Morano asserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself. 'I am hasty,my friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man shall questionit with impunity--you did not mean to question it. These foolish wordsare not worth your remembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, here is toyour first exploit.'
'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed the whole company.
'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped Montoni'sresentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your ramparts of gold.'
'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni. 'We will drink to Signora St. Aubert,'said Cavigni. 'By your leave we will first drink to the lady of thecastle.' said Bertolini.--Montoni was silent. 'To the lady of thecastle,' said his guests. He bowed his head.
'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini, 'that you have so longneglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.'
'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice. Youknow not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.'
'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' repliedBertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'
Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say,' heresumed, 'you shall hear the story.'
The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more thancuriosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard therelation before.
'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle cameinto my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, mypredecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of herfamily. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixedupon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that shewas herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom shebestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took possessionof her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her own life.I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some singular andmysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall rep
eat them.'
'Repeat them!' said a voice.
Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, atlength, recovered himself. 'We are overheard,' said he: 'we will finishthis subject another time. Pass the goblet.'
The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.
'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor,proceed.'
'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.
'We did,' said Bertolini.
'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see noperson besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed withinthe room. Pray, Signor, go on.'
Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, whilethe cavaliers drew nearer to attend.
'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some monthsshewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Hermood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and,at others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms offrantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she hadrecovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into herusual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and forbade allinterruption. It was the chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors,where we had the affray, last night. From that hour, she was seen nomore.'
'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in thechamber?'
'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company alltogether.
'Never!' replied Montoni.
'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?' saidBertolini.--'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi.--'How happened it, thather remains were never found? Although she killed herself, she couldnot bury herself.' Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began toapologize. 'Your pardon, Signor,' said he: 'I did not consider, that thelady was your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly.'
Montoni accepted the apology.
'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him tobelieve, that the lady committed suicide.'
'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni: 'at present let merelate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes nofurther, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.'
'Listen!' said a voice.
They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.'This is no illusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length breaking theprofound silence.--'No,' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now. Yethere is no person in the room but ourselves!'
'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni, suddenly rising. 'This isnot to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know what itmeans.'
All the company rose from their chairs in confusion.
'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is really no stranger in theroom. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the author ofit severely.'
'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh.
The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, butno person was found. The surprise and consternation of the companyincreased. Montoni was discomposed. 'We will leave this room,' said he,'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.' His guestswere equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject had rousedtheir curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to anotherchamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail withhim. Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was visibly andgreatly disordered.
'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' cried Verezzi, jeeringly;'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'
'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni, regarding him with sterndispleasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place sentences,which are frequently uttered against superstition. I will enquirefurther into this affair.' He then left the room; and his guests,separating for the night, retired to their respective apartments.