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FROM THE LIBRARY OF
PROFESSOR W.W.BEMAN
AB.1870: AM. 1873
TEACHER OF MATHEMATICS
n 1871 - 1922
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII


2715





THE
MYSTERIES or UDOLPHO,
ROM A N CE;
INTERSPERSED WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY.
te gezura merr
FODOR
BY
A UNORADCLIFFE,
AufHOR OF THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, ETC.
ģTHE THIRD EDINO N.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
Fate fies on theſe dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portats open to receive me,
Her voice, in fullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameleſs deed.
VOL. II. .
ce
AccHN
ĽO DON:
PRINTER FOR G. G. AND J: RODINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.


W.7. Beman


THE
MYSTERIES
U D
O
L
P
II
0.
c H A P.
1.
“ Where'er I roam, whatever realm3 I fee,
My heart untravell'd ſtill ſhall turn to thee."
DSMITH
THE carriages were at the gates at an
early hour; the buſtle of the domeſtics,
paſſing to and fro in the galleries, awakened
* Emily from harafling numbers : her un-
quiet mind had, during the night, preſented
her with terrific images and obſcure circum-
ſtances, concerning her affection and her
future life. She now endeavoured to chaſe
away the impreſſions they had left on her
fancy ; but from imaginary evils me awoke
to the conſciouſneſs of real ones. Recol-
VOL. II. B
lecting
425507


( 2 )
O
lecting that ſhe had parted with Valancourt,
perhaps for ever, her heart fickened as me-
mory revived. But ſhe tried to diſmiſs the
diſmal forebodings that crowded on her
mind, and to reſtrain the ſorrow which ſhe
could not ſubdue ; efforts which diffuſed
over the ſettled melancholy of her counte-
nance an expreſſion of tempered reſigna-
tion, as a thin veil, thrown over the fea-
tures of beauty, renders them more inte-
reſting by a partial concealment. But
Madame Montoni obſerved nothing in this
countenance except its unuſual paleneſs,
which attracted her cenſure. She told her
niece, that ſhe had been indulging in fan-
ciful ſorrows, and begged ſhe would have,
more regard for decorum, than to let the
world ſee that ſhe could not renounce an
improper attachment; at which Emily's
pale cheek became fuſhed with crimfon,
but it was the bluſh of pride, and ſhe made
no anſwer. Soon after, Montoni entered
the breakfaſt room, ſpoke little, and ſeemed
impatient to be gone.
The


( 3 )
The windows of this room opened upon
the garden. As Emily paſſed them, ſhe ſaw
the ſpot where ſhe had parted with Valan.
court on the preceding night: the remem-
brance preſſed heavily on her heart, and ſhe
turned haſtily away from the object that
had awakened it.
The baggage being at length adjuſted,
the travellers entered their carriages, and
Emily would have left the chateau with-
out one ſigh of regret, had it not been
ſituated in the neighbourhood of Valan-
court's reſidence.
From a little eminence ſhe looked back
upon Tholouſe, and the far-ſeen plains of
Gaſcony, beyond which the broken ſum-
mits of the Pyrenées appeared on the diſa
tant horizon, lighted up by a morning ſun.
“Dear pleaſant mountains!” ſaid ſhe to her-
felf, “ how long may it be ere I ſee ye again,
and how much may happen to make me
miſerable in the interval! Oh, could I now
be certain, that I ſhould ever return to
ye, and find that Valancourt ſtill lived
B 2
for
OW
-
-
-
-
- -
-


( 4 )
for me, I ſhould go in peace! He will
Itill gaze on ye, gaze when I am far
away!"
The trees, that impended over the high
banks of the road and formed a line of
perſpective with the diſtant country, now
threatened to exclude the view of them;
but the blueiſh mountains ſtill appeared
beyond the dark foliage, and Emily con-
tinued to lean from the coach window, till
at length the cloſing branches ſhut them
from her ſight.
Another object foon caught her atten-
tion. She had ſcarcely looked at a perſon
who walked along the bank, with his hat,
in which was the military feather, drawn
over his eyes, before, at the ſound of wheels,
he ſuddenly turned, and ſhe perceived that
it was Valancourt himſelf, who waved his
hand, ſprung into the road, and through
the window of the carriage put a letter into
her hand. He endeavoured to ſinile through
the deſpair that overſpread his countenance
as ſhe paſſed on. The remembrance of
that


( 5 )
that Smile ſeemed impreſſed on Emily's
mind for ever. She leaned from the win-
dow, and ſaw him on a knoll of the broken
bank, leaning againſt the high trees that
waved over him, and purſuing the carriage
with his eyes. He waved his hand, and the
continued to gaze till diſtance confuſed his
figure, and at length another turn of the
road entirely ſeparated him from her
light.
Having ſtopped to take up Signor Ca-
vigni at a chateau on the road, the travel-
lers, of whom Emily was diſreſpectfully
feated with Madame Montoni's woman in
a ſecond carriage, purſued their way over
the plains of Languedoc. The preſence
of this ſervant reſtrained Emily from read-
ing Valancourt's letter, for the did not
chooſe to expoſe the emotions it might oc-
caſion to the obſervation of any perſon.
Yet ſuch was her wiſh to read this his laſt
communication, that her trembling hand
was every moment on the point of breaking
the ſeal.
B 3 : At


(6)
Oce
At length they reached the village,
where they ſtayed only to change horſes,
without alighting, and it was not till they
ſtopped to dine, that Emily had an oppor-
tunity of reading the letter. Though ſhe
had never doubted the ſincerity of Valan-
court's affection, the freſh aſſurances the
ñow received of it revived her ſpirits; the
wept over his letter in tenderneſs, laid it by
to be referred to when they ſhould be par-
ticularly depreſſed, and then thought of hiin
with much leſs anguiſh than ſhe had done
Gince they parted. Among ſome other re-
queſts, which were intereſting to her, be-
cauſe expreſſive of his tenderneſs, and be-
cauſe a compliance with them ſeemed to
annihilate for a while the pain of abſence,
he entreated ſhe would always think of him
at ſun-ſet. “You will then meet me in
thought,” ſaid he; «I fall conſtantly
watch the ſun-ſet; and I ſhall be happy in
the belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the
- fame object with mine, and that our minds
are converſing. You know not, Emily, the
comfort


( 7 )
comfort I promiſe myſelf from thefe mo-
ments; but I truſt you will experience
it.”
It is unneceſſary to ſay with what emotion
Emily, on this evening, watched the de-
clining fun, over a long extent of plains,
on which ſhe ſaw it ſet without interrup-
tion, and ſink towards the province which
Valancourt inhabited. After this hour her
mind became far more tranquil and re.
ſigned, than it had been ſince the marriage
of Montoni and her aunt.
During ſeveral days the travellers jour-
neyed over the plains of Languedoc; and
then entering Dauphiny, and winding for
fome time among the mountains of that ro-
mantic province, they quitted their car-
riages and began to aſcend the Alps. And
here ſuch ſcenes of ſublimity opened upon
them as no colours of language muſt dare
to paint! Emily's mind was even ſo much
engaged with new and wonderful images,
that they ſometimes båniſhed the idea of
Valancourt, though they more frequently
B4
revived


(8)
revived it. Theſe brought to her recol-
lection the proſpects among the Pyrenées,
which they had admired together, and had
believed nothing could excel in grandeur.
How often did ſhe with to expreſs to him
the new emotions which this aſtoniſhing
ſcenery awakened, and that he could par-
take of them! Sometimes too. The endea.
voured to anticipate his remarks, and al-
moſt imagined him prefent. She ſeemed
to have ariſen into another world, and to
have left every trifling thought, every trilling
ſentiment, in that below; thoſe only of
grandeur and ſublimity now dilated her
mind, and elevated the affections of her
heart.
With what emotions of fublimity, ſoftened
by tenderneſs, did ſhe meet Valancourt in
thought, at the cuſtomary hour of fun-fet,
when, wandering among the Alps, ſhe
watched the glorious orb link amid their
ſummits, his laſt tints die away on their
ſnowy points, and a ſolemn obfcurity ſteal
over the ſcene! And when the laſt gleam
had


(9)
had faded, ſhe turned her eyes from the
weſt with ſomewhat of the melancholy re-
gret that is experienced after the departure
of a beloved friend; while theſe lonely
feelings were heightened by the ſpreading
gloom, and by the low ſounds, heard only
when darkneſs confines attention, which
make the general ſtillneſs more impreſſive-
leaves ſhook by the air, the laſt ſigh of the
breeze that lingers after ſun ſet, or the
murmur of diſtant ſtreams.
During the firſt days of this journey
among the Alps, the ſcenery exhibited a
wonderful mixture of ſolitude and inhabi-
tation, of cultivation and barrenneſs. On
the edge of tremendous precipices, and
within the hollow of the cliffs, below which
the clouds often floated, were feen villages,
{pires, and convent towers; while green
paſtures and vineyards ſpread their hues at
the feet of perpendicular rocks of marble,
or of granite, whoſe points, tufted with
alpine ſhrubs, or exhibiting only maffy
5. crags, roſe above each other, till they ter-
minated
B 5


( 10 )
minated in the ſnow-topt mountains, whence
the torrent fell, that thundered along the
valley.
The ſnow was not yet melted on the
fummit of Mount Cenis, over which the
travellers paſſed ; but Emily, as ſhe looked
upon its clear lake and extended plain,
ſurrounded by broken cliffs, ſaw, in ima-
gination, the verdant beauty it would exhi-
bit when the ſnows ſhould be gone, and
the ſhepherds, leading up the inidſummer
flocks from Piedmont, to paſture on its
flowery ſummit, ſhould add Arcadian fi.
gures to Arcadian landſcape. '
As ſhe deſcended on the Italian ſide, the
precipices became ſtill more tremendous,
and the proſpects ſtill more wild and ma-
jeſtic, over which the ſhifting lights threw
all the pomp of colouring. Emily delight-
ed to obſerve the ſnowy tops of the moun.
tains under the paſſing influence of the day,
bluſhing with morning, glowing with the
brightneſs of noon, or juſt tinted with the
purple evening. The haunt of man could
now


(1 )
now only be diſcovered by the ſimple hut
of the ſhepherd and the hunter, or by the
rough pine bridge thrown acroſs the, tor-
rent, to aſſiſt the latter in his chaſe of the
chamois over crags where, but for this
veftige of man, it would have been be-
lieved only the chamois or the wolf dared
to venture. As Emily gazed upon one of
theſe perilous bridges, with the cataract
foaming beneath it, ſome images came to
her mind, which ſhe afterwards combined
in the following
STORIED SONN E T.
The weary traveller, who, all night long,
Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous ſteeps,
Skirting the pathleſs precipice, where throng
Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
If, chance, his anxious eye at diſtance fees
The mountain-ſhepherd's ſolitary home, .
Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
What ſudden tranſports to his boſom come !
But, if between ſome hideous chaſm yawn,
Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge diſplays,
In dreadful ſilence, on the brink, forlorn
He ſtands, and views in the faint rays,
B6


( 12 )
Far, far below, the torrent's riſing ſurge,
And liſtens to the wild impetuous roar;
Still eyes the depth, ſtill ſhudders on the verge,
Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
Deſperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
His weak ſteps ſlide, he ſhrieks, he finks-he dies!
Emily, often as ſhe travelled among the
clouds, watched in ſilent awe their billowy
ſurges rolling below; ſometimes, wholly
cloſing upon the fcene, they appeared like
a world of chaos, and, at others, ſpreading
thinly, they opened and admitted partial
catches of the landſcape-the torrent, whoſe
aſtounding roar had never failed, tum.
bling down the rocky chafm, huge cliffs
white with ſnow, or the dark ſummits of the
pine foreſts, that ſtretched mid. way down
the mountains. But who may deſcribe her
rapture, when, having paſſed through a ſea
of vapour, ſhe caught a firſt view of Italy;
when, from the ridge of one of thoſe tre-
.. mendous precipices that hang upon Mount
Cenis and guard the entrance of that en-
shanting country, ſhe looked down through
the


( 13 )
the lower clouds, and, as they floated away,
faw the graffy vales of Piedmont at her
feet, and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy
extending to the fartheſt diſtance, at which
appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubt-
ful towers of Turin ?
The ſolitary grandeur of the objects that
immediately ſurrounded her, the moun-
tain region towering above, the deep preci-
pices that fell beneath, the waving black-
neſs of the foreſts of pine and oak, which
ſkirted their feet, or hung within their re-
ceſſes, the headlong torrents that, daſhing
aniong their cliffs, fometimes appeared like
a cloud of mift, at others like a ſheet of ice-
theſe were features which received a higher
character of ſublimity from the repoſing
beauty of the Italian landſcape below,
ftretching to the wide horizon, where the
ſame melting blue tint ſeemed to unite earth
and ſky.
Madame Montoni only ſhuddered as ſhe
looked down precipices near whoſe edge
the chairmen trotted lightly and ſwiftly,
almoſt,


almoſt, as the chamois bounded, and from
which Emily too recoiled; but with her
fears were mingled ſuch various emotions
of delight, ſuch admiration, aſtoniſhment,
and awe, as ſhe had never experienced be-
fore.
· Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a
landing-place, ſtopped to reſt, and the tra-
vellers being feated on the point of a cliff,
Montoni and Cavigni renewed**a diſpute
concerning Hannibal's paſſage over the
Alps,, Montoni contending that he entered
Italy by way.of Mount Cenis, and Cavigni,
that he paſſed over Mount St. Bernard, The: ;
ſubject brought to Emily's imagination the
diſaſters he had ſuffered in this bold and
perilous adventure. She ſaw his vaſt armies
winding among the defiles, and over the
tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which
at night were lighted up by his fires, or by
the torches which he cauſed to be carried
when he purſued his indefatigable march.
In the eye of fancy, ſhe perceived the gleam
of arms through the duſkineſs of night,
the


( 15 )
the glitter of ſpears and helmets, and the
banners floating dimly on the twilight ;
while now and then the blaſt of a diſtant
trumpet echoed along the defile, and the
ſignal was anſwered by a momentary claſh
of arms. She looked with horror upon the
mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs,
affailing the troops below with broken frag-
ments of the mountain; on foldiers and
elephants tumbling headlong down the
lower precipices; and, as ſhe liſtened to the
rebounding rocks, that followed their fall,
. the terrors of fancy yielded to thoſe of rea-
lity, and ſhe ſhuddered to behold herſelf on
the dizzy height, whence ſhe had pictured
the deſcent of others.
Madame Montoni, meantime, as ſhe look.
ed upon Italy, was contemplating in ima-
gination the ſplendour of palaces and the
grandeur of caſtles, ſuch as ſhe believed ſhe
was going to be miſtreſs of at Venice and
in the Apennine, and ſhe became, in idea,
little leſs than a princeſs. Being no longer
under the alarms which had deterred her
from
i


( 16 )
from giving entertainments to the beauties
of Tholouſe, whom Montoni had mentioned
with more eclat to his own vanity than
credit to their diſcretion, or regard to truth,
ſhe determined to give concerts, though the
had neither ear nor taſte for muſic; conver-
fazioni, though ſhe had no talents for con-
verſation ; and to outvie, if poſſible, in the
gaieties of her parties and the magnificence
of her liveries, all the nobleſſe of Venice.
This bliſsful reverie was ſoniewhat obſcured,
when ſhe recollected the Signor, her huſ-
band, who, though he was not averſe to
the profit which ſometimes refults from ſuch
parties, had always ſhewn a contempt of
the frivolous parade that ſometimes attends
them; till ſhe conſidered that his pride
might be gratified by diſplaying among
his own friends, in his native city, the
wealth which he had neglected in France ;
and ſhe courted again the ſplendid illuſions
that had charmed her before.
The travellers, as they deſcended, gradu-
ally, exchanged the region of winter for the
genial


( 18 )
character, as it approached the green vallies
of Piedmont, into which the travellers de-
ſcended with the evening fun; and Emily
found herſelf once more amid the tranquil
beauty of paſtoral ſcenery ; among focks
and herds, and ſlopes tufted with woods of
lively verdure and with beautiful ſhrubs,
ſuch as ſhe had often ſeen waving luxuri-
ancly over the Alps above. The verdure of
the paſturage, now varied with the hues of
early flowers, among which were yellow ra.
nunculuſes and panſey, violets of delicious
fragrance, ſhe had never ſeen excelled.
Emily almoſt wiſhed to become a peaſant of
Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleaſant
embowered cottages which ſhe ſaw peeping
beneath the cliffs, and to paſs her careleſs
hours among theſe romantic landſcapes.
To the hours, the months, ſhe was to paſs
under the dominion of Montoni, ſhe looked
with apprehenfion; while thoſe which were
departed the remembered with regret and
forrow.
In the preſent ſcenes her fancy often
gave


( 19 )
gave her the figure of Valancourt, whom
ſhe ſaw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with
awe and admiration at the imagery around
him; or wandering penſively along the
vale below, frequently pauſing to look
back upon the ſcenery, and then, his coun-
tenance glowing with the poet's fire, pur-
ſuing his way to ſome overhanging height:
When ſhe again conſidered the time and
the diſtance that were to ſeparate them,
that every ſtep the now took lengthened
this diſtance, her heart funk, and the ſur.
rounding landſcape charmed her no more.
The travellers, paſſing Novaleſa, reached,
after the evening had cloſed, the ſmall and
ancient town of Sufa, which had formerly
guarded this paſs of the Alps into Pied-
mont. The heights which command it
had, ſince the invention of artillery, ren-
dered its fortifications uſeleſs; but there
romantic heights, ſeen by moon-light, with
the town below, ſurrounded by its walls
and watch-towers, and partially illumined,
exhibited an intereſting picture to Emily.
Here


( 20 )
Here they reſted for the night at an inn,
which had little accommodation to boaſt
of; but the travellers brought with them
the hunger that gives delicious flavour to
the coarſeſt viands, and the wearineſs that
enſures repoſe ; and here Emily firſt caughc
a ſtrain of Italian mulic, on Italian ground.
As ſhe ſat after fupper at a little window,
that opened upon the country, obſerving
an effect of the moon light on the broken
ſurface of the mountains, and remembering
that on ſuch a night as this the once had
ſat with her father and Valancourt, reſting
upon a cliff of the Pyrenées, ſhe heard
from below the long-drawn notes of a vio.
lin, of ſuch tone and delicacy of expreſſion,
as harmonized exactly with the tender
emotions ſhe was indulging, and both
charmed and ſurpriſed her. Cavigni, who
approached the window, ſmiled at her
ſurpriſe. “This is nothing extraordinary,"
ſaid he, “ you will hear the ſame, perhaps,
at every inn in our way. It is one of our
landlord's family who plays, I doubt not."
Emily,


( 21 )
In
Emily, as ſhe liſtened, thought he could be
ſcarcely leſs than a profeſſor of muſic
whom ſhe heard ; and the ſweet and plain-
tive ſtrains ſoon lulled her into a reverie,
from which ſhe was very unwillingly rouſed
by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the voice
of Montoni, who gave orders to a ſervant to
have the carriages ready at an early hour
on the following morning ; and added, that
he meant to dine at Turin.
Madame Montoni was exceedingly re.
joiced to be once more on level ground;
and, after giving a long detail of the vari-
ous terrors ſhe had ſuffered, which ſhe for-
got that ſhe was deſcribing to the compa-
nions of her dangers, ſhe added a hope, that
ſhe ſhould ſoon be beyond the view of theſe
horrid mountains, + which all the world,
faid ſhe, “ ſhould not tempt me to croſs
again.” Complaining of fatigue ſhe ſoon
retired to reſt, and Emily withdrew to her
own room, when ſhe underſtood from An-
nette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was
nearly right in his conjecture concerning
the
as


( 22 )
the muſician, who had awakened the violin
with ſo much taſte, for that he was the ſon
of a peaſant, inhabiting the neighbouring
valley. “He is going to the Carnival at
Venice,” added Annette, “ for they ſay he
has a fine hand at playing, and will get a
world of money; and the Carnival is juſt
going to begin : but for my part, I ſhould
like to live among theſe pleaſant woods and
hills, better than in a town; and they ſay
Ma'mſelle, we ſhall ſee no woods, or hills,
or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in
the very middle of the ſea.”
Emily agreed with the talkative Annette,
that this young man was making a change
for the worſe, and could not forbear ſilently
. lamenting, that he ſhould be drawn from
the innocence and beauty of theſe ſcenes,
to the corrupt ones of that voluptuous
city.
When ſhe was alone, unable to ſeep, the
landſcapes of her native home, with Valan-
court, and the circumſtances of her depar-
ture, haunted her fancy; ſhe drew pictures
of
ICS
S


( 23 )
of ſocial happineſs amidſt the grand ſimpli-
city of nature, ſuch as ſhe feared ſhe had
bade farewell to for ever; and then, the idea
of this young Piedmonteſe, thus ignorantly
ſporting with his happineſs, returned to her
thoughts, and, glad to eſcape awhile from
the preſſure of nearer intereſts, ſhe indulged
her fancy in compoſing the following lines.
THE PIEDMONTES E.
Ah, merry ſwain, who laugh'd along the vales,
And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
He goes to wake o'er moon-light ſeas the ſtring,
Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails !
Yet oft of home his ſimple carols fing,
And his ſteps pauſe, as the laſt Alp he ſcales.
Once more he turns to view his native ſcene
Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
He ſpies his cabin ’mid the pine-tops green,
The well-known woods, clear brook, and paſtures gay;
And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
Of ſylvan revels, dance, and feſtive ſong ;
And hears the faint reed ſwelling in the wind;
And his fad fighs the diſtant notes prolong !
Thus


( 24 )
Thus went the ſwain, till mountain-ſhadows fell,
And dimm’d the landſcape to his aching fight;
And muſt he leave the vales he loves ſo well?
Can foreign wealth, and ſhows, his heart delight?
No, happy vales ! your wild rocks ſtill ſhall hear
His pipe, light ſounding on the morning breeze;
Still ſhall he lead the flocks to ſtreamlet clear,
And watch at eve beneath the weſtern trees.
Away, Venetian gold-your charm is o'er !
And now his ſwift ſtep ſeeks the lowland bow'rs,
Where, through the leaves, his cottage light once more
Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
Ah, merry ſwain! that laugh along the vales,
And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
Your cot, your woods, your thymy-ſcented gales-
And friends belov'd-more joy than wealth can bring!
СНА Р.


( 25
)
CH A P. II.
Titania. “ If you will patiently dance in our round,
And ſee our moon-light revels, go with us."
MIDSUMMER Night's DREAM.
EARLY on the following morning, the
travellers ſet out for Turin. The luxu-
riant plain, that extends from the feet of
the Alps to that magnificent city, was not
then, as now, ſhaded by an avenue of trees
nine miles in length; but plantations of
olives, mulberry and palms, feſtooned with
vines, mingled with the paſtoral ſcenery
through which the rapid Po, after its de-
ſcent from the mountains, wandered to meet
the humble Doria at Turin. As they, ad.
vanced towards the city, the Alps, ſeen at
ſome diſtance, began to appear in all their
awful ſublimity; chain riſing over chain
VOL. II.
C.


( 27 )
for Venice with all poſſible rapidity. Mon:
toni's manner, during this journey, was
grave, and even haughty; and towards Ma-
dame Montoni he was more eſpecially re-
ſerved; but it was not the referve of reſpect
ſo much as of pride and diſcontent. Of
Emily he took little notice. With Cavigni
his converſations were commonly on politi-
cal or military topics, ſuch as the convulſed
ſtate of their couniry rendered at this time
particularly intereſting. Emily obſerved,
that, at the mention of any daring exploit,
Montoni's 'eyes loſt their ſullenneſs, and
ſeemed inſtantaneouſly to gleam with fire ;
yet they ſtill retained ſomewhat of a lurking
cunning, and the ſometimes thought that
their fire partook more of the glare of malice
than the brightneſs of valour, though the
latter would well have harmonized with the
high chivalric air of his figure, in which Ca-
vigni, with all his gay and gallant manners,
was his inferior. .
On entering the Milaneſe, the gentle-
men exchanged their French hats for the
C2 " Italian


( 28 ) :
Italian cap of ſcarlet cloth, embroidered ;
and Emily was ſomewhat ſurpriſed to ob-
ſerve, that Montoni added to his the mili-
tary plume, while Cavigni retained only the
feather, which was uſually worn with ſuch
caps: but ſhe at length concluded, that
Montoni aſſumed this enſign of a ſoldier
for convenience, as a means of pafling with
more ſafety through a country over-run
with parties of the military.
Over the beautiful plains of this country
the devaſtations of war were frequently viſi-
ble. Where the lands had not been ſuffered
to lie uncultivated, they were often tracked
with the ſteps of the ſpoiler ; the vines were
torn down from the branches that had ſup.
ported them, the olives trampled upon the
ground, and even the groves of mulberry
trees had been hewn by the enemy to light
fires that deſtroyed the hamlets and villages
of their owners. Emily turned her eyes
with a ſigh from theſe painful veſtiges
of contention, to the Alps of the Griſon,
that overlooked theni to the north, whoſe
-
awful
WILDE


( 29 )
awful ſolitudes ſeemed to offer to perſecuted
man a ſecure aſylum.
The travellers frequently diſtinguiſhed
troops of ſoldiers moving at a diſtance ;
and they experienced, at the little inns on
the road, the ſcarcity of proviſion and
other inconveniencies, which are a part of
che conſequence of inteſtine war; but they
had never reaſon to be niuch alarmed for
their immediate ſafety, and they paſſed on
to Milan: with little interruption of any
kind, where they ſtayed not to ſurvey the
grandeur of the city, or even to view its
vaſt cathedral, which was then building.'
Beyond Milan, the country wore the
aſpect of a ruder devaſtation, and though
every thing ſeemed nowquiet, the repoſe
was like that of death, fpread over features,
which retain the impreſſion of the laſt con-
vulſions.
It was not till they had paſſed the eaſtern
limits of the Milaneſe, that the travellers
faw any troops 'ſince they had left Milan,
when, as the evening was drawing to a
C 3 . cloſe,
was
vs.


