CHAPTER XI
Who rears the bloody hand? SAYERS
Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, withoutreceiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except thearmed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted nofood since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made herfeel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtainrefreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty forAnnette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long aspossible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or tothe compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerningher aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and shedetermined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to seeMadame Montoni.
Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that someaccident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she hadspoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yetthere, to inform Montoni of her situation.
It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and wentfirst to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a singleperson, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distantfootstep.
It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audibleupon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own andLudovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved todeath, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that shewas going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger nowyielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudlyentreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from him.
As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the peopleshe met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, werepeaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly ather, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towardsthe cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on thepavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained withblood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; butfrom such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approachedthe room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dreadof appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoniby such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. Shelooked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant,who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of whatshe had to request made her still linger near the door. The voiceswithin were not in contention, though she distinguished those of severalof the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed,whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had determined towalk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montonifrom the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly openedby himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost startedwith surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfoldedthemselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired forher aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed.
After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she hadnot been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; anaccusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assuredhim she had not come thither with an intention to listen to hisconversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and forAnnette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded herwith a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no triflinginterest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded withentreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to permit,that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a malignantsmile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her aunt,and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties.
'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release thegirl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.' Emilyshuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'
'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time toanswer idle questions.'
He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could notbe wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpetsounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of theportal open, and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court, withthe confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whethershe should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passedthrough the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw throughthe door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into thecourts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distanceand her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, afew days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpetsounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men camerunning into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once morehurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursuedby images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's manner and words, whenhe had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her mostterrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress,and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when aknocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found oldCarlo.
'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never oncethought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine,and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.'
'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the Signorremind you of me?'
'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on hishands.' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, butCarlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time,that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her.
While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knewwhether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truthfrom a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerningthe contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told,that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signorbelieved himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests.'The fighting was about that, Signora,' said Carlo; 'but I trust I shallnever see such another day in this castle, though strange things areabout to be done.'
On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for meto betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.'
She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described thechamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey herimmediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were thepersons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi,with his party.
Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo;for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear theaccents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.
An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping andsobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she.
'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down.
'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched,day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan andlament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief.'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she, witha sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will ofHeaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'
Annette took the handkerchief from her face.
'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily.
'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet himagain in this--though he is so wounded!'
'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'
'Yes, m
a'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come tolet me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightlyhimself, till within this hour.'
'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'
'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'
Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thoughtimplied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavouredto encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she couldgive no satisfactory answers.
'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she, 'for Icould think of nobody but poor Ludovico.'
Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to makeenquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain nointelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant ofher fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it.
This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt;but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annettewas liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, orimpertinence.
Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by anyoccurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni.On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired tobed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her longanxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself,for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, sherose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, tobreathe a freer air.
All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light,which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectlythe outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and theramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image ofrepose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too,which so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed nowhushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements ofman's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's heart was not so; but hersufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind.Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy ofpassion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason andliving in a world of its own.
The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on theshadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amidthe deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined course.She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, howoften he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and explained theirlaws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an almost equaldegree, awakened her grief and astonishment.
They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, whichhad occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily,who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knewonly goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her presentsituation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded by viceand violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination,than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parentswould have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her futurelife.
While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the sameplanet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding herfather's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while sheremembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probablestate of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she hadheard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of herreason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she weptagain, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet musicpassed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stoodlistening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and thenendeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to reason herself intocomposure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lostin the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain theform of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night.
Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, atleast, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had listenedto any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife werethe only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho.
When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain fromwhat quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; butwhether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could notwith certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantmentof a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the most softand melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance,trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased.
She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft musicleaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstanceher thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hearmusic at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long sinceretired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had beenheard before, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made herspirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by theillusions of superstition.--It now seemed to her, as if her dead fatherhad spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort andconfidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet reasontold her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined todismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imaginationguides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. Sheremembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which hadgiven it into the possession of its present owner; and, when sheconsidered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor haddisappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind wasimpressed with an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though thereappeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she wasinclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. Atthis conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she lookedfearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, thatprevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.
At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as sheapproached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp,that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, sheshrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness,which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed,where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still musedon the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next night, when,at the same hour, she determined to watch whether the music returned.'If those sounds were human,' said she, 'I shall probably hear themagain.'