I go )
cloſe, they deſcried what appeared to be an
army winding onward along the diſtant
plains, whoſe ſpears and other arms caught
the laſt rays of the ſun. As the column
advanced through a part of the road, con-
tracted between two hillocks, ſome of the
commanders, on horſeback, were diſtin-
guiſhed on a ſmall eminence, pointing and
making ſignals for the march; while ſeve-
ral of the officers were riding along the
line directing its progreſs, according to the
ligns communicated by thole above; and
others, ſeparating from the vanguard, which
had emerged from the paſs, were riding
careleſsly along the plains, at ſome diſtance
to the right of the army.
As they drew nearer, Montoni, diſtin-
guiſhing the feathers that waved in their
caps, and the banners and liveries of the
bands that followed them, thought he knew
this to be the ſmall arıny commanded by
the famous captain Utaldo, with whom,
as well as with ſome of the other chiefs,
he was perſonally acquainted. He, there-
3 :
fore,


( 31 ) . :
fore, gave orders that the carriages ſhould
draw up by the ſide of the road, to await
their arrival, and give them the paſs. A
faint ſtrain of martial muſic now ſtole by,
and, gradually ſtrengthening as the troops
approached, Emily diſtinguiſhed the drums
and trumpets, with the claſh of cymbals and
of arms, that were ſtruck by a ſmall party,
in time to the march.
Montoni being now certain that theſe
were the bands of the victorious Utaldo,
Jeaned from the carriage window, and
hailed their general by waving his cap in
the air ; which compliment the chief re-
turned by raiſing his ſpear, and then letting
it down again ſuddenly, while fome of his
officers, who were riding at a diſtance from
the troops, came up to the carriage, and
ſaluted Montoni as an old acquaintance.
The captain himſelf ſoon after arriving, his
bands halted while he converſed with
Montoni, whom he appeared much re-
joiced to fee; and from what he ſaid, Emily
C4
under-


( 32 )
underſtood that this was a victorious army,
returning into their own principality; while
the numerous waggons, that accompanied
thein, contained the rich ſpoils of the ene.
my, their own wounded ſoldiers, and the
priſoners they had taken in battle, who were
to be ranfomed when the peace, then ne-
gotiating between the neighbouring ſtates,
ſhould be ratified. The chiefs on the fol-
lowing day were to ſeparate, and each,
taking his ſhare of the ſpoil, was to return
with his own band to his caſtle. This was
therefore to be an evening of uncommon
and general feſtivity, in commemoration
of the victory they had accompliſhed
together, and of the farewell which the
commanders were about to take of each
other. ' '.
Emily, as theſe officers converſed with
Montoni, obſerved with admiration, tinc-
tured with awe, their high martial air,
mingled with the haughtineſs of the no-
bleſſe of thoſe days, and heightened by the
gallantry


( 33 )
CU
gallantry of their dreſs, by the plumes
towering on their caps, the armorial coat,
Perſian faſh, and ancient Spaniſh cloak,
Utaldo, telling Montoni that his army were
going to encamp for the night near a village
at only a few miles diſtance, invited him
to turn back and partake of their feſtivity,
aſſuring the ladies alſo, that they ſhould be
pleaſantly accommodated; but Montoni
excuſed himſelf, adding, that it was his de
ſign to reach Verona that evening; and, af-
ter ſome converſation concerning the ſtate of
the country towards that city, they parted.
The travellers proceeded without any in-
terruption ; but it was ſome hours after fun-
fct before they arrived at Verona, whoſe
beautiful environs were therefore not ſeen
by Emily till the following morning; when,
leaving that pleaſant town at an early hour,
they ſet off for Padua, where they em-
barked on the Brenta for Venice. Here
the ſcene was entirely changed; no veſtiges
of war, ſuch as had deformed the plains of
the Milaneſe, appeared; on the contrary,
C5
all


( 34 )
all was peace and elegance. The verdant
banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued
Jandſcape of beauty, gaiety, and ſplendour.
Emily gazed with admiration on the villas
of the Venetian nobleſſe, with their cool
porticos and colonnades, overhung with
poplars and cypreſſes of majeſtic height
and lively verdure; on their rich orangeries,
whoſe bloſſoms perfumed the air, and on
the luxuriant willows, that dipped their
light leaves in the wave, and ſheltered from
the fun the gay parties whoſe muſic came
at intervals on the breeze. The Carnival
did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice
along the whole line of theſe enchanting
ſhores; the river was gay with boats paff.
ing to that city, exhibiting the fantaſtic
diverſity of a maſquerade in the dreſſes
of the people within them; and, towards
evening, groups of dancers frequently were
ſeen beneath the trees.
Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the
names of the noblemen to whom the ſeve-
ral villas they paſſed belonged, adding light
ſketches


( 35 )
ſketches of their characters, ſuch as ſerved
to amuſe rather than to inform, exhibiting
his own wit inſtead of the delineation of
truth. Emily was ſometimes diverted by
his converſation ; but his gaiety did not
entertain Madame Montoni, as it had for-
merly done ; ſhe was frequently grave, and
Montoni retained his uſual reſerve.
Nothing could exceed Emily's admira-
tion, on her firſt view of Venice, with its
inets, palaces, and towers riſing out of the
fea, whoſe clear ſurface reflected the tremus
lous picture in all its colours. The ſun,
finking in the weſt, tinted the waves and
the lofty mountains of Friuli, which ſkirc
the northern ſhores of the Adriatic, with a
ſaffron glow, while on the marble porticos
and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown
the rich lights and ſhades of evening. As
they glided on, the grander features of this
city appeared more diſtinctly: its terraces,
crowned with airy yet majeſtic fabrics,
touched, as they, now were, with the ſplen.
dour of the ſetting fun, appeared as if they
NOW
C6
had


( 36 ) :
had been called up from the ocean by the
wand of an enchanter, rather than reared by
mortal hands.
· The ſun, ſoon after, ſinking to the lower
world, the ſhadow of the earth ſtole gradu-
ally over the waves, and then up the tower-
ing ſides of the mountains of Friuli, till ic
extinguiſhed even the laſt upward beams
that had lingered on their fummits, and
the melancholy purple of evening drew over
them, like a thin veil. How deep, how
beautiful was the tranquillity that wrapped
the ſcene! All nature ſeemed to repoſe; the
fineſt emotions of the ſoul were alone awake.
Emily's eyes filled with tears of admira-
tion and ſublime devotion, as ſhe raiſed
them over the neeping world to the vaſt
heavens, and heard the notes of ſolemn
muſic, that ſtole over the waters from a
diſtance. She liſtened in ftill rapture, and
no perſon of the party broke the charm by
an enquiry. The ſounds ſeemed to grow
on the air; for ſo ſmoothly did the barge
glide along, that its motion was not per-
ceivable,


( 37 )
ceivable, and the fairy city appeared ap. .
proaching to welcome the ſtrangers. They .
now diſtinguiſhed a female voice, accom-
panied by a few inſtruments, ſinging a ſoft
and mournful air; and its fine expreſſion,
as ſometimes it ſeemed pleading with the
impaſſioned tenderneſs of love, and then
languiſhing into the cadence of hopeleſs
grief, declared, that it fowed from no
feigned ſenſibility. Ah! thought Emily,
as the ſighed and remembered Valancourt,
choſe ſtrains come from the heart !
She looked round, with anxious enquiry;
the deep twilight, that had fallen over the
ſcene, admitted only imperfect images to
the eye, but, at ſome diſtance on the ſea, ſhe
thought the perceived a gondola : a chorus
of voices and inſtruments, now ſwelled on
the air-fo ſweet, ſo ſolemn! it ſeemed like
the hymn of angels deſcending through the
ſilence of night! Now it died away, and
fancy almoſt beheld the holy choir re-
aſcending towards heaven; then again it
ſwelled with the breeze, trembled awhile,
and


( 38 )
and again died into ſilence. It brought to
Emily's recollection ſome lines of her late
father, and the repeated in a low voice,
.... Oft I hear,
Upon the filence of the midnight air,
Celeſtial voices ſwell in holy chorus,
That bears the ſoul to heaven!.
The deep ſtillneſs, that ſucceeded, was as
expreſſive as the ſtrain that had juſt ceaſed.
It was uninterrupted for ſeveral minutes, till
a general ſigh ſeemed to releaſe the company
from their enchantment. Emily, however,
long indulged the pleaſing ſadneſs, that
had ſtolen upon her ſpirits; but the gay
and buſy ſcene that appeared, as the barge
approached St. Mark's Place, at length
rouſed her attention. The riſing moon,
which threw a ſhadowy light upon the ter-
races, and illumined the porticos and mag-
nificent arcades that crowned them, diſco.
vered the various company, whoſe light
ſteps, ſoft guitars, and ſofter voices, echoed
through the colonnades.
The


( 39 )
The muſic they heard before now paſſed
Montoni's barge, in one of the gondolas,
of which ſeveral were ſeen ſkimming along
the moon-light ſea, full of gay parties,
catching the cool breeze. Moſt of theſe
had muſic, made ſweeter by the waves over
· which it foated, and by the meaſured
ſound of oars, as they daſhed the ſparkling
ride, Emily gazed, and liſtened, and
thought herſelf in a fairy ſcene: even Ma-
dame Montoni was pleaſed; Montoni con-
gratulated himſelf on his return to Venice,
which he called the firſt city in the world,
and Cavigni was more gay and animated
than ever.
The barge paſſed on to the grand canal,
where Montoni's manſion was ſituated.
And here, other forms of beauty and of
grandeur, ſuch as her imagination had ne-
ver painted, were unfolded to Emily in
the palaces of Sanſovino and Palladio,
as ſhe glided along the waves. The air
bore no ſounds, but thoſe of ſweetneſs,
echoing along each margin of the canal,
and


( 40 j
and from gondolas on its ſurface, while
groups of maſks were ſeen dancing on the
moon-light terraces, and ſeemed almoſt to
realize the romance of fairy-land.
The barge ſtopped before the portico of
a large houſe, from whence a ſervant of
Montoni croſſed the terrace, and imme-
diately the party diſembarked. From the
portico they paſſed a noble hall to a ſtair-
caſe of marble, which led to a ſaloon, fitted
up in a ſtyle of magnificence that ſurpriſed
Emily. The walis and ceiling were adorn-
ed with hiſtorical and allegorical paintings,
in freſco; ſilver tripods, depending from
chains of the ſame metal, illumined the
apartment, the floor of which was covered
with Indian mats painted in a variety of
colours and devices; the couches and dra-
pery of the lattices were of pale green filk,
embroidered and fringed with green and
gold. Balcony lattices opened upon the
grand canal, whence role a confuſion of
voices and of muſical inſtruments, and the
breeze that gave freſhneſs to the apartment.
Emily,


( 41 )
Emily, conſidering the gloomy temper of
Montoni, looked upon the ſplendid furni.
ture of his houſe with ſurpriſe, and re.
membered the report of his being a man of
broken fortune, with aſtoniſhment. “Ah!”
ſaid ſhe to herſelf, - if Valancourt could
but ſee this manſioil, what peace would it
give him! He would then be convinced
that the report was groundleſs.” ,
· Madame Montoni ſeemed to aſſume the
airs of a princeſs; but Montoni was reſt,
leſs and diſcontented, and did not even ob,
ſerve the civility of bidding her welcome to
her home.
Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gone
dola, and, with Cavigni, went out to mingle
in the ſcenes of the evening. Madame
then became ſerious and thoughtful. Emily,
who was charmed with every thing ſhe ſaw,
endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection
had not, with Madame Montoni, fubdued
caprice and ill humour, and her aniwers
diſcovered ſo much of both, that Emily
gave up the attempt of diverting her, and
withdrew
.
--
"ste
TS
o
.
.


( 42 )
new
withdrew to a lattice, to amuſe herſelf
with the ſcene without, fo new and ſo en.
chanting.
The firſt object that attracted her notice
was a group of dancers on the terrace be-
low, led by a guitar, and ſome other in-
ftruments. The girl, who ſtruck the gui-
tar, and another, who Aouriſhed a tambo-
rine, paſſed on in a dancing ſtep, and with
á light grace and gaiety of heart, that would
have ſubdued the goddeſs of ſpleen in her
worſt humour. After thefe came a group
of fantaſtic figures, fome dreſſed as gondo-
lieri, others as minſtrels, while others ſeemed
to defy all deſcription. They ſung in parts,
their voices accompanied by a few ſoft in-
ftruments. At a little diſtance from the
portico they ſtopped, and Emily diftin-
guiſhed the verſes of Arioſto. They ſung,
of the wars of the Moors againſt Charle.
magne, and then of the woes of Orlando :
afterwards the meaſure changed, and the
melancholy ſweetneſs of Petrarch ſucceeded.
The magic of his grief was aliſted by all
that


( 43 )
that Italian muſic and Italian expreſſion,
heightened by the enchantments of Vene-
cian moonlight, could give.
Emily, as ſhe liſtened, caught the penſive
enthuſiaſmı ; her tears fowed filently, while
her fancy bore her far away to France and
to Valancourt. Each ſucceeding ſonnet,
more full of charming ſadneſs than the laſt,
ſeemed to bind the ſpell of melancholy :
with extreine regret ſhe ſaw the muſicians
move on, and her attention followed the
ſtrain till the laſt faint warble died in air.
She then remained funk in that penſive
tranquillity which ſoft muſic leaves on the
mind-a ſtate like that produced by the
view of a beautiful landſcape by moon-
light, or by the recollection of ſcenes
marked with the tenderneſs of friends loft
for ever, and with ſorrows, which time has
mellowed into mild regret. Such ſcenes
are indeed, to the mind, like “ thoſe faint
traces which the memory bears of muſic
that is paft.”
Other


16,44 )
Other founds foon awakened her attenz-
tion: it was the ſolemn harmony of horns,
that ſwelled from a diſtance; and, obſerving .
the gondolas arrange themſelves along the
margin of the terraces, ſhe threw on her veil,
and, ſtepping into the balcony, diſcerned,
in the diſtant perſpective of the canal,
ſomething like a proceflion, floating on the
light ſurface of the water; as it approached,
the horns and other inſtruments mingled
ſweetly, and ſoon after the fabled deities of
the city ſeemed to have ariſen from the
ocean; for (Neptune, with Venice perſo-
nified as his queen, came on the undulat-
ing waves, ſurrounded by tritons and ſea-
nymphs. The fantaſtic ſplendour of this
Spectacle, together with the grandeur of the
furrounding palaces, appeared like the vi-
fion of a poet ſuddenly embodied; and the
fanciful images, which it awakened in
Emily's mind, lingered there long after the
proceſſion had paſſed away. She indulged
herſelf in imagining what might be the
.. manners


( 45 )
manners and delights of a ſea-nymph, till
ſhe almoſt wilhed to throw off the habit of
mortality, and plunge into the green wave
to participate them.
“How delightful," ſaid ſhe, “ to liye
amidſt the coral bowers and cryſtal caverns
of the ocean, with my ſiſter nymphs, and
liſten to the ſounding waters above, and to
the ſoft ſhells of the tritons! and then,
after ſun-ſet, to ſkim on the ſurface of the
waves round wild rocks and along ſequel-
tered ſhores, where, perhaps, ſome penſive
wanderer comes to weep! Then would I
footh his ſorrows with my ſweet muſic,
and offer him from a ſhell ſome of the de-
licious fruit that hangs round Neptune's
palace.” .
She was recalled from her reverie „10 a
mere mortal ſupper, and could not forbear
ſmiling at the fancies ſhe had been indul.
ging, and at her conviction of the ſerious
diſpleaſure, which Madame Montoni would
have expreſſed, could ſhe have been made
acquainted with them.
After
mere


( 46 )
After ſupper, her aunt fat late, but Mon-
toni did not return, and ſhe at length retired
to reſt. If Emily had admired the magnifi-
cence of the ſaloon, ſhe was not leſs ſurpriſed,
on obſerving the half-furniſhed and forlorn
appearance of the apartments ſhe paſſed in
the way to her chamber, whither ſhe went
through long ſuits of noble rooms, that
ſeemed, from their deſolate aſpect, to have
been unoccupied for many years. On the
walls of ſome were the faded remains of
tapeſtry ; from others, painted in freſco, the
damps had almoſt withdrawn both co-
lours and deſign. At length ſhe reached
her own chamber, ſpacious, deſolate, and
lofty, like the reſt, with high lattices that
opened towards the Adriatic. It brought
gloomy images to her mind, but the view of
the Adriatic foon gave her others more airy,
among which was that of the fea-nymph,
whoſe delights ſhe had before amuſed her-
ſelf with picturing; and, anxious to eſcape
from ſerious reflections, ſhe now endea-
voured to throw her fanciful ideas into a
train,


( 47 )
train, and concluded the hour with coni.
poſing the following lines :
THE SE A - N Y MP H.
Down, down a thouſand fathom deep,
Among the founding ſeas I go ;
Play round the foot of ev'ry ſteep
Whoſe cliffs above the ocean grow.
There, within their ſecret caves,
I hear the mighty rivers roar!
And guide their ſtreams thro’ Neptune's waves
To bleſs the green earth's inmoſt ſhore :
And bid the freſhen’d waters glide,
For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,
Through winding woods and paftures wide,
And many a wild, romantic nook.
For this the nymphs, at fall of eve,
Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
And fing my name, and garlands weave
To bear beneath the wave their thanks.
In coral bow'rs I love to lie,
And hear the furges roll above,
And through the waters view on high
The proud ſhips fail, and gay clouds move.
And


( 48 )
And oft at midnight's ſtilleſt hour,
When ſummer ſeas the veſſel lave,
I love to prove my charmful pow'r
While floating on the moon-light wave.
And when deep ſleep the crew has bound,
And the ſad lover muſing leans
O'er the ſhip's ſide, I breathe around
Such ſtrains as ſpeak no mortal means !
O'er the dim waves his ſearching eye
Sees but the veſſels lengthen'd ſhade ;
Above--the moun and azure ſky;
Entranc'd he hears, and half afrai!!
Sometimes, a ſingle note I ſwell
That, ſoftly ſweet, at diſtance dies !
Then wake the magic of my ſhell,
And choral voices round me riſe !
The trembling youth, charm’d by my ſtrain,
Calls up the crew, who, filent, bend
O'er the high deck, but lift in vain ;
My ſong is huſh'd, my wonders end !
Within the mountain's woody bay,
Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
I dance upon the lapſing tides :
And


( 49 )
And with my ſiſter-nymphs I ſport,
Till the broad ſun looks o'er the floods ;
Then, ſwift we ſeek our cryſtal court,
Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.
In cool arcades and glaſſy halls
We paſs the ſultry hours of noon,
Beyond wherever ſun-beam falls,
Weaving ſea-flowers in gay feſtoon.
The while we chant our ditties ſweet
To ſome ſoft ſhell that warbles near;
Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,
That glide along our halls ſo clear.
There, the pale pearl and ſapphire blue,
And ruby red, and em’rald green,
Dart from the domes a changing hue,
And ſparry columns deck the ſcene.
When the dark ſtorm fcowls o'er the deep,
And long, long peals of thunder ſound,
On ſome high cliff my watch I keep
O’er all the reſtleſs feas around :
Till on the ridgy wave afar
Comes the lone veſſel, labouring flow,
Spreading the white foam in the air,-
With fail and top-maft bending low.
Vol. II.
•,
Then,


( 50 ) :
Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
My way by quiv'ring lightnings ſhown,
To guide the bark to peaceful ſhore,
And huſh the ſailor's fearful groan.
And if too late I reach its fide .
To ſave it from the 'whelming ſurge,
I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
To bear the crew where illes emerge.
Their mournful ſpirits ſoon I cheer,
While round the deſert coaſt I go,
With warbled ſongs they faintly hear,
Oft as the ſtormy guſt finks low.
My muſic leads to lofty groves,
That wild upon the ſea-bank wave ;
Where ſweet fruits bloom, and freſh ſpring roves,
And cloſing boughs the tempeſt brave.
Then, from the air ſpirits obey
My potent voice they love ſo well,
And, on the clouds, paint viſions gay, ..
While ſtrains more ſweet at diſtance ſwell.
And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
Soothing the ſhipwreck'd ſailor's heart,
Till from the waves the ſtorms retreat,
And o'er the eaſt the day-beams dart.
Neptune


( 51 )
Neptune for this oft binds me faſt
To rocks below, with coral chain,
Till all the tempeſt's over-paſt,
And drowning ſeamen cry in vain.
Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
Come, when red ſun-ſet tints the wave,
To the ſtill ſands, where fairies play;
There, in cool ſeas, I love to lave.
D 2
CHA P.


( 52
)
CH A P. III.
“ He is a great obſerver, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men : he loves no plays
............ he hears no mufic:
Seldom he ſmiles ; and ſmiles in ſuch a ſort,
As if he mock'd himſelf, and ſcorn’d his fpirit
That could be mov'd to ſmile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's eaſe,
When they behold a greater than themſelves."
Julius CÆSAR.
M ONTONI and his companion did not
return home, till many hours after the dawn
had bluſhed upon the Adriatic. The airy
groups, which had danced all night along
the colonnade of St. Mark, diſperſed before
the morning, like ſo many ſpirits. Mon-
toni had been otherwiſe engaged; his ſoul
was little ſuſceptible of light pleaſures. He
delighted in the energies of the paſſions ;
the difficulties and cempeſts of life, which
wreck


( 53 )
Te V
wreck the happineſs of others, rouſed and
ſtrengthened all the powers of his mind,
and afforded him the higheſt enjoyments,
of which his nature was capable. With-
out ſome object of ſtrong intereſt, life
was to him little more than a ſleep; and,
when purſuits of real intereſt failed, he
ſubſtituted artificial ones, till habic chan-
ged their nacure, and they ceaſed to be
unreal. Of this kind was the habit of
gaming, which he had adopted, firſt,
for the purpoſe of relieving him from the
languor of inaction, but had ſince purſued
with the ardour of paſſion. In this occu-
pacion he had paſſed the night with Ca-
vigni and a party of young men, who had
aily more money than rank, and more vice than
ong either. Montoni defpiſed the greater part
fore of theſe for the inferiority of their talents,
rather than for their vicious inclinations,
and aſſociated with them only to make
them the inſtruments of his purpoſes.
Dni!.. Ainong theſe, however, were ſome of ſupe-
zich rior abilities, and a few whom Montoni
admitted
10
JUD
D3


. ( 54 )
admitted to his intimacy, but even towards
theſe he ſtill preſerved a deciſive and haugh-
ty air, which, while it impoſed ſubmiſſion
on weak and timid minds, rouſed the fierce
hatred of ſtrong ones. He had, of courſe,
many and bitter enemies; but the rancour
of their hatred proved the degree of his
power; and, as power was his chief aim,
he gloried more in ſuch hatred, than it was
poffible he could in being eſteemed. A
feeling ſo tempered as that of eſteem, he
deſpiſed, and would have deſpiſed himſelf
alſo had he thought himſelf capable of be.
ing flattered by it.
Among the few whom he diſtinguiſhed,
were the Signors Bertolini, Orſino, and Ve.
rezzi. The firſt was a man of a gay temper,
ſtrong paſſions, diſſipated, and of unbound-
ed extravagance, but generous, brave, and
unſuſpicious. Orſino was reſerved, and
haughty ; loving power more than oſtenta-
tion; of a cruel and fufpicious temper;
quick to feel an injury, and relentleſs in
avenging it; cunning and unſearchable in
i contrivance,
N


( 55 ) .
contrivance, patient and indefatigable in
the execution of his ſchemes. He had a
perfect command of feature and of his
paflions, of which he had ſcarcely any, but
pride, revenge, and avarice; and, in the
gratification of theſe, few conſiderations had
power to reſtrain him, few obſtacles to
withſtand the depth of his ſtratagems. This
man was the chief favourite of Montoni.
Verezzi was a man of ſome talent, of fiery
imagination, and the fave of alternate
paſſions. He was gay, voluptuous, and
daring; yet had neither perſeverance or
true courage, and was meanly ſelfiſh in all
his ainis. Quick to form ſchémes, and fan-
guine in his hope of fucceſs, he was the firſt
to undertake, and to abandon, not only his
own plans, but thoſe adopted from other
perſons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted
againſt all ſubordination; yet thoſe who
were acquainted with his character, and
watched the turn of his paſſions, could lead
him like a child.
D4
Such
ance


( 56 )
Such were the friends whom Montoni ine
troduced to his family and his table, on the
day after his arrival at Venice. There were
alſo of the party a Venetian nobleman,
Count Morano, and a Signora Livona,
whom Montoni had introduced to his wife,
as a lady of diſtinguiſhed merit, and who,
having called in the morning to welcome
her to Venice, had been requeſted to be of
the dinner party.
Madame Montoni received, with a very
ill grace, the compliments of the Signors.
She diſliked them, becauſe they were the
friends of her huſband; hated them, becauſe
The believed they had contributed to detain
him abroad till ſo late an hour of the
preceding morning; and envied them, ſince,
conſcious of her own want of influence, ſhe
was convinced, that he preferred their ſociety
to her own. The rank of Count Morano pro-
cured him that diſtinction which ſhe refuſ-
ed to the reſt of the company. The haughty
ſullenneſs of her countenance and manner,
and


( 57 )
and the oftentatious extravagance of her
dreſs, for ſhe had not yet adopted the Vene-
tian habit, were ſtrikingly contraſted by the
beauty, modeſty, ſweetneſs and ſimplicity
of Emily, who obſerved, with more atten-
tion than pleaſure, the party around her.
The beauty and faſcinating manners of
Signora Livona, however, won her invo-
luntary regard; while the ſweetneſs of her
accents and her air of gentle kindneſs
awakened with Emily thoſe pleaſing affec-
tions, which ſo long had numbered.
In the cool of the evening the party em.
barked in Montoni's gondola, and rowed
out upon the ſea. The red glow of ſun-
fet ſtill touched the waves, and lingered in
the weſt, where the melancholy gleam
feemed Nowly expiring, while the dark blue
of the upper æther began to twinkle with
ſtars. Emily fat, given up to penſive and
ſweet emotions. The limoothneſs of the
water, over which the glided, ils reflected
images--a new heaven and trembling ſtars
below the waves, with ſhadowy outlines of
towers
D 5


( 58 )
CIS
towers and porticos, conſpired with the
ftillneſs of the hour, interrupted only by
the paſſing wave, or the notes of diſtant
muſic, to raiſe thoſe emotions to enthuſiaſm.
As ſhe liſtened to the meaſured ſound of the
oars, and to the remote warblings that came
in the breeze, her ſoftened mind returned
to the memory of St. Aubert and to Valan-
court, and tears ſtole to her eyes. The
rays of the moon, ſtrengthening as the ſha-
dows deepened, foon after threw a ſilvery
gleam upon her countenance, which was
partly ſhaded by a thin black veil, and
touched it with inimitable ſoftneſs. Hers
was the contour of a Madona, with the
ſenſibility of a Magdalen; and the penſive
uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on
her cheek, confirmed the expreſſion of the
character.
The laſt ſtrain of diſtant muſic now died
in air, for the gondola was far upon the
· waves, and the party determined to have
muſic of their own. The Count Morano,
who fat next to Emily, and who had been
obſerving


( 56 )
obſerving her for ſome time in ſilence,
ſnatched up a lute, and ſtruck the chords
with the finger of harmony herſelf, while
his voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them
in a rondeau full of tender ſadneſs. To
him, indeed, might have been applied that
beautiful exhortation of an Engliſh poet,
had it then exiſted :
....“ Strike up, my maſter,
But touch the ſtrings with a religious foftneſs !
Teach ſounds to languiíh through the night's dull ear
Till Melancholy ſtarts from off her couch,
And Careleſſneſs grows convert to Attention.”
With ſuch powers of expreſſion the Count
ſung the following
RON DE AU.
Soft as yon ſilver ray, that ſleeps
Upon the ocean's trembling tide ;
Soft as the air, that lightly ſweeps
Yon fail, that ſwells in ſtately pride :
Soft as the ſurge's ſtealing note,
That dies along the diſtant ſhores,
Or warbled ſtrain, that ſinks remote.
So ſoft the ligh my boſom pours !
: D 6
True


( 60 )
True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,
True as the veſſel to the breeze,
True as the ſoul to muſic's ſway,
Or muſic to Venetian ſeas :
Soft as yon ſilver beams, that ſeep
Upon the ocean's trembling breaſt;
So ſoft, ſo true, fond Love ſhall weep,
So ſoft, ſo true, with thee ſhall reſt.
The cadence with which he returned
from the laſt ſtanza to a repetition of the
firſt; the fine modulation in which his
voice ſtole upon the firſt line, and the pa-
thetic energy with which it pronounced the
laſt, were ſuch as only exquiſite taſte could
give. When he had concluded, he gave
the lute with a ſigh to Emily, who, to avoid
any appearance of affectation, immediately
began to play. She ſung a melancholy
little air, one of the popular ſongs of her
native province, with a ſimplicity and pa-
thos that made it enchanting. But its
well-known melody brought fo forcibly to
her fancy the ſcenes and the perſons, among
which


( 61 )
which ſhe had often heard it, that her fpi-
rits were overcome, her voice trembled and
ceaſed and the ſtrings of the lute were
ſtruck with a diſordered hand; till, alhamed
of the emotion ſhe had betrayed, ſhe ſud-
denly paſſed on to a ſong ſo gay and airy,
that the ſteps of the dance ſeemed almoſt
to echo to the notes. Braviſſimo! burſt
inſtantly from the lips of her delighted
auditors, and ſhe was compelled to repeat
the air. Among the conipliments that
followed, thoſe of the Count were not the
leaſt audible, and they had not concluded,
when Emily gave the inſtrument to Signora
Livona, whoſe voice accompanied it with
true Italian taſte. .
Afterwards the Count, Emily, Cavigni,
and the Signora, ſung canzonettes, accom-
panied by a couple of lutes and a few other
inſtruments. Sometimes the inſtruments
ſuddenly ceaſed, and the voices dropped
from the full fwell of harmony into a low
chant; then, after a deep pauſe, they roſe
by degrees, the inſtruments one by one
Atriking


. ( 62 )
ſtriking up, till the loud and full chorus
ſợared again to heaven!
· Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of
this harmony, was conſidering how he
might diſengage himſelf from his party,
or withdraw with ſuch of it as would be
willing to play, to a Caſino. In a pauſe of
the muſic, he propoſed returning to ſhore,
a propoſal which Orſino eagerly ſeconded,
but which the Count and the other gentle-
men as warmly oppoſed.
Montoni ftill meditated how he might
excuſe himſelf froin longer attendance upon
the Count, for to him only he thought ex-
cuſe neceſſary, and how he might get to
land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,
returning to Venice, hailed his people,
Without troubling himſelf longer about
an excuſe, he ſeized this opportunity of
going thither, and, committing the ladies to
the care of his friends, departed with Or-
fino, while Emily, for the firſt time, faw
him go with regret, for the conſidered
his preſence a protection, though ſhe knew
not


( 63 )
not what ſhe ſhould fear. He landed at St.
Mark's, and, hurrying to a Caſino, was ſoon
loft amidſt a crowd of gameſters.
Meanwhile, the Count having ſecretly
diſpatched a ſervant in Montoni's boat, for
his own gondola and muſicians, Emily
heard, without knowing his project, the
gay ſong of gondolieri approaching, as
they ſat on the ſtern of the boat, and ſaw
the tremulous gleam of the moon-light
wave, which their oars diſturbed. Preſently
ſhe heard the ſound of inſtruments, and
then a full ſymphony ſwelled on the air, and,
the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed
each other. The Count then explaining
himſelf, the party removed into his gondola,
which was embelliſhed with all that taſte
could beſtow.
While they partook of a collation of
fruits and ice, the whole band, follow-
ing at a diſtance, in the other boat,
played the moſt ſweet and enchanting
ſtrains, and the Count, who had again feated
himſelf by Emily, paid her unremitted at-
tention,


( 64 )
tention, and ſometimes, in a low but im-
paflioned voice, uttered compliments which
ſhe could not miſunderſtand. To avoid
them the converſed with Signora Livona,
and her manner to the Count aſſumed a ·
mild reſerve, which, though dignified, was
too gentle to repreſs his afliduities : he
could ſee, hear, ſpeak to no perſon, but
Emily, while Cavigni obſerved him now
and then, with a look of diſpleaſure, and
Emily, with one of uneaſineſs. She now
wiſhed for nothing ſo much as to return to
Venice, but it was near midnight before
the gondolas approached St. Mark's Place,
where the voice of gaiety and ſong was
loud. The buſy hum of mingling ſounds
was heard at a conſiderable diſtance on the
water, and, had not a bright moon-light
diſcovered the city, with its terraces and
towers, a ſtranger would almoſt have
credited the fabled wonders of Neptune's
court, and believed, that the tumult aroſe
from beneath the waves.
They landed at St. Mark's, where the
100
gaiety


( 65 )
gaiety of the colonnades and the beauty of
the night, made Madame Montoni willing-
ly ſubmit to the Count's ſolicitations to join
the promenade, and afterwards to takea fup-
per with the reſt of the party, at his Caſino.
If any thing could have diſſipated Emily's
uneaſineſs, it would have been the grandeur,
gaiety, and novelty of the ſurrounding ſcene,
adorned with Palladio's palaces, and buſy
with parties of maſqueraders.
At length they withdrew to the Caſino,
which was fitted up with infinite taſte, and
where a ſplendid banquet was prepared ;
but here Emily's reſerve made the Count
perceive, that it was neceſſary for his intereſt
to win the favour of Madame Montoni,
which, from the condeſcenſion ſhe had al.
ready ſhewn to him, appeared to be an
achievement of no great difficulty. He
transferred, therefore, part of his attention
from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much
flattered by the diſtinction even to dilguile
her emotion ; and, before the party broke
up, he had entirely engaged the efteen of
Madame
fi
11


( 67 )
im
ment, at length releaſed Emily from the fa-
tigue of further attendance.
Montoni came home late in the morn-
ing, in a very ill humour, having loſt con-
ſiderably at play, and, before he withdrew
to reſt, had a private conference with Ca-
vigni, whoſe manner, on the following day,
ſeemed to tell, that the ſubject of it had not
been pleaſing to him.
In the evening, Madame Montoni, who,
during the day, had obſerved a fullen ſilence
towards her huſband, received viſits from
fome Venetian ladies, with whoſe ſweet
manners Emily was particularly charmed.
They had an air of eaſe and kindneſs to.
wards the ſtrangers, as if they had been their
familiar friends for years; and their con-
verſation was by turns tender, ſentimental,
and gay. Madame, though ſhe had no
talte for ſuch converſation, and whoſe
coarſeneſs and ſelfiſhneſs ſometimes exhi-
bited a ludicrous contraſt to their exceſſive
refinement, could not remain wholly inſen-
ſible to the captivations of their manner.'
In


( 68 )
S
In a pauſe of converſation, a lady who
was called Signora Herminia took up a
lute, and began to play and ſing, with as
much eaſy gaiety, as if ſhe had been alone.
Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone,
and various in expreſſion; yet ſhe appeared
to be entirely unconſcious of ics powers,
and meant nothing leſs than to diſplay
them. She ſung from the gaiety of her
heart, as the fat with her veil half thrown
back, holding gracefully the lute, under
the ſpreading foliage and Aowers of fome
plants, that roſe from baſkets, and inter-
laced one of the lattices of the ſaloon.
Emily, retiring a little from the company,
ſketched her figure, with the miniature
ſcenery around her, and drew a very in.
tereſting picture, which, though it would
not, perhaps, have borne criticiſm, had ſpi.
rit and taſte enough to awaken both the
fancy and the heart. When ſhe had finiſh-
ed it, the preſented it to the beautiful ori.
ginal, who was delighted with the offering,
as well as the ſentiment it conveyed, and
aſſured


(69)
affured Emily, with a ſmile of captivating
ſweetneſs, that the ſhould preſerve it as a
pledge of her friendſhip.
In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies,
but Montoni had other engagements; and
they embarked in the gondola for St.
Mark’s, where the ſame gay company
ſeemed to flutter as on the preceding night.
The cool breeze, the glaſſy ſea, the gentle
ſound of its waves, and the ſweeter mur.
mur of diftant muſic; the lofty porticos and
arcades, and the happy groups that faun-
tered beneath them; theſe, with every fea-
ture and circumſtance of the ſcene, united
to charm Emily, no longer teaſed by the
officious attentions of Count Morano. But,
as ſhe looked upon the moon-light ſea, un-
dularing along the walls of St. Mark, and,
lingering for a moment over thoſe walls,
caught the ſweet and melancholy ſong of
ſome gondolier as he ſat in his boat below,
waiting for his maſter, her ſoftened mind
returned to the memory of her home, of
,
her


( 70 )
her friends, and of all that was dear in her
natife country.
After walking ſome time, they ſat down at
the door of a Caſino, and, while Cavigni was
accommodating them with coffee and ice,
were joined by Count Morano. He fought
Emily with a look of impatient delight,
who, remembering all the attention he had
ſhewn her on the preceding evening, was
compelled, as before, to ſhrink from his
affiduities into a timid reſerve, except when
fhe converſed with Signora Herminia and
the other ladies of her party.
It was near midnight before they with-
drew to the opera, where Emily was not ſo
charmed but that, when ſhe remembered
the ſcene ſhe had juſt quitted, ſhe felt how
infinitely inferior all the ſplendour of art is
to the ſublimity of nature. Her heart was
not now affected, tears of admiration did
not ſtart to her eyes, as when ſhe viewed
the vaſt expanſe of ocean, the grandeur
of the heavens, and liſtened to the rolling
waters,


(71)
waters, and to the faint inuſic that, at in:
tervals, mingled with their roar. Remem.
bering theſe, the ſcene before her faded into
inſignificance.
Of the evening, which paſſed on without
any particular incident, ſhe wiſhed the con-
clufion, that ſhe might eſcape from the at-
tentions of the Count; and, as oppoſite
qualities frequently attract each other in our
thoughts, thus Emily, when ſhe looked on
Count Morano, remembered Valancourt,
and a ſigh fometimes followed the recol-
lection.
Several week's paſſed in the courſe of
cuſtomary viſits, during which nothing re-
markable occurred. Emily was amuſed
by the manners and ſcenes that ſurrounded
her, ſo different from thoſe of France, but
where Count Morano, too frequently for
her comfort, contrived to introduce him.
felf. His manner, figure and accompliſh-
ments, which were generally admired,
Emily would, perhaps, have admired alſo,
had her heart been diſengaged from Va-
lancourt,
VCI


( 72 )
lancourt, and had the Count forborne to
perſecute her with officious attentions, dur-
ing which ſhe obſerved fome traits in his
character, that prejudiced her againſt what-
ever might otherwiſe be good in it.
Soon after his arrival at Venice, Mon-
toni received a packer from M. Queſnel,
in which the latter mentioned the death of
his wife's uncle, at his villa on the Brenta;
and that, in conſequence of this event, he
fhould haſten to take poſſeſſion of that
eſtate and of other effects bequeathed to
him. This uncle was the brother of
Madame Queſnel's late mother ; Montoni
was related to her by the father's ſide; and
though he could have had neither claim nor
expectation concerning theſe poffeſſions, he
could ſcarcely conceal the envy which M.
Queſnel's letter excited.
Emily had obſerved with concern, that,
ſince they left France, Montoni had not
even affected kindneſs towards her aunt,
and that, after treating her, at firſt, with
neglect, he now met her with uniform ill-
humour


í 73 )
hamour and reſerve. She had never fup-
poſed, that her aunt's foibles could have
eſcaped the diſcernment of Montoni, or
that her mind or figure were of a kind to
deſerve his attention. Her ſurpriſe, there-
fore, at this match, had been extreme; but
ſince he had made the choice, ſhe did not
fufpect that he would fo openly have diſco-
covered his contempt of it. But Montoni,
who had been allured by the ſeeming wealth
of Madame Cheron, was now ſeverely diſ.
appointed by her comparative poverty, and
highly exaſperated by the deceit ſhe had
employed to conceal it, till concealment
was no longer neceſſary. He had been
deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to
be the deceiver; outwitted by the ſuperior
cunning of a woman, whoſe underſtanding
he deſpiſed, and to whom he had facrificed
his pride and his liberty,' without ſaving
himſelf from the ruin, which had impended
over his head. Madame Montoni had
contrived to have the greateſt part of what
the really did poſſeſs, ſettled upon herſelf:
· VOL. II. E
what


( 74 )
what remained, though it was totally inade.
quate both to her huſband's expectations,
and to his neceſlities, he had converted into
money, and brought with him to Venice,
that he might a little longer delude ſociety,
and make a laſt effort to regain the fortunes
he had loſt.
The hints which had been thrown out to
Valancourt, concerning Montoni's charac-
ter and condition, were too true; but it
was now left to time and occaſion, to un-
fold the circumſtances, both of what had,
and of what had not been hinted, and to
time and occaſion we commit them.
Madame Montoni was not of a nature to
bear injuries with meekneſs, or to reſent
them with dignity: her exaſperated pride
diſplayed itſelf in all the violence and
acrimony of a little, or at leaſt of an ill-
regulated mind. She would not acknow-
ledge, even to herſelf, that ſhe had in any
degree provoked contempt by her dupli-
city, but weakly perſiſted in believing, that
ſhe alone was to be pitied, and Montoni
alone


( 75 )
nai
-
alone to be cenſured; for, as her mind had
naturally little perception of moral obliga-
tion, ſhe ſeldom underſtood its force but
when it happened to be violated towards
herſelf: her vanity had already been ſevere.
ly ſhocked by a diſcovery of Montoni's
contempt; it remained to be farther re-
proved by a diſcovery of his circumſtances.
His manſion at Venice, though its furniture
diſcovered a part of the truth to unprejudi-
ced perſons, told nothing to thoſe who were
blinded by a reſolution to believe whatever
they wiſhed. Madame Montoni ſtill thought
herſelf little leſs than a princeſs, poffefling
a palace at Venice, and a caſtle among the
Apennines. To the caſtle di Udolpho, in-
deed, Montoni fometimes talkcd of going
for a few weeks to examine into its condio
tion, and to receive ſome rents; for it ap-
peared that he had not been there for two
years, and that, during this period, it had
been inhabited only by an old ſervant, whom
he called his ſteward.
E 2
Emily
!.


( 76 )
Emily liſtened to the mention of this
journey with pleaſure, for ſhe not only ex-
pected from it new ideas, but a releaſe
from the perſevering aſſiduities of Count
Morano. In the country, too, ſhe would
have leiſure to think of Valancourt, and to
indulge the melancholy, which his image,
and a recollection of the ſcenes of La Val-
Jée, always bleſſed with the memory of her
parents, awakened. The ideal ſcenes were
dearer, and more foothing to her heart,
than all the ſplendour of gay aſſemblies;
they were a kind of taliſman that expelled
the poiſon of temporary evils, and ſupport-
ed her hopes of happy days: they appeared
like a beautiful landſcape, lighted up by a
gleam of ſunſhine, and ſeen through a per.
ſpective of dark and rugged rocks.
But Count Morano did not long confine
himſelf to ſilent affiduities; he declared
his paſſion to Emily, and made propo-
fals to Montoni, who encouraged, though
Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his
friend,


( 77 )
friend, and an abundance of vanity to de.
lude him, he did not deſpair of ſucceſs,
Emily was aſtoniſhed and highly diſguſted
at his perſeverance, after ſhe had explained
her ſentiments with a frankneſs that would
not allow him to miſunderſtand them.
He now paſſed the greater part of his
time at Montoni's, dining there almoſt
daily, and attending Madame and Emily
wherever they went; and all this, notwith-
ſtanding the uniform reſerve of Emils,
whoſe aunt ſeemed as anxious as Montoni
to promote this marriage; and would never
diſpenſe with her attendance at any aſſembly
where the Count propoſed to be preſent.
Montoni now ſaid nothing of his intended
journey, of which Emily waited impatiently
to hear; and he was ſeldom at home but
when the Count, or Signor Orſno, was there,
for between himſelf and Cavigni a coolneſs
ſeemed to ſubfift, though the latter re-
mained in his houſe. With Orſino, Mon-
toni was frequently cloſeted for hours to-
gether, and, whatever might be the buſi-
neſs,
E 3


( 78 )
VO
neſs, upon which they conſulted, it ap-
peared to be of confequence, ſince Mon.
toni often ſacrificed to it his favourite
paſſion for play, and remained at home the
whole night. There was ſomewhat of
privacy, too, in the manner of Orſino's
viſits, which had never before occurred,
and which excited not only ſurpriſe, but
fome degree of alarm in Emily's mind,
who had unwillingly diſcovered much of
his character when he had moſt endea.
voured to diſguiſe it. After thele viſits,
Montoni was often more thoughtful than
uſual; ſometimes the deep workings of
his mind entirely abſtracted him from ſur-
rounding objects, and threw a gloom over
his viſage that rendered it terrible; at
others, his eyes ſeemed almoſt to flaſh
fire, and all the energies of his ſoul appear.
ed to be rouſed for ſome great enterpriſe.
Emily obſerved theſe written characters of
his thoughts with deep intereſt, and not
without ſome degree of awe, when ſhe con-
ſidered that ſhe was entirely in his power; but
forbore


( 79 )
forbore even to hint her fears, or her obfer-
vations, to Madame Montoni, who diſcern-
ed nothing in her huſband, at theſe times,
but his uſual ſternneſs.
A ſecond letter from M. Queſnel an.
nounced the arrival of himſelf and his lady
at the villa Miarenti; ſtated ſeveral cir-
cumſtances of his good fortune, reſpecting
the affair that had brought him into Italy;
and concluded with an earneſt requeſt to
fee Montoni, his wife and niece, at his new
eſtate.
· Emily received, about the ſame period,
a much more intereſting letter, and which
foothed for a while every anxiety of her
heart. Valancourt, hoping ſhe might be
ſtill at Venice, had truſted a letter to the
ordinary poſt, that told her of his health,
and of his unceaſing and anxious affection.
He had lingered at Tholouſe for ſome time
after her departure, that he might indulge
the melancholy pleaſure of wandering
through the ſcenes where he had been ac-,
cuſtomed to behold her, and had thence
E 4
gone


( 80 )
gone to his brother's chateau, which was in
the neighbourhood of La Vallée. Having
mentioned this, he added, “ If the duty
of attending my regiment did not require
my departure, I know not when I ſhould
have reſolution enough to quit the neigh-
bourhood of a place which is endeared by
the remembrance of you. The vicinity to
La Vallée has alone detained me thus long
at Eſtuviere : I frequently ride thither early
in the morning, that I may wander, at
leiſure, through the day, among ſcenes,
which were once your home, where I have
been accuſtomed to ſee you, and to hear
you converſe. I have renewed my ac-
quaintance with the good old Thereſa,
who rejoiced to ſee me, that ſhe might talk
of you: I need not ſay how much this:
circumſtance attached me to her, or how
eagerly I liſtened to her upon her favourite
ſubject. You will guefs the motive that
firſt induced me to make myſelf known to
Thereſa: it was, indeed, no other than
that of gaining admittance into the chateau.
and
CI


( 81 )
and gardens, which my Emily had ſo late.
ly inhabited : here, then, I wander, and
meet your image under every ſhade : but
chiefly I love to ſit beneath the ſpreading
branches of your favourite plane, where
once, Emily, we fat together ; where I firſt
ventured to tell you, that I loved. O
Emily ! the remembrance of thoſe moments
overcomes me I ſit loſt in reverie-1 en-
deavour to ſee you dimly through my tears,
in all the heaven of peace and innocence,
ſuch as you then appeared to me; to hear
again the accents of that voice, which then
thrilled my heart with tenderneſs and hope.
I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we
together watched the rapid current of the
Garonne below, while I deſcribed the wild
ſcenery about its fource, but thought only of
you. O Emily! are theſe moments paſſed
for ever—will they never more return ?"
In another part of his letter he wrote
thus. “ You ſee my letter is dated on many
different days, and, if you look back to
the firſt, you will perceive, that I began to
E 5
write
LU


( 82 )
write ſoon after your departure from France.
To write was, indeed, the only employment
that withdrew me from my own melancholy,
and rendered your abſence ſupportable, or
rather, it feemed to deſtroy abſence ; for,
when I was converſing with you on paper,
and telling you every ſentiment and affec-
tion of my heart, you almoſt appeared to
be preſent. This employment has been
froin time to time my chief conſolation,
and I have deferred fending off my packet,
merely for the comfort of prolonging it,
though it was certain, that what I had
written, was written to no purpoſe till you
received it. Whenever my mind has been
more than uſually depreſſed I have come
to pour forth its forrows to you, and have
always found conſolation; and, when any
little occurrence has intereſted my heart,
and given a gleam of joy to my ſpirits, I
have haftened to communicate it to you,
and have received reflected fatisfaction.
Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my
life and of my thoughts for the laſt month,
and


( 33 )
and thus, though it has been deeply intereſt-
ing to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope
will, for the faine reaſon, be not indifferent
to you, yet to other readers it would ſeem
to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is
always, when we attempt to deſcribe the finer
movements of the heart, for they are too fine
to be diſcerned, they can only be experi-
enced, and are therefore paſſed over by the
indifferent obſerver, while the intereſted one
feels, that all deſcription is imperfect and
unneceſſary, except as it may prove the
ſincerity of the writer, and footh his own
ſufferings. You will pardon all this ego-
tiſm-for I am a lover.
« I have juſt heard of a circumſtance,
which entirely deſtroys all my fairy para-
diſe of ideal delight, and which will recon-
cile me to the neceſſity of returning to my
regiment, for I muſt no longer wander be-
neath the beloved ſhades, where I have been
accuſtomed to meet you in thought.-La
Vallée is let! I have reaſon to believe this
is without your knowledge, from what
E 6 . Thereſa


Therefa told me this morning, and, there-
fore, I mention the circumſtance. She ſhed
tears, while ſhe related, that the was going
to leave the ſervice of her dear miſtreſs, and
the chateau where ſhe had lived ſo many
happy years; and all this, added ſhe, with-
out even a letter from Mademoiſelle to ſoften
the news; but it is all Monf. Queſnel's do-
ings, and I dare ſay ſhe does not even know
what is going forward.
“ Thereſa added, That ſhe had received
a letter from him, informing her the chateau
was let, and that, as her ſervices would no
longer be required, ſhe muſt quit the place,
on that day week, when the new tenant
would arrive.
«c Thereſa had been ſurpriſed by a viſit
from M. Queſnel, ſome time before the re-
ceipt of this letter, who was accompanied
by a ſtranger that viewed the premiſes with
much curioſity.”
Towards the concluſion of his letter,
which is dated a week after this ſentence,
Valancourt adds, “ I have received a ſum-
mons


( 85 )
mons from my regiment, and I join it
without regret, ſince I am ſhut out from
the ſcenes that are ſo intereſting to my heart.
I rode to La Vallée this morning, and heard
that the new tenant was arrived, and that
Thereſa was gone. I ſhould not treat the
fubject thus familiarly if I did not believe
you to be uninformed of this diſpoſal of
your houſe ; for your ſatisfaction I have
endeavoured to learn ſomething of the cha-
racter and fortune of your tenant, but with-
out ſucceſs. He is a gentleman, they ſay,
and this is all I can hear. The place, as I
wandered round the boundaries, appeared
more melancholy to my imagination, than
I had ever ſeen it. I wiſhed earneſtly to
have got admittance, that I might have
taken another leave of your favourite plane-
tree, and thought of you once more beneath
its ſhade: but I forbore to tempo che cu-
rioſity of ſtrangers: the fiſhing-houſe in the
woods, however, was ſtill open to me; thi-
ther I went, and paſſed an hour, which I
cannot even look back upon without emo-
tion.


( 86 )
'tion. O Emily! ſurely we are not fepa-
Fated for ever-ſurely we ſhall live for each
other!”
This letter brought many tears to Emily's.
eyes ; tears of tenderneſs and ſatisfaction
on learning that Valancourt was well, and
that time and abſence had in no degree
effaced her image froin' his heart. There
were paſſages in this letter which particu-
larly affected her, ſuch as thoſe deſcribing
his viſits to La Vallée, and the ſentiments
of delicate affection that its ſcenes had.
awakened. It was a conſiderable time before
her mind was ſufficiently abſtracted from
Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence
concerning La Vallée. That Monf. Queſnei
ſhould let it, without even conſulting her.
on the meaſure, both ſurpriſed and ſhocked.
her, particularly as it proved the abſolute
authority he thought himſelf entitled to:
exerciſe in her affairs. It is true, he had
propoſed, before ſhe left France, that the
ehateau ſhould be let, during her abſence,
and to the economical prudence of this
the


( 87 )
2. She had nothing to object; but the com-
h 2 mitting what had been her father's viila to
the power and caprice of ſtrangers, and the
= depriving herſelf of a ſure home, ſhould
any unhappy circumſtances make her look
back to her home as an aſylum, were con-
e ? fiderations that made her, even then,
e ſtrongly oppoſe the meaſure. Her father,
too, in his laſt hour, had received from her
a ſolemn promiſe never to diſpoſe of La
Vallée; and this the conſidered as in
fome degree violated if the ſuffered the
place to be let. But it was now evident
with how little reſpect M. Queſnel had
regarded theſe objections, and how infig-
nificant he conſidered every obſtacle to pe-
cuniary advantage. It appeared, alſo, that
he had not even condeſcended to ina.
form Montoni of the ſtep he had taken,
ſince no motive was evident for Montoni's
concealing the circumſtance from her, if it
had been made known to him: this both dif-
pleaſed and ſurpriſed her; but the chief ſub-
jects of her uneaſineſs were the temporary
difpofal
was


( 88 ]
difpofal of La Vallée, and the diſmiſſion
of her father's old and faithful ſervant.-
“ Poor Thereſa," ſaid Emily, “ thou hadſt
not ſaved much in thy fervitude, for thou
waſt always tender towards the poor, and
believedſt thou ſhouldſt die in the family,
where thy beſt years had been ſpent.
Poor Thereſa !--now art thou turned out
in thy old age to ſeek thy bread!"
Emily wept bitterly as theſe thoughts:
paſſed over her mind, and the determined
to conſider what could be done for Thereſa,
and to talk very explicitly to M. Queſnel
on the ſubject; but the much feared that
his cold heart could feel only for itſelf. She
determined alſo to enquire whether he had
made any mention of her affairs, in his let-
ters to Montoni, who foon gave her the
opportunity, ſhe fought, by deſiring that
ſhe would attend him in his ſtudy. She
had little doubt, that the interview was in-
tended for the purpoſe of communicating
to her a part of M. Queſnel's letter con-
cerning the tranſactions at La Vallée, and
the


( 89 )
7
fhe obeyed him immediately. Montori
was alone,
“I have juſt been writing to Monſ.
Queſnel,” ſaid he when Emily appeared,
" in reply to the letter I received from
him a few days ago, and I wiſhed to talk
to you upon a fubject that occupied part
of it.”
“ I alfo wiſhed to ſpeak with you on
this topic, ſir,” ſaid Emily.
“ It is a ſubject of fome intereſt to you,
undoubtedly," rejoined Montoni, “ and I
think you muſt ſee it in the light that I
do; indeed it will not bear any other. I
truſt you will agree with me, that any ob-
jection founded on ſentiment, as they call
it, ought to yield to circumſtances of ſolid
advantage.”
“Granting this, fir," replied Emily,
modeſtly, “ thoſe of humanity ought ſurely
to be attended to. But I fear it is now too
late to deliberate upon this plan, and I muſt
regret, that it is no longer in my power to
reject it.'?
GIE


( 90 )
..." It is too late," ſaid Montoni, “but
ſince it is ſo, I am pleaſed to obſerve, that
you ſubmit to reaſon and neceſſity with-
out indulging uſeleſs complaint." I applaud
this conduct exceedingly, the more, per-
haps, ſince it diſcovers a ſtrength of mind
feldom obſervable in your fex. When
you are older you will look back with gra,
citude to the friends who aſlifted in reſcuing
you from the romantic illuſions of fenti-
ment, and will perceive, that they are only
the ſnares of childhood, and ſhould be
vanquiſhed the moment you eſcape from
the nurfery. I have not cloſed my letter,
and you may add a few lines to inform your
uncle of your acquieſcence. You will
foon ſee hin, for it is my intention to take
you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days
to Miarenti, and you can then talk over
the affair.”
· Emily wrote on the oppoſite page of the
paper as follows:
“ It is now uſeleſs, fir, for me to remon-
ſtrate upon the circumſtances of which
Signor


(91)
with
the
.
"be?Signor. Montoni informs me that he has
written. I could have wiſhed, at leaſt, that
the affair had been concluded with leſs pre-
Claud cipitation, that I might have taught my felf
per to ſubdue ſome prejudices, as the Signor
erind calls thein, which ſtill linger in my heart.
Then? As it is, I ſubmit. In point of prudence
nothing certainly can be objected; but,
though I ſubmit, I have yet much to ſay
on ſome other points of the ſubject, when
mily: I ſhall have the honour of ſeeing you. In
be the mean time I entreat you will take care
un' of Thereſa, for the ſake of,
Sir,
Your affectionate niece,
Emily St. Aubert."
Montoni fmiled ſatirically at what Emily
had written, but did not object to it, and
The withdrew to her own apartment, where
ſhe ſat down to begin a letter to Valancourt,
in which ſhe related the particulars of her
journey, and her arrival at Venice, deſcribed
ſome of the moſt ſtriking ſcenes in the paſ-
ſage
"
.
"


( 921
fage over che Alps; her emotions on her
firſt view of Italy; the manners and cha-
racters of the people around her, and ſome
few circumſtances of Montoni's conduct.
But ſhe avoided even naming Count Ma-
rano, much more the declaration he had
made, ſince ſhe well knew how tremblingly
alive to fear is real love, how jealoully
watchful of every circumſtance that may
affect its intereſt ; and ſhe fcrupulouſly
avoided to give Valancourt even the lighteſt
reaſon for believing he had a rival.
On the following day Count Morano
dined again at Montoni's. He was in an
uncommon flow of ſpirits, and Emily
thought there was ſomewhat of exultation
in his manner of addreſſing her, which ſhe
had never obſerved before. She endeavour-
ed to repreſs this by more than her uſual re-
ferve, but the cold civility of her air now
ſeemed rather to encourage than to depreſs
him. He appeared watchful of an oppor.
tunity of ſpeaking with her alone, and more
than once ſolicited this; but Emily always
replied,


( 93 )
replied, that ſhe could hear nothing from
him which he would be unwilling to repeat
before the whole company.
In the evening, Madame Montoni and
her party went out upon the ſea, and as
the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he
carried her hand to his lips, and thanked
her for the condeſcenſion ſhe had ſhewn
him. Emily, in extreme ſurpriſe and diſ.
pleaſure, haſtily withdrew her hand, and
concluded that he had ſpoken ironically ;
but, on reaching the ſteps of the terrace,
and obſerving by the livery, that it was
the Count's zendaletto, which waited below,
while the reſt of the party, having arranged
themſelves in the gondolas, were moving
on, ſhe determined not to permit a ſepa-
rate converſation, and, wifhing him a good
evening, returned to the portico. The
Count followed to expoſtulate and entreat,
and Montoni, who then came out, ren-
dered ſolicitation unneceſſary, for, without
condeſcending to ſpeak, he took her hand,
and led her to the xendaletto. 'Emily was
not


( 94 )
IN
not ſilent; ſhe entreated Montoni, in a low
voice, to conſider the impropriety of theſe
circumſtances, and that he would ſpare her
the mortification of ſubmitting to them ;
he, however, was in flexible,
“ This caprice is intolerable," faid he,
's and fall not be indulged: here is no
impropriety in the caſe."
At this moment, Emily's diſlike of Count
Morano aroſe to abhorrence. That he
ſhould, with undaunted aſſurance, thus
purſue her, notwithſtanding all ſhe had
expreſſed on the ſubject of his addreſſes,
and think, as it was evident he did, that
her opinion of him was of no conſequence,
ſo long as his pretenſions were ſanctioned by
Montoni, added indignation to the diſguſt
which ſhe had felt towards him. She was
fomewhat relieved by obſerving that Mon-
toni was to be of the party, who feated him.
ſelf on one ſide of her, while Morano placed
himſelf on the other. There was a pauſe of
ſome moments as the gondolieri prepared
their oars, and Emily trembled from appre-
henſion


( 95 )
henſion of the diſcourſe that might follow
this filence. At length ſhe collected cou-
rage to break it herſelf, in the hope of pre-
venting fine fpeeches from Morano, and
reproof from Montoni. To ſome trivial
remark which ſhe made, the latter returned
a ſhort and diſobliging reply; but Morano
immediately followed with a general obſer-
vation, which he contrived to end with a
particular compliment, and, though Emily
paſſed it without even the notice of a ſmile,
he was not diſcouraged.
" I have been impatient,” ſaid he, ad-
dreſſing Emily, “ to expreſs my gratitude ;
to thank you for your goodneſs; but I muſt
alſo thank Signor Montoni, who has allow-
ed me this opportunity of doing ſo.
Emily regarded the Count with a look of
mingled aſtoniſhment and diſpleaſure.” .
“ Why,” continued he, “ ſhould you
wiſh to diminiſh the delight of this mo-
ment by that air of cruel reſerve ?--Why
ſeek to throw me again into the perplexities
of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contra-
- dict


( 96 )
dict the kindneſs of your late declaration ?
You cannot doubt the fincerity, the ardour
of my paſſion; it is therefore unneceſſary,
charming Emily ! ſurely unneceſſary, any
longer to attempt a diſguiſe of your ſenti-
ments."
“ If I ever had diſguiſed tliem, ſir,” ſaid
Emily, with recollected ſpirit, “ it would
certainly be unneceſſary any longer to do
ſo. I had hoped, fir, that you would have
ſpared me any farther neceſſity of alluding
to them; but, ſince you do not grant“this,
hear me declare, and for the laſt time, that
your perſeverance has deprived you even of
the eſteem, which I was inclined to believe
you merited.”
“ Aſtoniſhing !” exclaimed Montoni :
“this is beyond even my expectation, though
I have hitherto done juſtice to the caprice
of the ſex! But you will obſerve, Made.
moiſelle Emily, that I am no lover, though
Count Morano is, and that I will not be
made the amuſement of your capricious
moments. Here is the offer of an alliance, ,
which


( 97 )
which would do honour to any family;
yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you
long reſiſted my remonftrances, but my
honour is now engaged, and it ſhall rot
be trifled with. You ſhall adhere to the
declaration, which you have made me an
agent to convey to the Count.”
“I muſt certainly miſtake you, ſir,” ſaid ,
Emily; “ my anſwers on the ſubject have
been uniform; it is unworthy of you to
accuſe inę of caprice. If you have conde-
ſcended to be my agent, it is an honour I
did not ſolicit. I myſelf have conſtantly
aſſured Count Morano, and you alſo, ſir,
that I never can accept the honour he offers
me, and I now repeat the declaration."
The Count looked with an air of ſurpriſe
and enquiry at Montoni, whoſe countenance
alſo was marked with ſurpriſe, but it was
ſurpriſe mingled with indignation.
“ Here is confidence, as well as caprice!"
ſaid the latter. “ Will you deny your own
words, madam?"
“ Such a queſtion is unworthy of an an-
VOL. II.
ſwer,


( 98 )
I
no
W
ſwer, ſir," ſaid Emily, bluſhing; "you will
recollect yourſelf, and be ſorry that you
have aſked it."
“ Speak to the point,” rejoined Mon-
toni, in a voice of increaſing vehemence.
" Will you deny your own words; will
you deny, that you acknowledged, only a,
few hours ago, that it was too late to re-
cede from your engagements, and that you
accepted the Count's hand ?"
« I will deny all this, for no words of
mine ever imported it."
“ Aſtoniſhing! Will you deny what you
wrote to Monf. Queſnel, your uncle ? if
you do, your own hand will bear teſtimony
againſt you. What have you now to ſay ?”
continued Montoni, obſerving the ſilence
and confuſion of Emily.
“ I now perceive, ſir, that you are under
a very great error, and that I have been
equally miſtaken.”
“ No more duplicity, I entreat; be open
and candid, if it be poſſible.”
“ I have always been ſo, fir; and can
ice
claim


( 99 )
claim no merit in ſuch conduct, for I have
had nothing to conceal.”
“How is this, Signor ?” cried Morano,
with trembling emotion.
“Suſpend your judgment, Count,"l re-
plied Montoni, " the wiles of a fernale
; heart are unſearchable. Now, madam, your
explanation.”
“Excuſe me, ſir, if I withhold my ex-
planation till you appear willing to give me
your confidence; affertion at, preſent can
only ſubject me to inſule.”
“Your explanation, I entreat you!” ſaid
Morano.
“Well, well,” rejoined Montoni, " I
give you my confidence; let us hear this
explanation.”
; “Let me lead to it, then, by aſking a
queſtion.” .
.." As many as you pleaſe,” ſaid Montoni,
contemptuouſly.
1 “What, then, was the ſubject of your
letter to Monf. Queſnel?”.
F2
“ The


( 100 )
20
« The ſame that was the ſubject of your
note to him, certainly. You did well to
ftipulate for my confidence before you de-
• manded that queſtion.”
“ I muſt beg you will be more explicit,
ſir ; what was that ſubjeết ?”
- What could it be, but the noble offer
of Count Morano ?” ſaid Montoni.
« Then, ſir, we entirely miſunderſtood
each other,” replied Emily.
.“ We entirely miſunderſtood each other
too, I ſuppoſe,” rejoined Montoni, “in
the converſation which preceded the writ-
ing of that note ? I muſt do you the juſtice
to own, that you are very ingenious at this
ſame art of miſunderſtanding."
Emily tried to reſtrain the tears that came
to her eyes, and to anſwer with becoming
firmnefs. "Allow me, ſir, to explain my-
ſelf fully, or to be wholly ſilent.”
66. The explanation may now be dif- 1
penſed with; it is anticipated. If Count
Morano ſtill thinks one neceſſary, I will
give


( 10 )
give him an honeſt one. You have changed
your intention ſince our laſt converſation;
top and, if he can have patience and humility
enough to wait till to-morrow, he will pro-
ch bably find it chancred again: but as I have
neither the patience or the humility, which
BE: you expect from a lover, I warn you of the
effect of my diſpleaſure !” +
“ Montoni, you are too precipitate,"
ſaid the Count, who had liſtened to this
converſation in extreme anxiety and impa-
tience ;-Signora, I entreat your own
explanation of this affair !"
“Signor Montoni has ſaid juſtly," re-
plied Emily, 6 that all explanation may
now be diſpenſed with; after what has
paſſed I cannot ſuffer myſelf to give one.
It is ſufficient for me, and for you, ſir, that
I repeat my late declaration ; let me hope
this is the laſt time it will be neceſſary for
me to repeat it-I never can accept the ho.
nour of your alliance.”
6- Charming Emily !” exclaimed the
Count in an impaſſioned tone, “ let not
refent-
wil


102
refentment make you unjuſt; let me not
ſuffer; for the offence of Montoni !-Re-
voke "
« Offence !" interrupted - Montoni
“ Count, this language is ridiculous, this
ſubmiſſion is childiſh !-Speak as becomes
a man, not as the ſlave of a petty tyrant.”
“ You diſtract me, Signor; fuffer me to
plead my own cauſe; you have already
proved inſufficient to it."
“ All converſation on this ſubject, fir,"
faid Emily, “is worſe than uſeleſs, ſince
it can bring only pain to each of us: if you
would oblige me, purſue it no further."
“ It is impoſſible, madam, that I can
thus eaſily reſign the object of a paſſion,
which is the delight and torment of my life.
--I muſt ſtill love-ſtill purſue you with -
unremitting ardour;—when you ſhall be
convinced of the ſtrength and conſtancy of
my paſſion, your heart muſt ſoften into pity
and repentance."
• Is this generous, fir ? is this manly ?
Can it either deſerve or obtain the eſteem
. you


( 103 ì
you folicit, thus to continue a perfecution
from which I have no preſent means of
eſcaping?”
A gleam of moon-light that fell upon
Morano's countenance, revealed the ſtrong
emotions of his ſoul; and, glancing on
Montoni, diſcovered the dark reſentment,'
which contraſted his features. -
6 By heaven this is too much !” ſud-
denly exclaimed the Count; “ Signor
Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you
that I ſhall look for explanation.”
- From me, fir! you ſhall have it;"
muttered Montoni, « if your diſcernment
is indeed ſo far obſcured by paſſion, as to
make explanation neceſſary. And for you,
madam, you ſhould learn, that a man of
honour is not to be trified with, though you
may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a boy
like a pupper."
This ſarcaſm rouſed the pride of Mo.
rang, and the reſentment which he had felt
at the indifference of Emily, being loft in
incrignation of the infolence of Montoni,
!
F4
he


( 104 )
he determined to mortify him, by defend-
ing her.
“ This alſo,” ſaid he, replying to Mon-
toni's laſt words, “ this alſo, ſhall not paſs
unnoticed. I bid you learn, fir, that you
have a ſtronger enemy than a woman to
contend with: I will protect Signora St.
Aubert from your threatened reſentment.
You have miſled me, and would revenge
your diſappointed views upon the inno-
cent,"
“ Milled you !" retorted Montoni with
quickneſs, “ is my conduct ---my word_"
then pauſing, while he ſeemed endeavouring
to reſtrain the reſentment, that flaſhed in his
eyes, in the next moment he added, in a
fubdued voice, “ Count Morano, this is a
language, a ſort of conduct to which I
am not accuſtomed: it is the conduct of a
paſſionate boy-as ſuch, 1 paſs it over in
contempt.”
“ In contempt, Signor ?”
“ The reſpect I owe myſelf,” rejoined
Montoni, “requires, that I ſhould converſe
more


( 105 )
more largely with you upon ſome points of
the ſubject in diſpute. Return with me to
Venice, and I will condeſcend to convince
you of your error."
“ Condeſcend, ſir! but I will not conde-
fcend to be ſo converſed with.”
Montoni ſmiled contemptuouſly; and
Emily, now terrified for the conſequences.
of what ſhe ſaw and heard, could no longer
be ſilent. She explained the whole ſubject
upon which ſhe had miſtaken Montoni in
the morning, declaring, that ihe underſtood
him to have conſulted her ſolely concerning
the diſpoſal of La Vallée, and concluded
with entreating, that he would write im-
mediately to M. Queſnel, and rectify the:
miſtake. .
But Montoni either was, or affected to
be, ſtill incredulous; and Count Morand
was ſtill entangled in perplex. ry. While
ſhe was ſpeaking, however, the attention of
her auditors had been diverted from the
immedia:e occaſion of their reſentment,
and their paſſion conſequently became leſs
F5.
Montoni


(106)
Montoni deſired the Count would order his
ſervants to row back to Venice, that he
might have ſome private converſation with
him; and Morano, ſomewhat foothed by
his ſoftened voice and manner, and eager to
examine into the full extent of his difficul,
ties, complied."
Emily, comforted by this proſpect of
releaſe, employed the preſent moments in
endeavouring, with conciliating care, to
prevent any fatal miſchief between the per-,
fons who fo lately had perſecuted and in-
fulted her.
- Her ſpirits revived, when ſhe heard once
more the voice of ſong and laughter, re-
ſounding from the grand canal, and at
length entered again between its ſtately
piazzas. The zendaletto ſtopped at Mon-
toni’s manſion, and the Count haſtily led
her into il: hall, where Montoni took his
arm, and ſaid foniething in a low voice, on
which Morano kiſſed the hand he held,
notwithſtanding Emily's effort to diſen-
gage it, and, wiſhing her a good evening,
with


( 109 )
with an accent and look ſhe could not miſ.
underſtand, returned to his zendaletto with
Montoni.
Emily, in her own apartment, conſidered
with intenſe anxiety all the unjuſt and ty.
ránnical conduct of Montoni, the dauntleſs
perſeverance of Morano, and her own de-
ſolate ſituation, removed from her friends
and country. She looked in vain to Va.
lancourt, confined by his profeſſion to a
diitant kingdon, as her protector ; but it
gave her comfort to know, that there was,
at leaſt; one perſon in the world, who
would fympathize in her afflictions, and
whoſe wiſheś would fy eagerly to releaſe
her. Yet ſhe determined not to give him
unavailing pain by relating the reaſon's ſhe
had to regret the having rejected his better
judgment concerning Montoni; reaſons,
however, which could not induce her to
lament the delicacy and diſintereſted affec-
tion that had made her reject his propoſal
for a clandeſtine marriage. The approach-
ing interview with her uncle the regarded
F 6
witha


( 108 )
with ſome degree of hope, for ſhe deter-
mined to repreſent to him the diſtreſſes of
her ſituation, and to entreat that he would
allow her to return to France with him and
Madame Queſnel. Then, ſuddenly remem-
bering that her beloved La Vallée, her
only home, was no longer at her command,
her tears flowed anew, and ſhe feared that
The had little pity to expect from a man
who, like M. Queſnel, could diſpoſe of it
without deigning to conſult with her, and
could diſmiſs an aged and faithful ſervant,
deſtitute of either ſupport or aſylum. But,
though it was certain, that ſhe had herſelf
no longer a home in France, and few, very
few friends there, ſhe determined to return,
if poſſible, that ſhe might be releaſed from
the power of Montoni, whoſe particularly
oppreſſive conduct towards herſelf, and ge-
neral character as to others, were juſtly ter-
rible to her imagination. She had no wiſh.
to reſide with her uncle, M. Queſnel, ſince
his behaviour to her late father, and to her.
felf, had been uniformly ſuch as to con-
Tv
vince


*
( 109 )
• vince her, that in flying to him ſhe could only
obtain an exchange of oppreſſors ; neither
had ſhe the ſlighteſt intention of conſenting
to the propoſal of Valancourt for an imme.
diate marriage, though this would give her
a lawful and a generous protector ; for the
chief reaſons, which had formerly influ.
enced her conduct, ſtill exiſted againſt it,
while others, which ſeemed to juſtify the
ſtep, would now be done away; and his
intereſt, his fame were at all times too dear
to her, to ſuffer - her to conſent to a union,
which, at this early period of their lives,
would probably defeat both. One ſure,
and proper aſyluni, however, would ſtill
be open to her in France. She knew that
ſhe could board in the convent, where the
had formerly experienced ſo much kindneſs,
and which had an affecting and folemn
claim upon her heart, ſince it contained the
remains of her late father. Here ſhe could
remain in ſafety and tranquillity, till the
term, for which La Vallée might be let,
· ſhould


( IIO
110 )
ſhould expire; or, till the arrangement of
M. Motteville's affairs enabled her ſo far to
eſtimate the remains of her fortune, as to
judge whether it would be prudent for her
to reſide there.
- Concerning Montoni's conduct with re-
· ſpect to his letters to M. Queſnel, ſhe had
many doubts; however he might be at firſt
miſtaken on the ſubject, ſhe much ſuſpected
that he wilfully perſevered in his error, as
á means of intimidating her into a com-
pliance with his wiſhes of uniting her to
Count Morano. Whether this was or was
not the fact, ſhe was extremely anxious
to explain the affair to M. Queſnel, and
looked forward with a mixture of impa-
tience, hope and fear, to her approaching
viſit:
On the following day, Madame Mon-
toni, being alone with Emily, introduced
the mention of Count Morano, by ex-
preſſing her ſurpriſe, that ſhe had not
joined the party on the water the preceding
evening,


( 111 )
evening, and at her abrupt departure to
Venice. Emily then related what had
paſſed, expreſſed her concern for the mu-
tual miſtake that had occurred between
Montoni and herſelf, and ſolicited her aunt's
kind offices in urging him to give a deciſive
denial to the Count's further addreſſes; but
the foon perceived, that Madame Montoni
had not been ignorant of the late converſa-
tion, when ſhe introduced the preſent.
“ You have no.encouragement to expect
from me,” ſaid her aunt,' " in theſe no.
tions. I have already given my opinion on
the ſubject, and think Signor Montoni righe
in enforcing, by any means, your conſent.
If young perſons will be blind to their in-
tereft, and obſtinately oppoſe it, why, the
greateſt bleſſings they can have are friends,
who will oppoſe their folly. Pray what
pretenſions of any kind do you think you
have to ſuch a match as is now offered
- you?”
“ Not any whatever, madam,” replied
Emily,


( 112 I I2
)
Emily, “and, therefore, at leaſt, ſuffer me
to be happy in my humility.” .
“Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that
you have pride enough; my poor brother,
your father, had his ſhare of pride too; .
though, let me add, his fortune did not
juſtify it.”
Emily, ſomewhat embarraſſed by the in-
dignation, which this malevolent alluſion to
her father excited, and by the difficulty of
rendering her anſwer as temperate as it
ſhould be reprehenſive, heſitated for ſome
moments, in a confuſion, which highly gra.
tified her aunt. At length ſhe ſaid, “ My
father's pride, madam, had a noble ob.
·ject-the happineſs which he knew could
be derived only from goodneſs, knowledge
and charity. As it never conſiſted in his
ſuperiority, in point of fortune, to ſome
perſons, it was not humbled by his inferi.
ority, in that reſpect, to others. He never
diſdained thoſe, who were wretched by po-
verty and misfortune; he did ſometimes
deſpiſe
as


( 113 )
? deſpiſe perſons, who, with many opportu-
nities of happineſs, rendered themſelves.
i miſerable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty.
I ſhall think it my higheſt glory to emu-
late ſuch pride.”
i “I do not pretend to underſtand any
thing of theſe high-flown ſentiments, niece;
you have all that glory to yourſelf: I would
teach you a little plain ſenſe, and not have
you ſo wiſe as to deſpiſe happineſs.”
“That would indeed 110€ be wiſdom,
but folly,” ſaid Emily, “ for wiſdorn can
boaſt no higher attainment than happineſs;
but you will allow, madam, chat our ideas
of happineſs may differ. I cannot doubt,
that you wiſh ine to be happy, but I muſt
fear you are miſtaken in the means of mak-
ing me fo.”
“I cannot boaſt of a learned education,
niece, ſuch as your father thought proper
to give you, and, therefore, do not prea
tend to underſtand all theſe fine ſpeeches
about happineſs. I muſt be contented to
underſtand only common ſenſe, and happy.
would


( 114 )
would it have been for you and your father,
if that had been included in his education.”
Emily was too much ſhocked by theſe
reflections on her father's memory, to de-
ſpiſe this ſpeech as it deſerved. .
Madame Montoni was about to ſpeak,
but Emily quitted the room, and retired to
her own, where the little ſpirit ſhe had
lately exerted yielded to grief and vex-
ation, and left her only to her tears. From
every review of her fituation ſhe could de-
rive, indeed, only new forrow. To the
diſcovery, which had juſt been forced upon
her, of Montoni's unworthineſs, ſhe had
now to add, thảt of the cruel vanity, for
the gratification of which her aunt was
about to ſacrifice her; of the effronterý
and cunning, with which, at the time that
..ſhe meditated the facrifice, ſhe boaſted of
her tenderneſs, or inſulted her victim; and
of the venomous envy, which, as it did not
fcruple to attack her father's character,
could ſcarcely be expected to withhold from
her own.
!
i
During


( 115 )
W
a
During the few days that intervened be.
tween this converſation and the departure -
for Miarenti, Montoni did not once addreſs
himſelf to Emily. His looks ſuficiently
declared his reſentment; but that he ſhould
forbear to renew a mention of the ſubject
of it, exceedingly ſurpriſed her, who was
no leſs aſtoniſhed, that, during three days,
Count Morano neither viſited Montoni, or
was named by him. Several conjectures
aroſe in her mind. Sometimes the feared
that the difpute between them had been
revived, and had ended fatally to the Count.
Sometimes ſhe was inclined to hope, that
wearineſs, or diſguſt at her firm rejection of
his fuit, had induced him to relinquiſh it ;
and, at others, the ſuſpected that he had
now recourſe to ſtratagem, and forbore his
viſits, and prevailed with Monconi to for.
bear the repetition of his name, in she ex-
pectation that gratitude and generoſity would
prevail with her to give him the conſent,
which he could not hope from love.
Thus paſſed the time in vain conjecture,
muhen
and


( 116 )
and alternate hopes and fears, till the day
arrived when Montoni was to ſet out for
the villa of Miarenti, which, like the pre- -
ceding ones, neither brought the Count, or
the mention of him.
Montoni having determined not to leave
Venice, till towards evening, that he might
avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes.
of night, embarked about an hour before
ſunſet, with his family, in a barge, for the
Brenta. Emily ſat alone near the ſtern of
the veſſel, and, as it Aoated nowly on,
watched the gay, and lofty city leffening
from her view, till its palaces ſeemed to
ſink in the diſtant waves, while its lofrier
towers and domes, illumined by the declin-
ing ſun, appeared on the horizon, like thoſe.
far-feen clouds, which, in more northern
climes, often linger on the weſtern verge,
and catch the laſt light of a ſummer's even-
ing. Soon after, even theſe grew dim, and
faded in diſtance from her light; but ſhe
ſtill fat gazing on the vaſt ſcene of cloud-
leſs ſky and mighty waters, and liſtening
inline


1 117 )
in pleaſing awe to the deep-founding waves,
while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,
towards the oppoſite ſhores, which were,
however, far beyond the reach of ſight, ſhe
thought of Greece, and, a thouſand claſſical
remembrances ſtealing to her mind, ſhe ex-
perienced that penſive luxury which is felt on
viewing the ſcenes of ancient ſtory, and on
comparing their preſent ſtate of filence and
ſolitude with that of their former grandeur
and animation. The ſcenes of the Iliad
illapſed in glowing colours to her fancy-
ſcenes, once the haunt of heroes-now
lonely, and in ruins; but which ſtill Thone,
in the poet's ſtrain, in all their youthful
ſplendour..
As her imagination painted with melan-
choly touches, the deſerted plains of Troy,
ſuch as they appeared in this after-day, The
re-animated the landſcape with the follow-
ing little ſtory: .
STANZAS.


( 118 )
STAN 2 AS..
O’er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
And once the poet rais’d his deathleſs ftrain,
O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led
His ſtately camels : For the ruin'd fane
Wide round the lonely ſcene his glance he threw,
For now the red cloud faded in the weſt, :..
And twilight o'er the filent landſcape drew
Her deep’ning veil; eaſtward his courſe he preſt :
'
There, on the grey horizon's glimm’ring bound,
Roſe the proud columns of deſerted Troy,
And wand'ring ſhepherds now a ſhelter found
Within thoſe walls, where princes wont to joy,
Beneath a lofty porch the driver paſs’d,
Then, from his camels heav’d the heavy load;
Partook with them the fimple, cool repaſt,
And in ſhort veſper gave himſelf to God.
From diftant lands with merchandiſe he came,
His all of wealth his patient ſervants bore ;
Oft deep-drawn fighs his anxious wiſh proclaim
To reach, again, his happy cottage door ;
For there, his wife, his little children, dwell ;
Their ſmiles ſhall pay the toil of many an hour :
Ev'n now warm tears to expectation ſwell,
As faney o'er his mind extends her pow'r.
A death-


( 119 )
,
A death-like ſtillneſs reign'd, where once the ſong,
The ſong of heroes, wak’d the midnight air,
Save, when a ſolemn murmur rolld along,
That ſeem'd to ſay—" For future worlds prepare.”
For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard
Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
(By hands he long had conquer’d, vainly rear'd)
And diſtant ruins anſwer'd to his call.
While Hamet ſlept, his camels round him lay,
Beneath him, all his ſtore of wealth was pil'd;
And here, his cruiſe and empty wallet lay,
And there, the flute that cheer'd him in the wild.
The robber Tartar on his luinber ſtole,
For o'er the waſte, at eve, he watch'd his train ;
Ah! who his thirſt of plunder Mall control ?
Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!
A poiſon'd poignard in his belt he wore,
A creſcent ſword depended at his fide, .
The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
And infants—at his very look had died !
The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
And to his ſleeping prey the Tartar led;
But ſoft!-a ſtartled camel ſhook his bell,
Then ſtretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowſy head.
Hamet


( 120 )
Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!
Swift from his couch he fprung, and 'ſcap'd the blow;
When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
That lay the rufian, in his vengeance, low.
He groan’d, he died! from forth a column'd gate
A fearful ſhepherd, pale and filent, crept, .
Who, as he watch'd his folded flock ſtar-late,
Had marki’d the robber ſleal where Hamet ſlept.
He fear'd his own, and fav'd a ſtranger's life !
Poor Hamet claſp'd him to his grateful heart ;
Then, rous'd his camels for the duſty ſtrife,
And, with the ſhepherd, haften’d to depart.
-
And now, Aurora breathes her freth’ning gale,
And faintly trembles on the eaſtern cloud ;
And now, the ſun, from under twilight's veil,
Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy ſhroud.
-
-
Wide o'er the level plains, his flanting beams
Dart their long lines on llion's tower'd fcite;
The diſtant Helleſpont with morning gleams,
And old Scamander winds his waves in light.
_All merry ſound the camel bells, fo gay,
And merry beats fond Hamet’s heart; for he,
Ere the dim evening ſteals upon the day,
His children, wife, and happy home ſhall ſee.


(121
121 )
As Emily approached the ſhores of Italy
ſhe began to diſcriminate the rich features
and varied colouring of the landſcape
the purple hills, groves of orange, pine and
cypreſs, ſhading magnificent villas, and
towns riſing athong vineyards and plan-
tations. . The noble Brenta, pouring its
broad waves into the ſea, now appeared,
ea, now appeared,
and, when ſhe reached its mouth, the barge
ſtopped, that the horſes might be faſtened
which were to tow it up the ſtream. This
done, Emily gave a laſt look to the Adriatic,
and to che dim fail,
.... " that from the ſky-mix'd wave,
"Dawns on the fight,"
and the barge Nowly glided between the
green and luxuriant Nopes of the river.
The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that
adorn theſe ſhores, was conſiderably height-
ened by the ſetting rays, which threw
ſtrong contrafts of light and ſhade upon
the porticos and long arcades, and beamed
a mellow luftre upon the orangeries and
Vol. II.
the
.)


( 122 )
the tall groves of pine and cypreſs, that over-
hung the buildings. The ſcent of or.nges,
of flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous
plants was diffuſed upon the air, and often,
from theſe embowered retreats, a ſtrain of
muſic ſtole on the calm, and “ ſoftened
into ſilence.”
The ſun now ſunk below the horizon,
twilight fell over the landſcape, and Emily,
wrapt in muſing filence, continued to
watch its features gradually vaniſhing into
obſcurity: She remembered her many
happy evenings, when with St. Aubert ſhe
had obſerved the ſhades of twilight ſteal
over a ſcene as beautiful as this, from the
gardens of La Vallée, and a tear fell to the
memory of her father. Her ſpirits were
foftened into melancholy by the influence
of the hour, by the low murmur of the
wave paffing under the veſſel, and the ſtill-
neſs of the air, that trembled only at inter-
vals with diſtant muſic :-why elſe ſhould
The, at theſe moments, have looked on her
attachment to Valancourt with preſages ſo
urmur
- very


( 123 ) ... .
very amicting, ſince ſhe had but lately re-
ceived letters from him, that had foothed
for a while all her anxieties ? It now ſeemed
to her oppreſſed mind, that ſhe had taken
leave of him for ever, and that the coun.
tries, which ſeparated them, would never
more be retraced by her. She looked upon
Count Morano with horror, as in ſome
degree the cauſe of this, but apart from
him, a conviction, if ſuch that may be
called, which ariſes from no proof, and
which ſhe knew not how to account for,
ſeized her mind-thar fhe ſhould never ſee
Valancourt again. Though ſhe knew, that
'neither Morano's ſolicitations, nor Mon-
toni's commands had lawful power to en
force her obedience, ſhe regarded both
with a ſuperſtitious dread, that they would
finally prevail.
Loft in this melancholy reverie, and
thedding frequent tears, Emily was at length
rouſed by Montoni, and ſhe followed him
to the cabin, where refreſhments were
ſpread, and her aunt was Teated alone. The
G2
coun-


( 124 )
countenance of Madame Montoni was in-
Aamed with reſentment, that appeared to
be the conſequence of ſome converſation
ſhe had held with her huſband, who regard.
ed her with a kind of ſullen diſdain, and
both preſerved, for ſome time, a haughty
ſilence. Montoni then fpoke to Emily of
Monſ. Queſnel: “ You will not, I hope,
perſiſt in diſclaiming your knowledge of
the ſubject of my letter to him?"
s I had hoped, fir, that it was no longer
neceſſary for me to diſclaim it,” ſaid Emily,
“ I had hoped, from your filence, that you
was convinced of your error.”
“ You have hoped impoſſibilities then,"
replied Montoni ; “ I might as reaſonably
have expected to find ſincerity and uni-
formity of conduct in one of your ſex,
as you to convict me of error in this af-
fair."
Emily bluſhed, and was ſilent; ſhe now
perceived too clearly, that ſhe had hoped
an impoflibility, for, where no miſtake had
been committed, no conviction could follow;
and


( 125 )
and it was evident, tha: Montoni's conduct
had not been the conſequence of miſtake,
but of deſign.
Anxious to eſcape from converſation,'
which was both afficting and humiliating
to her, ſhe foon returned to the deck, and
reſurned her ſtation near the ſtern, without
apprehenſion of cold, for no vapour roſe
from the water, and the air was dry and
tranquil; here, at leaſt, the benevolence
of nature allowed her the quiet which Mon.
toni had denied her elſewhere. It was
now paſt midnight. The ſtars ſhed a kind
of twilight, that ſerved to ſhew the dark
outline of the ſhores on either hand, and
the grey ſurface of the river ; till the moon
roſe from behind a high palm grove, and
ſhed her mellow luſtre over the ſcene. The
veſſel glided ſmoothly on: amid the ſtill.
neſs of the hour Emily heard, now and
then, the ſolitary voice of the bargemen on
the bank, as they ſpoke to their horſes ;
while, from a remote part of the veſſel,
with melancholy fong,
..."the
G
3


( 126 )
....," the ſailor footh'd,
Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave."
Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her re-
ception by Monf. and Madame Queſnel ;
conſidered what ſhe ſhould fay on the ſub-
ject of La Vallée ; and then, to with-hold
her mind from more anxious topics, tried
to amuſe herſelf by diſcriminating the faint-
drawn features of the landſcape, repoſing
in the moon-light. While her fancy thus
wandered, ſhe faw, at a diſtance, a building
peeping between the moon-light trees, and,
as the barge approached, heard voices fpeak.
ing, and ſoon diſtinguiſhed the lofty portico
of a villa, overſhadowed by groves of pine
and fycamore, which ſhe recollected to be
the ſame, that had formerly been pointed
out to her, as belonging to Madame Quef.
nel's relative.
The barge ſtopped at a Aight of marble
ſteps, which led up the bank to a lawn.
Lights appeared between ſome pillars be-
yond the portico. Montoni ſent forward
his ſervant, and then diſembarked with his
family,


( 127 )
family. They found Monf. and Madame
Queſnel, with a few friends, feated on ſofas
in the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of
the night, and eating fruits and ices, while
fome of their ſervants at a little diſtance, on
the river's bank, were performing a ſimple
ſerenade. Emily was now accuſtomed to:
the way of living in this warm country, and
was not ſurpriſed to find Monf, and Madame
Queſnel in their portico, two hours after
midnight.
The uſual falutations being over, the
company feated themſelves in the portico,
and refreſhments were brought them from
the adjoining hall, where a banquet was
ſpread, and the ſervants attended. When
the buſtle of this meeting had fubfided,
and Emily had recovered from the little
flutter into which it had thrown her ſpirits,
ſhe was ſtruck with the ſingular beauty of
the hall, ſo perfectly accommodated to the
luxuries of the ſeaſon. It was of white
marble, and the roof, riſing into an open
cupola, was ſupported by columns of the
G 4
ſame:


( 128
i
fame material. Two oppofite fides of the
apartment, terminating in open porticos, ad-
mitted to the hall a full view of the gardens,
and of the river ſcenery; in the centre a
fountain continually refrefhed the air, and
ſeemed to heighten the fragrance, that
breathed from the ſurrounding orangeries,
while its dalhing waters gave an agreeable
and foothing found. Etruſcan lamps, ſuf-
pended from the pillars, diffuſed a brilliant
light over the interior part of the hall,
leaving the remoter porticos to the fofter
luſtre of the moon,
Monf. Queſnel talked apart to Montoni
of his own affairs, in his uſual ſtrain of
ſelf-importance; boaſted of his new ac-
quiſitions, and then affected to pity fome
diſappointnients, which Montoni had lately
ſuſtained. Meanwhile, the latter, whoſe
pride at leaſt enabled im to deſpiſe ſuch
vanity as this, and whoſe diſcernment at
once detected under this aſſumed pity,
the frivolous malignity of Queſnel's mind,
liſtened to him in contemptuous filence,
till


( 129 )
till he named his niece, and then they
left the portico, and walked away into the
gardens.
Emily, however, ſtill attended to Madame
Queſnel, who ſpoke of France (for even
the name of her native country was dear
to her), and ſhe found fome pleafure in
looking at a perſon, who had lately been in
it. That country, too,' was inhabited by
Valancourt, and ſhe liſtened to the men-
tion of it, with a faint hope, that he alſo
would be named. Madame Queſnel, who,
when ſhe was in France, had talked with
rapture of Italy, now, that ſhe was in Italy,
talked with equal praiſe of France, and en-
deavoured to excite the wonder and the envy
of her auditors by accounts of places, which
they had not been happy enough to ſee.
In theſe deſcriptions ſhe not only impoſed
upon them, but upon herſelf, for ſhe never
thought a preſent pleaſure equal to one, that
was paſſed; and thus the delicious climate,
the fragrant orangeries and all the luxuries,
which ſurrounded her, ſlept unnoticed, while
G 5
her


( 130 )
des
her fancy wandered over the diſtant ſcenes
of a northern country.
Emily liſtened in vain for the name of
Valancourt. Madame Montoni ſpoke in
her turn of the delights of Venice, and of
the pleaſure the expected from viſiting the
fine caſtle of Montoni, on the Apennine ;
which latter mention, at leaſt, was merely a
retaliating boaſt, for Emily well knew, that
her aunt had no taſte for ſolitary grandeur,
and, particularly, for ſuch as the caſtle of
Udolpho promiſed. Thus the party con-
tinued to converſe, and, as far as civility:
would permit, to torture each other by mu-
tual boaſts, while they reclined on ſofas in
the portico, and were environed with de-
lights both from nature and art, by which
any honeſt minds would have been tempered:
to benevolence, and happy imaginations
would have been ſoothed into enchant-
ment.
The dawn, ſoon after, trembled in the
caſtern horizon, and the light tints of morn-
ing, gradually expanding, ſhewed the beau-
tifully


( 131 )
**
tifully declining forms of the Italian moun-
tains and the gleaming landſcapes, ſtretched
at their feet. Then the ſun-beams, ſhooting
up from behind the hills, ſpread over the
ſcene that fine faffron tinge, which ſeems
to impart repoſe to all it touches. The
landſcape no longer gleamed; all its
glowing colours were revealed, except
that its remoter features were ſtill ſoften-
ed and united in the midſt of diſtance, whoſe
ſweet effect was heightened to Emily by the
dark verdure of the pines and cypreſſes,
that over-arched the fore-ground of the:
river:
The market people, paſſing with their
boats to Venice, now formed a moving
picture on the Brenta. Moſt of theſe had
little painted awnings, to ſhelter their owners
froin the ſun-beams, which, together with the
piles of fruit and flowers, diſplayed beneath,
and the taſteful ſimplicity of the peaſant
girls, who watched the rural treaſures,
rendered them gay and ſtriking objects.
The ſwift movement of the boats down the
current,
G.6


( 132 )
current, the quick glance of oars in the wi-
ter, and now and then the paſſing chorus of i
peaſants, who reclined under the fail of their
little bark, or the tones of ſome ruſtic in- '
ſtrument, played by a girl, as ſhe ſat near
her ſylvan cargo, heightened the animation
and feſtivity of the ſcene.
When Montoni and M. Queſnel had
joined the ladies, the party left the portico
for the gardens, where the charming ſcenery
ſoon withdrew Emily's thoughts from pain-
ful ſubjects. The majeſtic forms and rich
verdure of cypreſſes ſhe had never ſeen
ſo perfect before : groves of cedar, lemon
and orange, the ſpiry cluſters of the pine
and poplar, the luxuriant cheſnut and
oriental plane, threw all their pomp of ſhade
over theſe gardens ; while bowers of flower-
ing myrtle and other ſpicy Ihrubs mingled
their fragrance with that of Aowers, whoſe
vivid and various colouring glowed with
increaſed effect beneath the contrafted um-
brage of the groves. The air alſo was con.
tinually refreſhed by rivulets, which, with
more


( 133 )
more taſte than faſhion, had been ſuffered
to wander among the green receſſes.
Emily ofteri: lingered behind the party,
to contemplate the diſtant landſcape, that
cloſed a viſta, or that gleamed beneath the
dark foliage of the foreground;—the ſpiral
ſummits of the mountains, touched with a
purple tint, broken and ſteep above, but
fhelving gradually to their: baſe; the open
valley, marked by no formal lines of art;
and the tall groves of cypreſs, pine and pop-
lar, ſometimes enibelliſhed by a ruined villa,
whoſe broken columns appeared between
the branches of a pine, that ſeemed to droop
over their fall.
From other parts of the gardens, the
character of the view was entirely changed,,
and the fine folitary beauty of the landſcape
ſhifted for the crowded features and varied
colouring of inhabitation.
The fun was now gaining faſt upon the
ſky, and the party quitted the gardens, and
retired to repoſe.
CHAP.


( 134 )
CH A P. IV.
6. And poor Misfortune feels the laſh of Vice."
THOMSON
EMILY ſeized the firſt opportunity of
converſing alone with Monſieur Queſnel,
concerning La Vallée. . His anſwers to her
enquiries, were conciſe, and delivered with
the air of a man, who is conſcious of pol.
feffing abſolute power, and impatient of
hearing it queſtioned. He declared, that
the diſpoſal of the place was a neceſſary
meaſure; and that ſhe might conſider herſelf
indebted to his prudence for even the ſmall
income that remained for her. « But,
however," added' he, “ when this Venetian
Count (I have forgot his name) märries
you, your preſent diſagreeable ſtate of de.
pendence. will ceaſe. As a relation to you:
I rejoice in the circumſtance, which is ſo
fortunate


( 135 )
fortunate for you, and, I may add, ſo un-
expected by your friends.”
For ſome moments Emily was chilled
into ſilence by this ſpeech; and, when ſhe
attempted to undeceive him, concerning
the purport of the note ſhe had incloſed in
Montoni's letter, he appeared to have ſome
private reaſon for diſbelieving her aſſertion,
and, for a conſiderable time, perſevered in
accuſing her of capricious conduct. Being,
at length, however, convinced, that the
really diliked Morano and had poſitively
rejected his fuit, his reſentment was extra.
vagant, and he expreſſed it in terms equally
pointed and inhuman; for, ſecretly flat-
tered by the proſpect of a connection with:
a nobleman, whoſe title he had affected to
forget, he was incapable of feeling pity for:
whatever ſufferings of his niece might ſtand
in the way of his ambition..
Emily ſaw at once in his: manner all the
difficulties that awaited her, and, though no
oppreſſion could have power to make her:
renounce Valancourt for Morano, her forti..
tude


Somewhat ſoothed by the conſciouſneſs
of performing a part of St. Aubert's laſt re-
queſt, and of endeavouring to purſue the
conduct which he would have approved,
The overcame her tears, and, when the com-
pany met at dinner, had recovered her uſual
ſerenity of countenance.
In the cool of the evening, the ladies
took the freſco along the bank of the Brenta
in Madame Queſnel's carriage. The ſtate
of Emily's mind was in melancholy contraſt.
with the gay groups aſſembled beneath the
ſhades that overhung this enchanting ſtream..
Some were dancing under the trees, and
athers reclining on the graſs, taking ices
and coffee, and calmly enjoying the effect
of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant land-
fcape. Emily, when ſhe looked at the
ſnow-capt Apennines, alcending in the
diſtance, thought of Montoni's caſtle, and
fuffered ſome terror, left he ſhould convey
her thither, for the purpoſe of enforcing her
obedience; but the thoughe vaniſhed, when
the confidered, that ſhe was as much in
his


( 138 )
his power at Venice as ſhe could be elſe-
where.
It was moonlight before the party re-
turned to the villa, where ſupper was ſpread
in the airy hall, which had ſo much enchant-
ed Emily's fancy, on the preceding night.
The ladies ſeated themſelves in the portico,
till M. Queſnel, Montoni and other gentle-
men, ſhould join them at table, and Emily
endeavoured to reſign herſelf to the tran-
quillity of the hour. Preſently, a barge ſtop-
ped at the ſteps that led into the gardens,
and, ſoon after ſhe diſtinguiſhed the voices
of Montoni and Queſnel, and then that of
Morano, who, in the next moment, ap-
peared. His compliments the received in
ſilence, and her cold air ſeemed at firſt to
diſcompoſe him; but he ſoon recovered his
uſual gaiety of manner, though the officious
kindneſs of M. and Madame Queſnel Emily
perceived diſguſted him. Such a degree of
attention ſhe had ſcarcely believed could be
ſhewn by M. Queſnel, for ſhe had never
before ſeen him otherwiſe than in the pre-
fence of his inferiors or equals,


( 139 )
When ſhe could retire to her own apart-
ment, her mind almoſt involuntarily dwelt
2.) on the moſt probable means of prevailing
20 with the Count to withdraw his ſuit, and to
, her liberal mind none appeared more pro-
bable, than that of acknowledging to him a
Op prior attachment and throwing herſelf upon
B., his generoſity for a releaſe. When, how-
ever, on the following day, he renewed
his addreffes, ſhe ſhrunk from the adop- .
tion of the plan ſhe had formed. There was
5 fomething fo repugnant to her juſt pride,
in laying open the ſecret of her heart to
ſuch a man as Morano, and in ſuing to
him for compaſſion, that ſhe impatiently
rejected this deſign, and wondered that
- 1 ſhe could have pauſed upon it for a mo.
ment. The rejection of his ſuit ſhe re-
peated in the moſt deciſive terms ſhe could
ſelect, mingling with it a ſevere cenſure
of his conduct; but, though the Count
appeared mortified by this, he perſevered
in the moſt ardent profeſſions of admi-
ration, cill he was interrupted and Emily
releaſed


(140 )
releaſed by the preſence of Madame
Queſnel.
During her ſtay at this pleaſant villa,
Emily was thus rendered miſerable by the
aſliduities of Morano, together with the
cruelly exerted authority of M. Queſnel
and Montoni, who, with her' aunt, ſeemed
now more reſolutely determined upon this
marriage than they had even appeared to
be at Venice. M. Queſnel, finding that
both argument and menace were ineffectual
in enforcing an immediate concluſion to it,
at length relinquiſhed his endeavours, and
truſted to the power of Montoni and to the
courſe of events at Venice. Emily, indeed,
looked to Venice with hope, for there the
would be relieved in ſome meaſure from
the perſecution of Morano, who would no
longer be an inhabitant of the ſame houſe
with herſelf, and from that of Montoni,
whoſe engagements would not permit him
to be continually, at home. But, amidſt the
preſſure of her own misfortunes, Ihe did
not forget thoſe of poor Thereſa, for whom
the


( TAI
-
-
-
141 )
? The pleaded with courageous tenderneſs to
· Queſnel, who promiſed, in light and ge-
,neral terms, that the ſhould not be for-
i gotten.
Montoni, in a long converſation with
M. Queſnel, arranged the plan to be pur-
ſued reſpecting Emily, and M. Queſnel
À propoſed to be at Venice, as ſoon as he
ſhould be informed that the nuptials were
concluded.
It was new to Emily to part with any
perſon, with whom ſhe was connected, with-
out feelings of regret ; the moment, how-
ever, in which ſhe took leave of M. and
Madame Queſnel, was, perhaps, the only
fatisfactory one ſhe had known in their
preſence.
Morano returned in Montoni's barge,
and Emily, as the watched her gradual ap-
proach to that magic city, faw at her fide
the only perſon, who occaſioned her to view
it with leſs than perfect delight. They ar-
rived there about midnight, when Emily was
releaſed from the preſence of the Count,
who,


( 142 )
who, with Montoni, went to a Caſino, and
The was ſuffered to retire to her own apart-
,"ment.
On the following day, Montoni, in a
ſhort converſation, which he held with
Emily, informed her, that he would no
longer be trifled with, and that, ſince her
marriage with the Count would be ſo highly
advantageous to her, that folly only could
object to it, and folly of ſuch extent as was
incapable of conviction, it ſhould be cele-
brated without further delay, and, if that
was neceſſary, without her conſent.
Emily, who had hitherto tried remon-
ſtrance, had now recourſe to ſupplication,
for diítreſs prevented her from foreſeeing
that, with a man of Montoni's diſpoſition,
ſupplication would be equally uſeleſs. She
afterwards enquired by what right he ex-
erted this unlimited authority over her? a
queſtion which her better judgment would
have withheld her, in a calmer moment,
from making, ſince it could avail her no-
thing, and would afford Montoni another
opportunity


( 143 )
17. opportunity of triumphing over her defence-
leſs condition.
§ . “By what right!” cried Montoni, with
a malicious ſmile, “ by the right of my
will; if you can elude that, I will not
enquire by what right you do ſo. I now
remind you, for the laſt time, that you are
a ſtranger, in a foreign country, and that
it is your intereſt to make me your friend;
you know the means ; if you compel me to
become your enemy-I will venture to tell
you that the puniſhment ſhall exceed your
expectation. You may know I am not to
be trifled with.”
Emily continued, for ſome time after
Montoni had left her, in a ſtate of deſpair,
or rather of ſtupefaction; a conſciouſneſs of
miſery was all that remained in her mind.
in this ſituation Madame Montoni found
her, at the ſound of whoſe voice Emily
looked up, and her aunt, ſomewhat ſoftened
by the expreſſion of deſpair, that fixed her
countenance, ſpoke in a manner more kind
than ſhe had ever yet done. Emily's heart
was


( 144 )
was touched; the ſhed tears, and, after
weeping for ſome time, recovered fuffi-
cient compoſure to ſpeak on the ſubject of
her diſtreſs, and to endeavour to intereſt
Madame Montoni in her behalf. But,
though the compaſſion of her aunt had
been ſurpriſed, her ambition was not to be
overcome, and her preſent object was to be
the aunt of a Counteſs. Emily's efforts,
therefore, were as unſucceſsful as they had
been with Montoni, and ſhe withdrew to
her apartment to think and weep alone.
How often did ſhe remember the parting
ſcene with Valancourt, and wiſh, that the
Italian had mentioned Montoni's character
with leſs reſerve! When her mind, however,
had recovered from the firſt ſhock of this
behaviour, ſhe conſidered, that it would be
impoſſible for him to compel her alliance
with Morano, if ſhe perſiſted in refuſing
to repeat any part of the marriage cere-
mony; and the perſevered in her reſolu-
tion to await Montoni's threatened ven-
geance rather than give herſelf for life to a
man,


( 145 )
inan, whom ſhe muſt have deſpiſed for his
preſent conduct, had ſhe never even loved
Valancourt : yet ſhe trembled at the re-
venge ſhe t'us reſolved to brave. .
An affair, however, ſoon after occurred,
which ſomewhat called off Montoni's at-
tention from Emily. The myſterious viſits
of Orſino were renewed with more fre.
quency ſince the return of the former to
Venice. There were others, alſo, beſides
Orſino, admitted to theſe midnight coun-
cils, and amo n them Cavigni and Verezzi.
Montoni became more reſerved and auſtere
in his manner than ever; and Emily, if
her own intereſts had not made her regard-
Jeſs of his, might have perceived, that ſome.
thing extraordinary was working in his
mind.
. One night, on which a council was not
held, Orſino caine in great agitation of
ſpirits, and diſpatched his confidential ſer-
vant to Montoni, who was at a Caſino,
defiring that he would return home imme.
diately; but charging the ſervant not to
VOL. II.
H
xir
was
men.


( 146 )
mention his name. Montoni obeyed the
ſummons, and, on meeting Orſino, was in-
formed of the circumſtances, that occaſioned
his viſit and his viſible alarm, with ſome of
which, however, he was already acquainted.
A Venetian nobleman, who had, on
a late occaſion, provoked the hatred of
Orſino, had been way-laid and poniarded
by hired aſſaſſins: and, as the murdered
perſon was of the firſt connections, the Se.
nate had taken up the affair. One of the
aſſaſins was now apprehended, who had
confeffed, that Orſino was his employer in
the atrocious deed ; and the latter, informed
of his danger, had now come to Montoni to
conſult on the meaſures neceſſary to favour
his eſcape. He knew, thar, at this time, the
officers of the police were upon the watch
for him, all over the ciiy ; to leave it, at
preſent, therefore, was impracticable, and
Montoni conſented to ſecrere hiin for a few
days till the vigilance of juſtice ſhould re-
lax, and then to alliſt him in quitting Ve-
nice. He knew the danger he himſelf in.
cuired


( 147 )
curred by permitting Orſino to remain in
his houſe; but ſuch was the nature of his
obligations to this man, that he did not
think it prudent to refuſe him an aſylum.
Such was the perſon whom Montoni
admitted to his confidence, and for whom
he felt as much friendſhip as was conpa.
tible with his character.
While Orſino remained concealed in his
houſe, Montoni was unwilling to attract pub-
lic obſervation by the nuptials of Count Mo-
rano; but this obſtacle was, in a few days,
overcome by the departure of his criminal
viſitor, and he then informed Emily, that
her marriage was to be celebrated on the
following morning. To her repeated aſſur-
ances, that it ſhould not take place, he re-
plied by a malignant ſmile; and, telling
her, that the Count and a prieſt would be
at his houſe, early in the morning, he ad-
viſed her no further to dare his reſentment,
by oppoſition to his will and to her own
intereſt. “I am now going out for the even.
ing,” ſaid he, "remember, that I ſhall give
your
wn
H2


| 148 )
your hand to Count Morano in the morn-
ing.” Emily, having, ever ſince his late
threats, expected, that her trials would
at length arrive to this criſis, was leſs
ſhocked by the declaration, than the other-
wiſe would have been, and ſhe endeavoured
to ſupport herſelf by a belief, that the mar-
riage could not be valid, ſo long as ſhe re-
fuſed before the prieſt to repeat any part
of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of
trial approached, her long-haraſſed ſpirits
ſhrunk almoſt equally from the encounter
of his vengeance, and from the hand of
Count Morano. She was not even perfect-
ly certain of the conſequence of her ſteady
refuſal at the altar, and ſhe trembled, more
than ever, at the power of Montoni, which
ſeemed unlimited as his will, for ſhe ſaw,
that he would not ſcruple to tranſgreſs any
law, if, by ſo doing, he could accompliſh
his project.
While her mind was thus ſuffering, ſhe
was informed that Morano aſked permiſſion
to ſee her, and the ſervant had ſcarcely de.
parted


( 149 )
parted with an excuſe, before ſhe repented
that ſhe had ſent one. In the next moment,
reverting to her former deſign, and deter-
mining to try, whether expoftulation and
entreaty would not ſucceed, where a refuſal
and a juſt diſdain had failed, ſhe recalled
the ſervant, and, ſending a different meſſage,
prepared to go down to the Count.
The dignity and aſſumed compoſure with
which ſhe met him, and the kind of penſive-
reſignation, that ſoftened her countenance,
were circumſtances not likely to induce him
to relinquiſh her, ſerving, as they did, to
heighten a paſſion, which had already in-
toxicated his judgment. He liſtened to
all ſhe faid with an appearance of compla-
cency and of a wiſh to oblige her; but his
· reſolution remained invariably the ſame,
and he endeavoured to win her admiration
by every inſinuating art he ſo well knew
how to practiſe. Being, at length, aſſured,
that ſhe had nothing to hope from his
juſtice, ſhe repeated, in a folenin manner,
her abſolute rejection of his ſuit, and
H 3 -
rema
quitted


( 150 )
quitted him with an aſſurance, that her re-
fuſal would be effectually maintained
againſt every circumſtance, that could be
imagined for ſubduing it. A .juſt pride
had reſtrained her tears, in his preſence,
but now they flowed from the fulneſs of
her heart. She often called upon the name
of her late father, and offen dwelt with
unutterable anguiſh on the idea of Valan.
court.
She did not go down to ſupper, but re-
mained alone in her apartment, ſometimes
yielding to the influence of grief and terror,
and, at others, endeavouring to fortify her
mind againſt them, and to prepare herſelf
to meet, with compoſed courage, the ſcene
of the following morning, when all the
ſtratagem ºf Morano and the violence of
Montoni would be united againſt her.
The evening was far advanced, when
Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with ſome bridal ornaments, which the
Count had ſent to Emily. She had, this
day, purpoſely avoided her niece ; perhaps,
becauſe


( 151 )
becauſe her uſual inſenſibility failed her,
and ſhe feared to truſt herſelf with a view
of Emily's diſtreſs; or poſſibly, though her
conſcience was feldom audible, it now re-
proached her with her conduct to her bro-
ther's orphan child, whoſe happineſs had
been entruſted to her care by a dying
father.
Emily.could not look at theſe preſents,
and made : lan, ihuugli almuit lupticis,
effort to intereſt the compaſſion of Madame
Montoni, who, if ſhe did feel any degree
of pity, or remorſe, ſucceſsfully concealed
it, and reproached her niece with foily in
being miſerable, concerning a marriage,
which ought only to make her happy. “I
am ſure," ſaid ſhe, “ if I was unmarried,
and the Count had propoſed to me, I ſhould
have been flattered by the diſtinction : and
if I ſhould have been ſo, I am ſure, niece,
you, who have no fortune, ought to feel
yourſelf highly honoured, and ſhew a pro-
per gratitude and humility towards the
Count,
H4


( 152 ).
Count, for his condeſcenſion. I am often
ſurpriſed, I muſt own, to obſerve how
hunibly he deports himſelf to you, - not.
withſtanding the haughty airs you give
yourſelf; I wonder he has patience to hu-
inour you fo: if I was he, I know, I ſhould
often be ready to reprehend you, and make
you know yourſelf a little better. I would
not have fattered you, I can tell you, for
is this abſurd fattery that makes you
fancy yourſelf of ſo much conſequence, that
you think nobody can deſerve you, and I
often tell the Count fo, for I have no pa-
tience to hear him pay you ſuch extrava.
gant compliments, which you believe every
word of !”
6 Your patience, madam, cannot ſuffer
more cruelly on ſuch occaſions, than my
own," ſaid Emily,
“O! that is all mere affectation,” re-
joined her aunt. “I know that his fattery
delights you, and makes you ſo vain, that
you think you may have the whole world:
at


( 153 )
at your feet. But you are very much mil-
taken ; I can aſſure you, niece, you will
not meet with many ſuch ſuitors as the
Count: every other perſon would have turn-
ed upon his heel, and left you to repent at
your leiſure, long ago.”
"O that the Count had reſembled every
other perſon, then !” ſaid Emily, with a
heavy figh.
.“ It is happy for you, that he does not,”
rejoined Madame Montoni; “ and what I
am now ſaying is from pure kindneſs. I
am endeavouring to convince you of your
good fortune, and to perſuade you to ſub-
mit to neceſſity with a good grace. It is
nothing to me, you know, whether you like
this marriage or not, for it muſt be; what
I ſay, therefore, is from pure kindneſs. I
wiſh to ſee you happy, and it is your own
fault if you are not ſo. I would aſk you,
now, ſeriouſly and calmly, what kind of a
match you can expect, ſince a Count can.
not content your ambition ?”.
H5 , " I have


( 154 )
“ I have no ambition whatever, madam,"
replied Emily,“ my only wilh is to remain
in my preſent ſtation.”
“O! that is ſpeaking quite from the
purpoſe," ſaid her aunt, “ I ſee you are
ſtill thinking of Monſ. Valancourt. Pray
get rid of all thoſe fantaſtic notions about
love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
ſomething like a reaſonable creature. But,
however, this is nothing to the purpoſe-
for your marriage with the Count takes
place to-morrow, you know, whether you
approve it or not. The Count will be trihed
with no longer.”
Emily made no attempt to reply to this
curious ſpeech; ſhe felt it would be mean,
and the knew it would be uſeleſs. Ma-
dame Montoni laid the Count's prefents
upon the table, on which Emily was lean.
ing, and then, deſiring ſhe would be ready
early in the morning, bade her good-night.
“Good-night, madam," ſaid Emily, with
a deep figh, as the door cloſed upon her
aunt,


( 155 )
1
aunt, and ſhe was left once more to her ·
own ſad reflections. For ſome time ſhe fat
fo loſt in thought, as to be wholly uncon-
ſčious where the was; at length raiſing
her head, and looking round the room,
its gloom and profound tillneſs awed her.
She fixed her eyes on the door, through
which her aunt had diſappeared, and lift-
ened anxiouſly for ſome ſound, that might
relieve the deep dejection of her ſpirits ; but
it was paft midnight, and all the family,
except the ſervant, who ſat up for Montoni,
had retired to bed. Her mind, long ha-
raſſed by diſtreſs, now yielded to imaginary
terrors; ſhe trembled to look into the ob-
ſcurity of her ſpacious chamber, and feared
ſhe knew not what ; a ſtate of mind, which
continued ſo long, that ſhe would have
called up Annette, her aunt's woman, had
her fears permitted her to riſe from her
"chair, and to croſs the apartment.
Theſe melancholy illuſions at length be-
gan to diſperſe, and ſhe retired to her bed,
- H6
noc


( 156 )
not to ſleep, for that was ſcarcely poflible,
but to try, at leaſt, to quiet her diſturbed
fancy, and to collect ſtrength of ſpirits
fufficient to bear her through the ſcene of
the approaching morning.
C H A P.


( 157 )
Do libi:
Efturbed
fpiri
CHAP. V.
cene di
“ Dark power ! with ſhudd'ring, meek ſubmitted
thought
Be mine to read the vifions old
Which thy awak’ning bards have told,
And, left they meet my blaſted view,
Hold each ſtrange tale devoutly true.”
COLLINS'S ODE TO FEAR.
MILY was recalled from a kind of
Number, into which ſhe had, at length,
ſunk, by a quick knocking at her cham-
ber: ſhe ſtarted up in terror, Montoni
and Count Morano inſtantly came to her
mind; but, having liſtened in ſilence for
ſome time, and recogniſing the voice of
Annette, ſhe ventured to open the door.
“What brings you hither ſo early?” ſaid
Emily, trembling exceſſively.
“ Dear


( 158 )
OWS
« Dear ma'amſelle !” ſaid Annette, 6 do
not look fo pale. I am quite frightened to
fee you. Here is a fine buſtle below ſtairs,
all the ſervants running to and fro, and
none of them faſt enough! Here is a buſtle,
indeed, all of a ſudden, and nobody knows
for what!"
- Who is below beſides them?” ſaid
Emily : “ Annette, do not trifle with me."
“ Not for the world, ma’amſelle, I would
not trifle for the world; but one cannot
help making one's remarks, and there is the
Signor in ſuch a buſtle, as I never ſaw him
before; and he has ſent me to tell you,
ma'am, to get ready immediately.”
“Good God ſupport me !” cried Emily,
almoſt fainting, “Count Morano is below,
then !” .
“No, ma’amſelle, he is not below, that
I know of,” replied Annette, “ only his
Excellenza fent me to deſire you would get
ready directly to leave Venice, for that the
góndolas would be at the ſteps of the canal
in a few minutes : but I muſt hurry back


( 159 )
to my lady, who is juſt at her wits end,
and knows not which way to turn for
haſte.”
“ Explain, Annette, explain the mean-
ing of all this before you go,” ſaid Emily,
fo overcome with ſurpriſe and timid hope,
that ſhe had ſcarcely breath to ſpeak.
s Nayma’amſelle, that is more than
I can do. I only know that the Signor is
juſt come home in a very ill humour, that
he has had us all called out of our beds,
and tells us we are all to leave Venice im.
mediately."
“Is Count Morano to go with the Sig-
.nor?” ſaid Emily, “ and whither are we
going?”
"I know neither, ma'am, for certain;
but I heard Ludovico ſay ſomething about
going, after we got to Terra-firma, to the
Signor's caſtle among fome mountains, that
he talked of.”
“ The Apennines !” ſaid Emily, eagerly,
“O! then I have little to hope !"
“ That is the very place, ma’am. But
- cheer


( 160 )
cheer up, and do not take it ſo much to
heart, and think what a little time you
have to get ready in, and how impatient
the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear
the oars on the canal; and now they come
nearer, and now they are daſhing at the
ſteps below; it is the gondola, ſure
enough.”
Annette haſtened from the room; and
Emily prepared for this unexpected Alight,
not perceiving that any change in her fitu-
ation could poſſibly be for the worſe. She
had ſcarcely thrown her books and clothes
into her travelling trunk, when, receiving
a ſecond ſummons, ſhe went down to her
aunt's dreſſing-room, where ſhe found Mon-
toni impatiently reproving his wife for de-
lay. He went out, ſoon after, to give ſome
further orders to his people, and Emily then
enquired the occaſion of this haſty journey;
but her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as
herſelf, and to undertake the journey with
more reluctance.
The family at length embarked, but nei-
ther


( 161 )
ther Count Morano, or Cavigni, was of
the party. Somewhat revived by obſerving
this, Emily, when the gondolieri daſhed
to their oars in the water, and put off from the
ſteps of the portico, felt like a criminal,
who receives a ſhort reprieve. Her heart
beat yet lighter, when they emerged from
the canal into the ocean, and lighter ſtill,
when they ſkimmed paſt the walls of St.
Mark, without having ſtopped to take up
Count Iviorano.
The dawn now began to tint the horizon,
and to break upon the ſhores of the Adri.
atic. Emily did not venture to aſk any
queſtions of Montoni, who fat, for ſome
time, in gloomy ſilence, and then rolled
himſelf up in his cloak, as if to ſleep, while
Madame Montoni did the ſame; but Emily,
who could not ſeep, undrew one of the little
curtains of the gondola, and looked out
upon the fea. The riſing dawn now enlight-
ened the mountain-tops of Friuli, but their
lower ſides, and the diſtant waves, that
rolled at their feet, were ſtill in deep ſhadow.
Emily,


( 162 )
Emily, ſunk in tranquil melancholy, watch-
ed the ſtrengthening light ſpreading upon
the ocean, ſhewing progreſſively Venice
with her iſlets, and the ſhores of Italy,
along which boats with their pointed latin
fails began to move.
The gondolieri were frequently hailed,
at this early hour, by the market-people, as
they glided by towards Venice, and the
Lagu. · ſoon diſplayed a gay ſcene of innu-
merabao lielo baiko, paming from í erra jir met
with proviſions. Emily gave a laſt look
to that ſplendid city, but her mind was
then occupied by conſidering the probable
events, that awaited her, in the ſcenes, to
which ſhe was removing, and with conjec-
tures, concerning the motive of this ſudden
journey. It appeared, upon calmer conſide-
ration, that Montoni was removing her to
his fecluded caſtle, becaufe he could there,
with more probability of ſucceſs, attempt
to terrify her into obedience; or, that,
ſhould its gloomy and ſequeftered ſcenes fail
of this effect, her forced marriage with the
Count
as


( 163 )
Count could there be folemnized with the
fècrecy, which was neceſſary to the ho-
nour of Montoni. The little ſpirit, which
this reprieve had recalled, now began to
fail, and, when Emily reached the ſhore,
her mind had funk into all its former de-
preſſion.
Mońconi did not embark on the Brenta,
but purſued his way in carriages acroſs the
country, towards the Apennine ; during
which journey, his manner to Emily was
ſo particularly ſevere, that this alone would
have confirmed her late conjecture, had any
ſuch confirmation been neceffary. Her
ſenſes were now dead to the beautiful coun.
try through which ſhe travelled. Sometimes
ſhe was compelled to ſmile at the näiveté
of Annette, in her remarks on what ſhe
faw, and ſometimes to figh, as a ſcene of
peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to her
thoughts, who was indeed ſeldom abſent
from them, and of whom ſhe could never
hope to hear in the ſolitude to which the
was haſtening.
· AC
,


( 165 )
the hope of ſuccour, whatever puniſhment
revenge, and that Italian revenge, might
dictate. The more fne conſidered what
might be the motive of the journey, the
more ſhe became convinced, that it was for
the purpoſe of concluding her nuptials with
Count Morano, with the fecrecy which her
reſolute reſiſtance had made neceſſary to the
honour, if not to the ſafety, of Montoni.
From the deep ſolitudes, into which ſhe was
immerging, and from the gloomy caſtle,
of which he had heard ſome myſterious
hints, her fick heart recoiled in deſpair,
and ſhe experienced, that, though her mind
was already occupied by peculiar diſtreſs,
it was ſtill alive to the iniuence of new and
local circumſtance; why elſe did ſhe ſhud-
der at the image of this deſolate caſtle?
As the travellers ſtill aſcended among the
pine-foreſts, ſteep rofe over ſteep, the moun-
tains ſeemed to multiply, as they went, and
what was the ſummit of one eminence
proved to be only the baſe of another. At
length they reached a little plain, where,
the


. ( 167 )
From this ſublime ſcene the travellers
continued to aſcend among the pines, till
they entered a narrow paſs of the mountains,
which ſhut out every feature of the diſtant
7 country, and, in its ſtead; exhibited only tre-
i mendous crags, impending over the road,
where no veſtige of humanity, or even of
vegetation, appeared, except here and there
the trunk and ſcathed branches of an oak,
that hung nearly headlong from the rock,
into which its ſtrong roots had faſtened,
This paſs, which led into the heart of the
Apennine, at length opened to day, and a
\ſcene of mountains, ſtretched in long per-
|fpective, as wild as any the travellers had
yet paffed. Still vaſt pine-foreſts hung upon
their baſe, and crowned the ridgy precipice,
that roſe perpendicularly from the vale,
while, above, the rolling miſts caught the
ſun-beams, and touched their cliffs with
all the magical colouring of light and ſhade.
The ſcene ſeemed perpetually changing,
and its features to aſſume new forms, as
• the winding road brought them to the
eye


( 168 )
eye in different attitudes; while the ſhift-
ing vapours, now partially concealing their
minuter beauties, and now illuminating
them with ſplendid tints, aſlifted the illu-
ſions of the ſight.
Though the deep vallies between theſe
mountains were, for the moſt part, clothed
with pines, ſometimes an abrupt opening
preſented a perſpective of only barren
rocks, with a cataract Aalhing from their
ſummit among broken cliffs, till its waters,
reaching the bottom, foamed along with
louder fury; and ſometimes paſtoral ſcenes
exhibited their “ green delights” in the
narrow vales, ſmiling amid ſurrounding
horror. There herds and flocks of goats
and ſheep, browſing under the ſhade of
hanging woods, and the ſhepherd's little
cabin, reared on the margin of a clear
ſtream, preſented a ſweet picture of re-
poſe.
Wild and romantic as were theſe ſcenes,
their character had far leſs of the ſub-
lime, than had thoſe of the Alps, which
guard


( 169 )
me li guard the entrance of Italy. Emily was
ng it often elevated, but ſeldom felt thoſe emo-
Limaiscions of indeſcribable awe, which ſhe had ſo
continually experienced in her paſſage over
y the Alps.
the Towards the cloſe of day, the road
wound into a deep valley Mountains,
whoſe ſhaggy ſteeps appeared to be inaccef-
Darius fible, almoſt ſurrounded it. To the eaſt, a
viſtą opened, and exhibited the Apennines
in their darkeſt horrors; and the long per-
ſpective of retiring ſummits, riſing over each
another, their ridges' clothed with pines, ex-
hibited a ſtronger image of grandeur, than .
any that Emily had yet- ſeen. The ſun had
juítſunk below the top of the mountains the
was deſcending, whoſe long ſhadow ſtretch-
ed athwart the valley, but his ſloping rays,
ſhooting through an opening of the cliffs,
touched with a yellow gleam the ſum-
mics of the foreſt, that hung upon the op-
poſite ſteeps, and ſtreamcd in full ſplendour,
upon the towers and battlements of a
caſtle, that ſpread its extenſive ranparts
Vol. II. I.
along


( 170 )
along the brow of a precipice above. The
ſplendour of theſe illumined objects was
heightened by the contraſted ſhade, which
involved the valley below.
“ There,” ſaid Montoni, ſpeaking for
the firſt time in ſeveral hours, « is Udol.
pho.”
Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon
the caſtle, which ſhe underſtood to be
Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted
up by the ſetting ſun, the gothic greatneſs
of its features, and its mouldering walls of
dark grey ſtone, rendered it a gloomy and
fublime object. As ſhe gazed, the light
died away on its walls, leaving a melan-
choly purple tint, which ſpread deeper and
deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the
mountain, while the battlements above were
ſtill tipped with ſplendour. From thoſe,
too, the rays foon faded, and the whole
edifice was inveſted with the ſolemn duſki-
neſs of evening. Silent, lonely, and ſublime,
it ſeemed to ſtand the ſovereign of the
ſcene, and to frown defiance on all, who
dared
m
en
re


( 171 )
dared to invade its ſolitary reign. As the
twilight deepened, its features became more
awful in obfcurity, and Emily continued to
gaze, till its cluſtering towers were alone
ſeen, riſing over the tops of the woods, be-
neath whoſe thick ſhade the carriages ſoon
after began to aſcend.
The extent and darkneſs of theſe tall
woods awakened terrific images in her
mind, and ſhe almoſt expected to fee ban-
ditti ſtart up from under the trees. At
length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy
, rock, and, ſoon after, reached the caſtle
i gates, where the deep tone of the portal
í bell, which was ftruck upon to give notice
of their arrival, increaſed the fearful emo-
tions, that had aſſailed Emily. While they
waited till the ſervant within ſhould come
to open the gates, the anxiouſly ſurveyed the
edifice: but the gloom, that overſpread it,
allowed her to diſtinguiſh little more than
a part of its outline, with the maſly walls
of the ramparts, and to know, that it
was vaſt, ancient and dreary. From the
, I 2
parts


( 172 )
parts ſhe ſaw, ſhe judged of the heavy
ſtrength and extent of the whole. The
gateway before her, leading into the courts,
was of gigantic ſize, and was defended by
two round towers, crowned by overhang-
ing turrets, embattled, where, inſtead of
banners, now waved long graſs and wild
plants, that had taken root among the
· mouldering ſtones, and which ſeemed to
figh, as the breeze rolled paſt, over the de-
folation around them. The towers were
united by a curtain, pierced and embattled
alſo, below which appeared the pointed
arch of an huge portcullis, ſurmounting
the gates : from theſe, the walls of the
ramparts extended to other towers, over-
looking the precipice, whoſe ſhattered out-
line, appearing on a gleam, that lingered
in the weſt, told of the ravages of war.-
Beyond theſe all was loſt in the obſcurity
of evening. -
While Emily gazed with awe upon the
· ſcene, footſteps were heard within the gates,
and the undrawing of bolts; after which
an


( 173 )
an ancient ſervant of the caſtle appeared, for-
cing back the huge folds of the portal to
admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels
rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's
heart ſunk, and ſhe ſeemed, as if ſhe was
going into her priſon; the gloomy court,
into which ſhe paſſed, ſerved to confirm the
idea, and her imagination, ever awake to
circumſtance, ſugge:ted even more terrors,
than her reaſon could juſtify.
Another gate delivered them into the
ſecond court, graſs-grown, and more wild
than the firſt, where, as the ſurveyed through
the twilight its deſolation--its lofty walls,
overtopt with briony, moſs, and night-
fhade, and the embattled towers that roſe
above,-long ſuffering and murder came
to her thoughts. One of thoſe inſtanta-
neous and unaccountable convictions, which
ſometimes conquer even ſtrong minds, im-
preſſed her with its horror. The ſentiment
was not diminiſhed, when ſhe entered an
extenſive gothic hall, obſcured by the gloom
I 3.
of


( 174 )
!
of evening, which a light glimmering at a
diſtance through a long perſpective of arches,
only rendered more ſtriking. As a ſervant
brought the lamp nearer, partial gleams
fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches,
forming a ſtrong contraſt with their ſha-
dows, that ſtretched along the pavement
and the walls.
The ſudden journey of Montoni had
prevented his people from making any
other preparations for his l'eception, than
could be had in the ſhort interval, ſince the
arrival of the ſervant, who had been ſent
forward from Venice; and this, in ſome
meaſure, may account for the air of extreme
defolation, that every where appeared.
The ſervant, who came to light Montoni,
bowed in ſilence, and the muſcles of his coun.
tenance relaxed with no ſymptom of joy.-
Montoni noticed the ſalutation by a light
motion of his hand, and paſſed on, while
his lady, following, and looking round with
a degree of ſurpriſe and diſcontent, which
ſhe


.( 175 )
van
ſhe ſeemed fearful of exprefling, and Emily,
furveying the extent and grandeur of the
Hall in timid wonder, approached a marble
ftair-caſe. The arches here opened to a
lofty vault, from the centre of which hung
a tripod lamp, which a fervant was haſtily
lighting; and the rich fret-work of the
roof, a corridor, leading into ſeveral upper
apartments, and a painted window, ſtretch-
ing nearly from the pavement to the ceil-
ing of the hall, became gradually viſible.
Having croſſed the foot of the ſtair-cafe,
and paſſed through an anti-room, they en-
tered a ſpacious apartment, whoſe walls,
wainſcoted with black larch-wood, the
growth of the neighbouring mountains,
were ſcarcely diſtinguiſhable from darkneſs
itſelf.“ Bring more light,” ſaid Montoni,
as he entered. The ſervant, ſetting down
his lamp, was withdrawing to obey him,
when Madame Montoni obſerving, thac
the evening air of this mountainous ré..
gion was cold, and that ſhe ſhould like a
. 14
fire,


( 176 )
fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be
brought.
While he paced the room with thoughtful
ſteps, and Madame Montoni ſat filently on
a couch at the upper end of it, waiting
• till the ſervant returned, Emily was ob-
ſerving the fingular folemnity and deſola-
tion of the apartment, viewed, as it now
was, by the glimmer of the ſingle lamp,
placed near a large Venetian mirror, that
duſkily reflected the ſcene, with the tall
figure of Montoni paffing ſlowly along, his
arıms folded, and his countenance inzued by
the plume that waved in his hat.
From the contemplation of this ſcene,
Emily's mind proceeded to the apprehen-
fion of what ſhe might ſuffer in it, till the
remembrance of Valancourt, far, far dif-
tint! came to her heart, and fuftened it
into forrow. A heavy ſigh eſcaped her:
but, trying to conceal her tears, ſhe walked
away to one of the high windows, that
opened upon the ramparis, below which,
ſpread


( 177 )
ſpread the woods ſhe had paffed in her ap-
proach to the caſtle. But the night ſhade
fat deeply on the mountains beyond, and
their indented outline alone could be faintly
traced on the horizon, where a red ſtreak
yet glimmered in the weſt. The valley be-
tween was ſunk in darkneſs.
The ſcene within, upon which Emily
turned on the opening of the door, was-
ſcarcely leſs gloomy. The old ſervant,
who had received them at the gates, now
entered, ' bending under a load of pine-
branches, while two of Montoni's Venetian
fervants followed with lights. .
“ Your Excellenza is welcome to the
caſtle," ſaid the old man, as he raiſed him.
ſelf from the hearth, where he had laid the
wood : " it has been a lonely place a long
while; but you will excuſe it, Signor,
knowing we had but ſhort notice. It is
near two years, come next feaſt of St. Mark,
ſince your Excellenza was within theſe walls.”
“ You have a good memory, old Carlo,”
I 5
faid


( 178 )
:
ſaid Montoni : " it is thereabout; and how
haft thou contrived to live ſo long ?”
" A-well-a-day, ſir, with much ado;
the cold winds that blow through the caſtle
in winter, are almoſt too much for me; and
I thought ſometimes of aſking your Excel:
lenza to let me leave the mountains, and go
down into the lowlands. But I don't know.
how it is-I am loth to quit theſe old walls.
I have lived in fo long."
"Well, how have you gone on in the
caſtle, ſince I left it?" ſaid Montoni. "
“Why much as uſual, Signor,, only it
wants a good deal of repairing. There is
the north tower—ſome of the battlements,
have tumbled down, and had liked one
day to have knocked my poor wife (God
reſt her ſoul !) on the head. Your Exceller.za
muſt know- ".
« Well, but the repairs,” interrupted
Montoni.
« Aye, the repairs,” ſaid Carlo: “a part
of the roof of the great hall has fallen in,
and


( 179 )
as
n
and all the winds from the mountains ruſhed
through it laſt winter, and whiſtled through
the whole caſtle ſo, that there was no
keeping one's ſelf warm, be where one
would. There my wife and I uſed to ſit
ſhivering over a great fire in one corner
of the little hall, ready to die with cold,
and "
" But there are no more repairs wanted,"
ſaid Montoni, impatiently.
“O Lord! your Excellenza, yes--the wall
of the rampart has tumbled down in three
places; then, the ſtairs, that lead to the
weſt gallery, have been a long time ſo bad,
that it is dangerous to go up them; and the.
paſſage leading to the great oak chamber,
that overhangs the 'north rampart-one
night laſt winter I ventured to go there by
myſelf, and your Excellenza-
6. Well, well, enough of this,” ſaid Mon-
toni, with quickneſs : 66 | will talk more
with thee tomorrow.”
The fire was now lighted; Carlo ſwept
the hearth, placed chairs, wiped the dust
- .
1.6. j . from
*


... ( 180 ) ;
from a large marble table that ſtood near it,
and then left the room..
Montoni and his family drew round the
fire. Madame Montoni made ſeveral at-
tempts at converſation, but his fullen an-
ſwers repulſed her, while Emily fat endea-
vouring to acquire courage enough to ſpeak
to him. At length, in a tremulous voice,
ſhe ſaid, “ May 1 aſk, ſir, the motive of
this ſudden journey ?"--After a long pauſe,
The recovered ſufficient courage to repeat the
queſtion.
" It does not ſuit me to anſwer enqui.
ries,” ſaid Montoni,“ nor does it become
you to make them ; time may unfold them
all: but I deſire I may be no further ha-
rafled, and I recommend it to you to re-
cire to your chamber, and to endeavour to
adopt a more rational conduct than that of
yielding to fancies, and to a ſenſibility,
which, to call it by the gentleſt name, is
only a weakneſs.”
Emily roſe to withdraw. “Good night,
madame,” ſaid ſhe to her aunt, with an
aſſumed


( 181 )
aſſumed compoſure, that could not diſguiſe
her emotion.
o Good night, my dear,” ſaid Madame
Montoni, in a tone of kindneſs, which her
niece had sever before heard from her; and
the unexpected endearment brought tears
to Emily's eyes. She curtfied to Montoni,
and was 'retiring; " But you do not know
the way to your chamber,” ſaid her aunt.
Montoni called the ſervant, who waited in
the anti-room, and bade him ſend Madame
Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few
minutes, Emily withdrew.
• Do you know which is my room ?”
ſaid ſhe to Annette, as they croſſed the
hall.
“ Yes, I believe I do, ma’amſelle ; but
this is ſuch a ſtrange rambling place! I have
been loſt in it already : they call it the
double chamber, over the ſouth rampart,
and I went up this great ſtair-caſe to it.
My lady's room is at the other end of the
caſtle.”
Emily aſcended the marble ſtair-caſe,
*and


( 182 )
and came to the corridor, as they paſſed
through which Annette reſumed her chat-
“What a wild lonely place this is, ma'am !
I ſhall be quite frightened to live in it.
How often, and often have I wiſhed my-
ſelf in France again! I little thought, when
I came with my lady to ſee the world, that
· I ſhould ever be Thut up in ſuch a place as
this, or I would never have left my own
country! This way, ma'amfelle, down this
turning. I can almoſt believe in giants
again, and ſuch like, for this is juſt like
one of their caſtles; and, ſome night or
other, I ſuppoſe I ſhall ſee fạiries too, hop.
ping about in that great old hall, that looks
more like a church, with its huge pillars,
than any thing elſe.".
: "6. Yes,” ſaid Emnily, ſmiling, and glad
to eſcape from îmore ſerious thought, - if.
we come to the corridor, about midnight,
and look down into the hall, we ſhall cer-
tainly ſee it illuminated with a thouſand
lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles
to the ſound of delicious muſic; for it is
...
ini


( 183 )
M
in ſuch places as this, you know, that they
come to hold their revels. But I am afraid,
Annette, you will not be able to pay the
neceſſary penance for ſuch a ſight: and, if
once they hear your voice, the whole ſcene
will vaniſh in an inſtant.".
' " O ! if you will bear me company,
ma'amſelle, I will come to the corridor,
this very night, and I promiſe you I will
hold my tongue; it ſhall not be my fault
if the ſhow, vaniſhes. But do you think
they will come ?”
" I cannot promiſe that with certainty,,
but I will venture to ſay, it will not be your
fault if the enchantment ſhould vaniſh.”.
" Well, ma’amfélle, that is ſaying more
than I expected of you: but I am not ſo,
much afraid of fairies as of ghoſts, and they
ſay there are a plentiful many of them
about the caſtle: now I ſhould be frightened
to death, if I ſhould chance to ſee any of
them. But huſh ! ma'amſelle, walk foftly !
I have thought, ſeveral times, ſomething
paffed by me.”.
“Ridi


( 184 )
turn t
i
“Ridiculous !” ſaid Emily, “ you muſt
not indulge ſuch fancies.”
“O ma'am! they are not fancies, for
aught I know; Benedetto ſays theſe diſmal
galleries and halls are fit for nothing but
ghoſts to live in ; and I verily believe, if I
live long in them, I ſhall turn to one my-
ſelf !" i
" I hope," ſaid Emily, “ you will not
fuffer Signor Montoni to hear of theſe
weak' fears ; they would highly diſpleaſe
him.”
". What, you know then, ma’amſelle,
all about it !” rejoined Annette. “ No, no,
I do know better than to do ſo; though,
if the Signor can ſleep found, nobody elſe
in the caſtle has any right to lie awake, I
am ſure.” Emily did not appear to notice:
this remark. '
“Down this paſſage, ma’amſelle; this.
leads to a back ſtair.caſe. O! if I ſee any
thing, I ſhall be frightened out of my wits!”.
“ That will ſcarcely be poſſible,” ſaid
Emily, ſiniling, as ſhe followed the wind.
ing


( 185 )
ing of the paſſage, which opened into ano-
ther gallery : and then Annette, perceiving
that ſhe had miſſed her way, while ſhe had
been ſo eloquently haranguing on ghoſts
and fairies, wandered about through other
paffages and galleries, till, at length, fright-
ened by their intricacies and deſolation, ſhe
called aloud for aſſiſtance: but they were
beyond the hearing of the ſervants, who
were on the other ſide of the caſtle, and
Emily now opened the door of a chamber
on the left. '
"O! do not go in there, ma'amiejie,“
faid Annette, "you will only loſe yourſelf
further."
“ Bring the light forward,” ſaid Emily,
“ we may poſſibly find our way through
theſe rooms."
Annette ftood at the door, in an attitude
of heſitation, with the light held up to ſhew
the chamber, but the feeble rays ſpread
through not half of it. “Why do you
heſitate ?” ſaid Emily, « let me ſee whicher
this room leads.”
· Annette
·


( 186 )
Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened
into a ſuite of ſpacious and ancient apart-
ments, ſome of which were hung with ta-
peſtry, and others wainſcoted with cedar
and black larch-wood. What furniture
there was, ſeemed to be almoſt as old as
the rooms, and retained an appearance of
grandeur, though covered with duſt, and
dropping to pieces with the damps, and
with age.
“How cold theſe roonis are, ma’amfelle!”
ſaid Annette : " nobody has lived in them
for many, many years, they ſay. Do let.
us go."
“They may open upon the great ſtair-
cafe, perhaps,” ſaid Emily, paſſing on till
ſhe came to a chamber, hung with pictures,
and took the light to examine that of a
ſoldier on horſeback in a field of battle. -
He was darting his ſpear upon a man, who
lay under the feet of the horſe, and who.
held up one hand in a ſupplicating attitude.
The ſoldier, whoſe beaver was up, regarded
him with a look of vengeance, and the
countenance,
ll


( 187 )
countenance, with that expreſſion, ſtruck
Emily as reſembling Montoni. She ſhud-
dered, and turned from it. Paſſing the light
haftily over ſeveral other pictures, he came
to one concealed by a veil of black ſilk.
The ſingularity of the circumſtance ſtruck
her, and ſhe ſtopped before it, wiſhing to
remove the veil, and examine what could
thus carefully be concealed, but ſomewhat
wancing courage. “ Holy Virgin! what
can this mean?” exclaimed Annette. “ This
is ſurely the picture they told me of at
Venice."
“ What picture ?” ſaid Emily. “ Why
a picture a picture,” replied Annette, he
fitatingly—“ but I never could make out
exactly what it was about, either."
“ Remove the veil, Annette.”
" What! I, ma’amſelle !—I ! not for
the world !" Emily, turning round, ſaw
Annette's countenance grow pale. “ And
pray, whac have you heard of this picture,
to terrify you ſo, my good girl ?" ſaid ſhe.
“Nothing,


( 188 )
lot
€. Nothing; ma’amſelle : I have heard now
thing, only let us find our way out.”
“ Certainly: but I wiſh firſt to examine
the picture; take the light, Annette, while
I lift the veil.” Annette took the light,
and immediately walked away with it, dif-
regarding Emily's calls to ſtay, who, not
chooſing to be left alone in the dark cham-
ber, at length followed her. “What is the
reaſon of this, Annette ?” ſaid Emily, when
ſhe overtook 'her, “ what have you heard
concerning that picture, which makes you
to unwilling to ſtay when I bid you ?" .
« I don't know what is the reaſon,
ma’amſelle," replied Annette, 6 nor any
thing about the picture, only I have heard
there is ſomething very dreadful belonging
to it—and that it has been covered up in
black ever ſince--and that nobody has looked
at it for a great many years--and it ſome-
how has to do with the owner of this caſtle
before Signor Montoni came to the poffef-
ſion of it-and-
“Well, Annette,” ſaid Emily, ſmiling,
6. I per-


( 189 )
“I perceive it is as you ſay—that you know
nothing about the picture.”
“No, nothing, indeed, ma'amſelle, for
they made me promiſe never to tell:-
but "
“ Well,” rejoined Emily, who obſerved
that ſhe was ſtruggling between her inclina.
tion to reveal a ſecret, and her apprehenſion
for the conſequence, “I will enquire no
furtherm"
“ No, pray, ma'am, do' not.”
« Left you ſhould tell all,” interrupted
Emily.
Annette bluſhed, and Emily ſmiled, and
they paſſed on to the extremity of this
ſuite of apartments, and found themſelves,
after ſome farther perplexity, once more
at the top of the marble ſtair-caſe, where
Annette left Emily, while the went to call
one of the ſervants of the caſtle to thew
them to the chamber, for which they had
been ſeeking.
While ſhe was abſent, Emily's thoughts
returned to the picture; an unwillingneſs
7
2
to


( 190 )
to tamper with the integrity of a fervant,
had checked her enquiries on this ſubject,
as well as concerning ſome alarming hints,
which Annette had dropped reſpecting
Montoni; though her curioſity was entirely
awakened, and ſhe had perceived, that her
queſtions might eaſily be anſwered. She
was, now, however, inclined to go back to
the apartment and examine the picture;
but the lonelineſs of the hour and of the
place, with the melancholy ſilence that
reigned around her, conſpired with a cer-
tain degree of awe, excited by the 'myſtery
attending this picture, to prevent her. She
determined, however, when day-light ſhould
have re-animated her ſpirits, to go thither
and remove the veil. As ſhe leaned from
the corridor, over the ſtair-caſe, and her
eyes wandered round, ſhe again obſerved,
with wonder, the vaſt ſtrength of the walls,
now ſomewhat decayed, and the pillars of
folid marble, that rofe from the hall, and
ſupported the roof. :
A ſervant now appeared with Annette,
and


( 191 )
e
V
and conducted Emily to her chamber,
which was in a remote part of the caſtle,
and at the end of the very corridor, from
whence the ſuite of apartments opened,
through which they had been wandering,
The lonely aſpect of her room made Emily
unwilling that Annette ſhould leave her im-
mediately, and the dampneſs of it chilled her
with more than fear. She begged Caterina,
the ſervant of the caſtle, to bring ſome wood
and light a fire.
“ Aye, lady, it's many a year ſince a fire
was lighted here,” ſaid Caterina.
- You need not tell us that, good wo.
man,” ſaid Annette ;' "every room in the
caſtle feels like a well. I wonder how you
contrive to live here ; for my part, I wiſh
myſelf at Venice again.” Emily waved her
hand for Caterina to fetch the wood. .
" I wonder, ma'am, why they call this
the double chamber?” ſaid Annette, while
Emily ſurveyed it in ſilence, and ſaw that
it was lofty and ſpacious, like the others
he had ſeen, and, like many of them, too,
had
!


( 192 )
had its walls lined with dark larch-wood.
The bed and other furniture was very an-
cient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur,..
like all that ſhe had ſeen in the caſtle. One
of the high caſements, which ſhe opened,
overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond
was hid in darkneſs.
In the preſence of Annette, Emily tried
to ſupport her fpirits, and to reſtrain the
tears, which, every now and then, came to
her eyes. She wiſhed much to enquire
when Count Morano was expected at the
caſtle, but an unwillingneſs to aſk unne-
ceffary queſtions, and to mention family
concerns to a fervant, withheld her. Mean-
while, Annette's thoughts were engaged
upon another ſubject : fhe dearly loved the
marvellous, and had heard of a circum-
ſtance, connected with the caſtle, that
highly gratified this taſte. Having been
enjoined not to mention it, her inclination
to tell it was ſo ſtrong, that ſhe was every
inſtant on the point of ſpeaking what ſhe
had heard. Such a ſtrange circumſtance,
too,
U


( 193 ) . .
too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a
ſevere puniſhment; but the knew, that
Montoni might inipoſe one much feverer,
and ſhe feared to incur it by offending
him.
Caterina now brought the wood, and its
bright blaze diſpelled, for a while, the
gloom of the chamber. She told Annette,
that her lady had enquired for her, and
Emily was once again left to her own fad
reflecticns. Her heart was not yet hardened
againſt the ſtern manners of Montoni,
and ſhe was nearly as much ſhocked - now,
as ſhe had been when ſhe firſt witneſſed
them. The tenderneſs and affection, to
which ſhe had been accuſtomed, till ſhe
loſt her parents, had made her particularly
ſenſible to any degree of unkindneſs, and
ſuch a reverſe as this no apprehenſion had
prepared her to ſupport.
To call off her attention from ſubjects,
that preſſed heavily upon her ſpirits, the
role and again examined her room and its
furniture. As ſhe walked round it, the
l'ol. II. K . paſſed
roor


( 194 )
1a
paſſed a door, that was not quite ihut, and,
perceiving, that it was not the one, through
which ſhe entered, ſhe brought the light
forward to diſcover whither it led. She
opened it, and, going forward, had nearly
fallen down a ſteep, narrow ſtair-caſe, that
wound from it, between two ſtone walls.
She wiſhed to know to what it led, and was
the more anxious, ſince it communicated ſo
inmediately with her apartment; but, in
the preſent ſtate of her ſpirits, ſhe wanted
courage to venture into the darkneſs alone,
Cloſing the door, therefore, ſhe endeavoured
to faſten it, but, upon further examination,
perceived that it had no bolts on the cham,
ber ſide, though it had two on the other.
By placing a heavy chair againſt it, ſhe
in ſome meaſure remedied the defect; yet
ſhe was ſtill alarmed at the thought of
ſleeping in this remote room alone, with a
door opening ſhe knew not whither, and
which could not be perfectly faſtened on the
inſide. Sometimes ſhe wiſhed to entreat of
Madame Montoni, that Annette might have
leave


( 195 )
rors
leave to remain with her all night, but was
deterred by an apprehenſion of betraying
| what would be thought childiſh fears, and
by an unwillingneſs to increaſe the apt ter-
rors of Annette.
Her gloomy reflections were, ſoon after,
interrupted by a footſtep in the corridor, and
| ſhe was glad to ſee Annette enter with ſome
ſupper, ſent by Madame Montoni, Hav-
ing a table near the fire, ſhe made the good
girl ſit down and fup with her; and, when
5 their little repaſt was over, Annette, encou-
raged by her kindneſs, and ſtirring the wood
into a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth,
nearer to Emily, and ſaid, -"Did you ever
hear, ma'amſelle, of the ſtrange accident,
that made the Signor lord of this caſtle ?"
1, " What 'wonderful ſtory have you now
| to tell ?” ſaid Emily, concealing the curio-
ſity, occafioned by the myſterious hints ſhe
i had formerly heard on that ſubject.
;" I have heard all about it; ma’amſelle,"
i ſaid Annette, looking round the chamber
and drawing cloſer to Emily; " Benedetto
.. K2
told


( 196 )
TOT
len.
told it me as we travelled together: ſays he,
• Annette, you don't know about this caſtle
here, that we are going to ? No, ſays I,
Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you know?
But, ma’amſelle, you can keep a ſecret, or
I would not tell it you for the world; for
I promiſed never to tell, and they ſay,
that the Signor does not like to have it
talked of."
“ If you promiſed to keep this ſecret,”
ſaid Emily, 6 you do right not to men-
tion it.”
Annette pauſed a moment, and then
ſaid, “ O., but to you, ma'amſelle, to you
I may tell it ſafely, I know.”
Emily ſmiled, “ I certainly ſhall keep it
as faithfully as yourſelf, Annette.”
Annette replied very gravely, that would
do, and proceeded—“This caſtle, you muſt
know, ma’amſelle, is very old, and very
ſtrong, and has ſtood out many ſieges as
they ſay. Now it was not Signor Montoni's
always, nor his father's ; no; but, by ſome
law


I law or other, it was to come to the Signor,
if the lady died unmarried.” .
6. What lady?” ſaid Emily.
“I am not come to that yet,” replied
Annette, « it is the lady I am going to
tell you about, ma'amfelle: but, as I was
ſaying, this lady lived in the caſtle, and
had every thing very grand about her, as
you may ſuppoſe, ma'amfelle. The Signor
uſed often to come to ſee her, and was in
love with her, and offered to marry her;
for, though he was ſomehow related, that did
not ſignify. But ſhe was in love with ſome-
body elſe, and would not have him, which
made him very angry as they ſay, and you
know, ma'amfelle, what an ill-looking gen-
tleman he is, when he is angry. Perhaps
ſhe ſaw him in a paſſion, and therefore
would not have hini. But, as I was'ſaying,
fhe was very melancholy and unhappy, and
all that, for a long while, and—Holy Vir-
gin! what noiſe is that ? did not you hear
a found, ma'amfelle 2” .
“ It was only the wind,” ſaid Emily,
K 3
66 but


( 198 )
“ but do come to the end of your
* ſtory.”
“ As I was ſaying-0, where was I?-
as I was ſaying he was very melancholy
and unhappy a long while, and uſed to walk
about upon the terrace, there, under the win-
dows, by herſelf, and cry fo! it would have
done your heart good to hear her. That is
I don't mean good, but it would have
made you cry too, as they tell me.”
" Well, but, Annette, do tell me the
ſubſtance of your tale."
“ All in good time; ma’am; all this i
heard before at Venice, but what is to
come I never heard till to-day. This hap-
pened a great many years ago, when Signor
Montoni was quite a young man. The
lady-they called her Signora Laurentini,
was very handſome, but ſhe uſed to be in
great paſſions, too, ſometimes, as well as the
Signor. Finding he could not make her
liſten to him--wliat does he do, but leave
the caſtle, and never comes near it for a
long time! but it was all one to her; ſhe
.
was


( 199 ) -
was juſt as unhappy whether he was here
..or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter !
ma’amſelle,” cried Annette, “ look at that
lamp, ſee how blue it burns !” She looked
fearfully round the chamber. " Ridicu.
lous girl!” ſaid Emily,“ why will you in-
dulge thoſe fancies ? Pray let me hear the
end of your ſtory, I am weary.”
Annette ſtill kept her eyes on the lamp,
and proceeded in a lower voice. " It
was one evening, they ſay, at the latter
end of the year, it might be about the
middle of September, I ſuppoſe, or the be-
ginning of October ; nay, for that matter,
it might be November, for that, too, is the
latter end of the year, but that I cannot
ſay for certain, becauſe they did not tell me
for certain themſelves. However, it was at
the latter end of the year, this grand lady
walked out of the caſtle into the woods
below, as ſhe had often done before, all
alone, only her maid was with her. The
wind blew cold, and ſtrewed the leaves
about, and whiſtled diſmally among thoſe
K4
great
.


( 200 )
ca
great old cheſnut trees, that we paſſed,
ma’amſelle, as we came to the caſtle-for
Benedetto Thewed me the trees, as he was
talking the wind blew cold, and her wo-
man would have perſuaded her to return :
but all would not do, for ſhe was fond of
walking in the woods, at evening time,
and, if the leaves were falling about her, fo
much the better.
“ Well, they ſaw her go down among
the woods, but night came, and ſhe did not
return; ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve
o'clock came, and no lady! Well, the ſer.
vants thought to be ſure, fome accident had
befallen her, and they went out to ſeek
her. They ſearched all night long, but
could not find her, or any trace of her ;
and, from that day to this, ma’amfelle, ſhe
has never been heard of.”
os Is this true, Annette ?” ſaid Emily, in
much ſurpriſe:
" True, ma'am !” ſaid Annette, with a
look of horror, 6 yes, it is true, indeed.
But they do ſay,” ſhe added, lowering her
i
voice,


( 201 )
voice, “ they do ſay, that the Signora has
been ſeen, ſeveral times ſince, walking in
the woods and about the caſtle in the night :
ſeveral of the old fervants, who remained
here ſome time after, declare they ſaw her ;
and, ſince then, the has bien ſeen by ſome
of the vaſſals, who have happened to be
in the caſtle, at night. Carlo, che old ſtew-
ard, could tell ſuch things, they ſay, if he
would !”
“How contradictory is this, Annette !"
faid Emily, “ you ſay nothing has been
fince known of her, and yet ſhe has been
feen!”
" But all this was told me for a great ſe-
cret,” rejoined Annette, without noticing
the remark," and I am lure, ma'am, you
would not hurt either me or Benedetto, ſo
much as to go and tell it again.” Emily
remained ſilent, and Annette repeated her
laſt fentence.
“ You have nothing to fear from my
indiſcretion,” replied Emily, “ and let me
adviſe you, my good Anneste, be diſcreet
KS
youso
CI


(202)
yourſelf, and never mention what you have
juſt told me to any other perſon. Signor
Montoni, as you ſay, may be angry if he
hears of it. But what enquiries were made
concerning the lady?”
“O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amſelle,
-- for the Signor laid claim to the caſtle dio
rectly, as being the next heir, and they
ſaid, that is the judges, or the ſenators, or
ſomebody of 'that fort, ſaid, he could not
take poſſeſſion of it till ſo many years were
gone by, and then, if after all the lady.
could not be found, why ſhe would be as
good as dead, and the caſtle would be his
own; and ſo it is his own. But the ſtory
went round, and many ſtrange reports were
. fpread, ſo very ſtrange, ma'amſelle, that I
ſhall not tell them.”
“That is ſtranger ſtill, Annette,” ſaid
Emily, ſmiling, and rouſing herſelf from
her reverie. “But, when Signora Lauren-
tini was afterwards ſeen in the caſtle, did
nobody ſpeak to her ?”
“ Speak-ſpeak to her!” cried An-
nette,


. ( 203 )
nette, with a look of terror ; “ no, to be
fure."
:-“ And why not ş” rejoined Emily, will.
ing to hear further.
" Holy Mother ! 'ſpeak to a ſpirit!”
« But what reaſon had they to. conclude
it was a ſpirit, unleſs they had approached,
and ſpoken to it?"
o o ma'amſelle, I cannot tell. How
can you aſk ſuch ſhocking queſtions? But
nobody ever ſaw it come in, or go out of
the caſtle ; and it was in one place now,
and then the next minute in quite another
part of the caſtle; and then it never ſpoke,
and, if it was alive, what ſhould it do in
the caſtle if it never ſpoke ? Several parts
of the caſtle have never been gone into fince,
they ſay, for that very reaſon.”
" What, becauſe it never ſpoke?” ſaid
Emily, trying to laugh away the fears, that
began to ſteal upon her. " No, ma’am-
ſelle, no ;' replied Annette, rather angrily,
“ but becauſe ſomething has been ſeen
there. They ſay, too, there is an old cha.
K 6.
pel


( 204 )'
pel adjoining the weſt ſide of the caſtle,
where, any time at midnight, you may hear
ſuch groans !--it makes one ſhudder to
think of them ;-and ſtrange lights have
been ſeen there "
« Priythee, Annette, no more of theſe
ſilly tales,” ſaid Emily.
“Silly tales, ma’amſelle! O, but I will
tell you one ſtory about this, if you pleaſe,
that Caterina told me. It was one cold .
winter's night that Caterina (ſhe often came
to the caſtle then, ſhe ſays, to keep old
Carlo and his wife company, and ſo he
recommended her afterwards to the Signor,
and ſhe has lived here ever ſince) Caterina
was ſitting with them in the little hall, ſays
Carlo, “I wiſh we had ſome of thoſe figs
to roaſt, that lie in the ſtore-cloſet, but it
is a long way off, and I am loch to fetch
them; do, Caterina,' ſays he, · for you are
young and nimble, do bring us fome,
the fire is in a nice trim for roaſting them;
they lie,' ſays he, “in ſuch a corner of the
ſtore-room, at the end of the north-gallery;
here,


( 205 )
here, take the lamp,' ſays he, and mind,
as you go up the great ſtair.caſe, that the
wind, through the roof, does noc blow it
out.' So, with that, Caterina took the
lamp-Huſh! ma’amſelle, I ſurely heard
a noiſe !"
Emily, whom Annette had now infected
· with her own terrors, liſtened attentively;
but every thing was ſtill, and Annette pro-
ceeded: :
« Caterina went to the north gallery, that
is the wide gallery we paſſed, ma'am, before
we came to the corridor, here. As ſhe went
with the lamp in her hand, thinking of
nothing at all. There, again !” cried
Annette, ſuddenly –“I heard it again!
it was not fancy, ma’amſelle!”
“ Huſh !” ſaid Emily, trembling. They
liſtened, and, continuing to fit quite ſtill,
Emily heard a low knocking againſt the
wall. It came repeatedly. Annette then
Screamed loudly, and the chamber door
flowly opened. It was Caterina, come to
tell


( 206 )
tell Annette, that her lady wanted her.
Emily, though ſhe now perceived who it
was, could not immediately overcome her
terror ; while Annette, hálf laughing, half
crying, ſcolded Caterina heartily for thus
alarming them; and was alſo terrified left
- what ſhe had told had been overheard.
Emily, whoſe mind was deeply impreſſed
by the chief circumſtance of Annette's rela-
tion, was unwilling to be left alone, in the
preſent ſtate of her ſpirits; but, to avoid
offending. Madame Montoni, and betray-
ing her own weakneſs, ſhe ſtruggled to
overcome the illuſions of fear, and diſmified
Annette for the night.
When ſhe was alone, her thoughts re-
curred to the ſtrange hiſtory of Signora Lau-
rentini, and then to her own ſtrange ſitua-
tion, in the wild and ſolitary mountains of
a foreign country, in the caſtle, and the
power of a man, to whom, only a few pre-
· ceding months, ſhe was an entire ſtranger;
who had already exerciſed an uſurped au-
thority


( 207 )
no
thority over her, and whoſe character ſhe
now regarded, with a degree of terror, ap-
parently juſtified by the fears of others. She
knew, that he had invention equal to the
conception and talents to the execution of
any project, and ſhe greatly feared he had
a heart too void of feeling to oppoſe the
perpetration of whatever his intereſt might
ſuggelt. She had long obſerved the un-
happineſs of Madame Montoni, and had
often been witneſs to the ſtern and con-
temptuous behaviour ſhe received from her
huſband. To theſe circumſtances, which
conſpired to give her juft cauſe for alarm,
were now added thoſe thouſand nameleſs
terrors, which exiſt only in active imagina-
tions, and which ſet reaſon and examina-
tion equally at defiance.
Emily remembered all that Valancourt
had told her, on the eve of her departure
from Languedoc, reſpecting Montoni, and
all that he had ſaid to diffuade her from
venturing on the journey. His fears had
often ſince appeared to her prophetic
now
rt


( 208 )
--- -
-
--
-
. --- --- -
now they ſeemed confirmed. Her heart,
as it gave her back the image of Valancourt,
mourned in vain regret, but reaſon ſoon.
came with a conſolation, which, though
feeble at firſt, acquired vigour from reflec-
tion. She conſidered, that, whatever might
be her ſufferings, ſhe had withheld from in-
volving him in misfortune, and that, whar.
ever her future ſorrows could be, ſhe was, at
leaſt, free from ſelf-reproach. .
Her melancholy was aſlifted by the hol-
low ſighings of the wind along the corridor
and round the caſtle. The cheerful blaze
of the wood had long been extinguiſhed,
and ſhe ſat with her eyes fixed on the dying
embers, till a loud guſt, that ſwept through
the corridor, and ſhook the doors and caſe.
ments, alarmed her, for its violence had
moved the chair ſhe had placed as a faſten-
ing, and the door leading to the private
ſtair-caſe ſtood half-open. Her curioſity
and her fears were again awakened. She
took the lamp to the top of the ſteps, and
ſtood heſitating whether to go down; but
.:
again


( 21I
211 )
promontories below were dark with woods,
that ſwept down to their baſe, and ſtretched
along the narrow vallies. The rich pomp
of theſe woods was particularly delightful
to Emily; and ſhe viewed with aſtoniſh-
ment the fortifications of the caſtle ſpread-
ing along a vaſt extent of rock, and now
partly in decay, the grandeur of the ram-
parts below, and the towers and battlements
and various features of the fabric above.
From theſe her ſight wandered over the
cliffs and woods into the valley, along which
foamed a broad and rapid ſtream, feen fall-
ing aniong the crags of an oppoſite moun.
tain, now Aaſhing in the ſun-beams, and
now ſhadowed by over-arching pines, till
it was entirely concealed by their thick
foliage. Again it burſt from beneath this
darkneſs in one broad ſheet of foam, and
fell thundering into the vale. Nearer,
towards the weſt, opened the mountain-
viſta, which Emily had viewed with ſuch
lublime einotion, on her approach to the
caſtle : a thin dulky vapour, that roſe from
the


( 212 2 12
)
the valley, overſpread its features with a
ſweet obſcurity. As this aſcended and
Caught the ſun-beams, it kindled into a
crimſon cint, and touched with exquiſite
beauty the woods and cliffs, over which it
paffed to the ſummit of the mountains ;
then, as the veil drew up, it was delightful
to watch the gleaming objects, that pro.
greſſively diſcloſed themſelves in the val.
ley—the green turf-dark woods- little
rocky receffes-a few peafants' huts--the
foaming ítream--a herd of cattle, and va-
rious images of paſtoral beauty. Then, the
pine-foreſts brightened, and then the broad
breaſt of the mountains, till, at length, the
miſt ſettled round their ſummit, touching
them with a ruddy glow. The features of
the viſta now appeared diſtinctly, and the
broad deep Thadows, that fell from the
lower cliffs, gave ſtrong effect to the ſtream-
ing ſplendour above; while the noun-
tains, gradually ſinking in the perſpec-
tive, appeared to ſhelve into the Adriatic
fea, for ſuch Emily imagined to be the
gleam


( 213 )
gleam of blueiſh light, that terminated the
view.
Thus ſhe endeavoured to amuſe her fan.
cy, and was not unſucceſsful. The breezy
freſhneſs of the morning, too, revived her.
She raiſed her thoughts in prayer, which
ſhe felt always moſt diſpoſed to do, when
viewing the ſublimity of nature, and her
mind recovered its ſtrength.
When ſhe turned from the caſement,
her eyes glanced upon the door ſhe had ſo
.carefully guarded, on the preceding night,
and the now determined to examine whi-
ther it led; but, on advancing to remove
the chairs, ſhe perceived, that they were
already moved a little way. Her ſurpriſe
cannot eaſily be imagined, when, in the
next minute, ſhe perceived that the door
was faſtened. She felt, as if ſhe had ſeen
an apparition. The door of the corridor
was locked as ſhe had left it, but this door,
which could be ſecured only on the out-
ſide, muſt have been bolted, during the
night. She became ſeriouſly uneaſy at the
- thought
са


( 214 )
vas
thought of ſleeping again in a chamber,
thus liable to intruſion, ſo remote, too, as it :
was from the family, and ſhe determined to
mention the circumſtance to Madame Mon-
toni, and to requeſt a change.
After ſome perplexity ſhe found her way,
into the great hall, and to the room, which
ſhe had left, on the preceding night, where
breakfaſt was ſpread, and her aunt was
alone, for Montoni had been walking over
the environs of the caſtle, examining the
.condition of its fortifications, and talking
for ſome time with Carlo. Emily obſerved,
that her aunt had been weeping, and her
heart ſoftened towards her, with an affec.
tion, that ſhewed itſelf in her manner, rather
than in words, while ſhe carefully avoided
the appearance of having noticed, that ſhe
was unhappy. She ſeized the opportunity
of Montoni's abſence to mention the cir- -
cumſtance of the door, to requeſt that ſhe
might be allowed another apartment, and
to enquire again, concerning the occaſion
of their ſudden journey. On the firſt ſub-
ject


( 215 )
>
.
ject her aunt referred her to Montoni, pofi-
tively refuſing to interfere in the affair ; on
the laſt, ſhe profeſſed utter ignorance.
Emily, then, with a wiſh of making her
aunt more reconciled to her ſituation, praiſed
the grandeur of the caſtle and the ſurround-
ing ſcenery, and endeavoured to ſoften
every unpleaſing circumſtance attending it.
But, though misfortune had ſomewhat con-
quered the aſperity of Madame Montoni's
temper, and, by increaſing her cares for,
herſelf, had taught her to feel in fome de-
gree for others, the capricious love of
rule, which nature had planted and habit
had nouriſhed in her heart, was not ſub-
dued. She could not now deny herſelf the
gratification of tyrannizing over the inno-
cent and helpleſs, Emily, by attempting to
ridicule the taſte ſhe could not feel.
Her ſatirical diſcourſe was, however, in-
terrupted by the entrance of Montoni, and
her countenance immediately aſſumed a
mingled expreſſion of fear and reſentment,
while he feated himſelf at the breakfaſt: 1
table,
се


. ( 216 )
table, as if unconſcious of there being any
perſon but himſelf in the room.
Emily, as ſhe obſerved him in ſilence,
ſaw that his countenance was darker and
fterner than uſual. "O could I know,"
ſaid ſhe to herſelf, “ what paſſes in that
mind; could I know the thoughts, that are
known there, I ſhould no longer be con-
demned to this torturing ſuſpenſe !” Their
breakfaſt paſſed in ſilence, till Emily ven.
tured to requeſt, that another apartment
might be allotted to her, and related the
circumſtance which made her wiſh it..
:-“ I have no time to attend to theſe idle
whims," ſaid Montoni, schat chamber was
prepared for you, and you muſt reſt con-
tented with it. It is not probable, that any
perſon would take the trouble of going to
that remote ftair-caſe, for the purpoſe of
faſtening a door. If it was not faſtened,
when you entered the chamber, the wind,
perhaps, ſhook the door and made the bolts
Nide. But I know not why I ſhould under-
take to account for fo trifling an occurrence.”
.
.
This


(217)
This explanation was by no means fatiſ-
factory to Einily, who had obſerved, that
the bolts were ruited, and conſequently
could not be thus eaſily moved; but ſhe
forbore to ſay ſo, and repeated her requeſt.
« If you will not releaſe yourſelf from
the Gavery of theſe fears," ſaid Montoni,
ſternly, “ at leaſt forbear to torment others
by the mention of them. Conquer ſuch
whims, and endeavour to ſtrengthen your
mind. No exiſtence is more contemptible
than that which is embittered by fear.” As
he ſaid this, his eye glanced upon Madame
Montoni, who coloured highly, but was ſtill
ſilent. Emily, wounded and diſappointed,
thought her fears were, in this inſtance, too
reaſonable to deſerve ridicule ; but, per-
ceiving, that, however they might oppreſs
her, ſhe muſt endure them, ſhe tried to with-
draw her attention from the ſubject. '
Carlo ſoon after entered with ſome fruit:
6. Your Excellenza is tired after your long
ramble,” ſaid he, as he ſet the fruit upon
the table; " but you have more to ſee after
Vol. II. : L breakfaſt,


( 218 )
in
breakfaſt. There is a place in the vaulted
paſſage leading to- ”
Montoni frowned upon him, and waved
his hand for him to leave the room. Carlo
ſtopped, looked down, and then added, as
he advanced to the breakfaſt-table, and took
up the baſket of fruit, “I made bold, your
Excellenza, to bring ſome cherries, here, for
my honoured lady and my young miſtreſs.
Will your ladyſhip taſte them, madam ?”
faid Carlo, preſenting the baſket, “ they
are very fine ones, though I gathered them
myſelf, and from an old tree, that catches
all the ſouth ſun; they are as big as plums,
your ladyſhip.” .
« Very well, old Carlo," ſaid Madame
Montoni; “ I am obliged to you.”
“ And the young Signora, too, ſhe may
like ſome of them,” rejoined Carlo, turning
with the baſket to Einily, “ it will do me
good to ſee her eat fome.”
“ Thank you, Carlo,” ſaid Emily, taking
fome cherries, and ſmiling kindly.
“ Come, come,” ſaid Montoni, impa-
tiently,


( 219 )
tiently, “ enough of this. Leave the room,
but be in waiting. I ſhall want you pre-
fently.”
Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, ſoon after,
went out to examine further into the ſtate
of the caſtle; while Emily remained with
her aunt, patiently enduring her ill humour,
and endeavouring, with much ſweetneſs, to
footh her affliction, inſtead of reſenting its
effect.
When Madame Montoni retired to her
dreſſing room, Emily endeavoured to amuſe
herfelf by a view of the caſtle. Through å
folding door, ſhe paſſed from the great hall
to the ramparts, which extended along the
brow of the precipice, round three ſides of
the edifice; the fourth was guarded by the
high walls of the courts, and by the gate.
way, through which ſhe had paſled, on the
preceding evening. The grandeur of the
broad ramparts, and the changing ſcenery
they overlooked, excited her high admira-
tion; for the extent of the terraces allowed
L2
the


(220 )
the features of the country to be ſeen in ſuch
various points of view, that they appeared
to form new landſcapes. She often pauſed
to examine the gothic magnificence of
Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty
towers and battlements, its high-arched
caſements, and its ſlender watch-towe r,
perched upon the corners of turrets. Then
ſhe would lean on the wall of the terrace,
and, ſhuddering, meaſure with her eye the
precipice below, till the dark ſumınits of the
woods arreſted it. Wherever ſhe turned,
appeared mountain-tops, foreſts of pine and
narrow glens, opening among the Apennines,
and retiring from the fight into inacceſſible
regions.
While ſhe thus leaned, Montoni, follow.
ed by two men, appeared, aſcending a wind-
ing path, cut in the rock below. He ſtop--
ped upon a cliff, and, pointing to the ram-
parts, turned to his followers, and talked
with much eagerneſs of geſticulation.-
Emily perceived, that one of theſe men was
Carlo;


( 221 )
CCT
no was ar
Carlo; the other was in the dreſs of a ped-
fant, and he alone ſeemed to be receiving
the directions of Montoni.
She withdrew from the walls, and purſued
her 'walk, till ſhe heard at a diſtance the
found of carriage wheels, and then the loud
bell of the portal, when it inſtantly occur-
red to her, that Count Morano was arrived.
As ſhe haſtily paſſed the folding doors from
the terrace, 'towards her own apartment,
ſeveral perfons entered the hall by an op-
poſite door. She ſaw them at the extremity
of the arcades, and immediately retreated;
but the agitation of her ſpirits, and the ex-
tent and duſkineſs of the hall, had pre-
vented her from diſtinguiſhing the perſons
of the ſtrangers. Her fears, however, had
but one object, and they called up thať
object to her fancy ;—ſhe believed that ſhe
had ſeen Count Morano.
When ſhe thought that they had paſſed
the hall, ſhe ventured again to the door, and
proceeded, unobſerved, to her room, where
The remained, agitated with apprehenſions,
L 3
and


( 222 )
and liſtening to every diſtant found. At
length, hearing voices on the rampart, the
haſtened to her window, and obſerved Mon-
toni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below,
converſing earneſtly, and often ſtopping and
turning towards each other, at which times
their diſcourſe ſeemed to be uncommonly
intereſting.
Of the ſeveral perſons who had appeared
in the hall, here was Cavigni alone : but
Emily's alarm was ſoon after heightened by
the ſteps of ſome one in the corridor, who,
The apprehended, brought a neſfage from
the Count. In the next moment, Annette
appeared.
“Ah! ma'amfelle," ſaid ſhe, “ here is
the Signor Cavigni arrived ! I am ſure I re-
joiced to ſee a chriſtian perſon in this place ;
and then he is fo good-natured too, he als
ways takes ſo much notice of me!-And
here is alſo Signor Vereizzi, and who do you
think befides, ma'amſelle ?"
“ I cannot gueſs, Annette ; tell me
quickly.”
• Nay
+


(223)
." Nay, ma'am, do gueſs once."
« Well, then," ſaid Emily, with aſſumed
compoſure, “ it is--Count Morano, I ſup-.
poſe."
“ Holy Virgin !" cried Annette, “ are
you ill, ma’amſelle ? you are going to faint!
let me get ſome water.”
Emily funk into a chair; “ Stay, An.
nette,” faid ſhe, feebly, “ do not leave me
-I ſhall ſoon be better ; open the caſe-
ment.--The Count, you ſay he is come
then ?"
: « Who, I!-the Count! No, ma'am-
ſelle, I did not ſay ſo." "He is not come
then?” ſaid Emily, eagerly. “No, ma'am.
felle."
" You are ſure of it ?" .
i “ Lord bleſs me!" ſaid Annette, “ you
recover very ſuddenly, ma'am! why, I
thought you was dying, juſt now.”.
“ But the Count—you are ſure, is not
come ?"
“ O yes, quite ſure of that, ma'amfelle.
Why, I was looking out through the grate
L4
-


(224)
in the north turret, when the carriages drove
into the court-yard, and I never expected
to ſee ſuch a goodly ſight in this diſmal old
caſtle! but here are maſters and ſervants,
too, enough to make the place ring again.
0! I was ready to leap through the ruſty
old bars, for joy !-0! who would ever
have thought of ſeeing a chriſtian face in
this huge dreary houſe? I could have kiffed
the very horſes that brought them.”
“ Well, Annette, well, I am better
now."
“ Yes, ma'amfelle, I ſee you are. O ! all
the ſervants will lead merry lives here, now;
we ſhall have ſinging and dancing in the
little hall, for the Signor cannot hear us
there-and droll ſtories - Ludovico's come,
ina’am; yes, there is Ludovico come with
them! You remember Ludovico, ma'am
a tall, handſome, young man-Signor
Cavigny's lacquey—who always wears his
cloak with ſuch a grace, thrown round his
left arm, and his hat ſer on fo ſmartly, all
on one ſide, and "
“ No,"
!


( 225 )
“No,” ſaid Emily, who was wearied by
her loquacity.
" What, ma'amſelle, don't you remem.
ber Ludovico--who rowed the Cavaliero's
gondola, at the laſt regatta, and won the
prize? And who uſed to ſing ſuch ſweet
verſes about Orlandos and about the Black-
a-moors, too; and Charly-Charly-magne,
yes, that was the name, all under my lat-
tice, in the weſt portico, on the moon-
light nights at Venice? O! I have liſtened
to him !_”
"I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,"
ſaid Emily; - for it ſeems his verſes have
ſtolen thy heart. But let me adviſe you;
if it is ſo, keep the fecret ; never let him
know it."
“ Ah-ma’amſelle !- how can one keep
ſuch a ſecret as that ?"
..“ Well, Annette, I am now fo much
better, that you may leave me.”
" O, but, ma'amfelle, I forgot to aſk-
how did you ſleep in this drearyold chamber
laſt night ??"-"As well as uſual.”-“ Did
L 5
you


( 226 )
you hear no noiſes ?”-“None.”—“ Nor
fee any thing?”—“Nothing.”_"Well, that
is ſurpriſing!”“ Not in the leaſt: and
now tell me, why you aſk theſe queſtions.”
"O, ma'amſelle! I would not tell you
for the world, nor all I have heard about
this chamber, either; it would frighten
you fo.”
“ If that is all, you have frightened me
*already, and may therefore tell me what
you know, without hurting your con.
ſcience.”
ido Lord ! they ſay the room is haunted,
and has been ſo there many years."
“ It is by a ghoſt, then, who can draw
bolts," ſaid Emily, endeavouring to laugh
away her apprehenſions; " for I left that
door open, laſt night, and found it faſtened
this morning.”
Annette turned pale, and ſaid not a
word.
“ Do you know whether any of the fer-
vants faſtened this door in the morning,
before I role?".
“ No,


(227 )
6 No, ma'am, that I will be bound they
did not ; but I don't know : ſhall I go and
aſk, ma’amſelle ?” ſaid Annette, moving
haſtily towards the corridor.
“ Stay, Annette, I have other queſtions
to aſk ; tell me what you have heard con-
cerning this room, and whither that ſtaircafe
leads."
“I will go and aſk it all directly, ma'am ;
beſides, I am ſure my lady wants me. I
cannot ſtay now, indeed, ma'am.”
She hurried from the room, without
waiting Emily's reply, whoſe heart, lightened
by the certainty, that Morano was not ar-
rived, allowed her to ſmile at the ſuperſti:
tious terror, which had ſeized on Annette ;
for, though the ſometimes felt its influence
herſelf, ſhe could ſmile at it, when apparent
in other perſons.
Montoni having refuſed Emily another
chamber, ſhe determined to bear with pa-
tience the evil ſhe could not remove, and,
in order to make the room as comfortable
Ló
as


( 228 )
as poſſible, unpacked her books, her ſweet
delight in happier days, and her foothing
reſource in the hours of moderate forrow :
but there were hours when even theſe failed
of their effect ; when the genius, the taſte,
the enthuſiaſm of the ſublimeſt writers were
felt no longer.
Her little library being arranged on a
high cheſt, part of the furniture of the room,
ſhe took out her drawing utenſils, and was
tranquil enough to be pleaſed with the
thought of ſketching the ſublime ſcenes,
beheld from her windows; but ſhe ſud.
denly checked this pleaſure, remembering
how often ſhe had foothed herſelf by the in
tention of obtaining amuſement of this kind,
and had been prevented by ſome new cir-
cumſtance of misfortune.
“How can I ſuffer myſelf to be deluded
by hope," ſaid ſhe, “ and, becauſe Count
Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momen-
tary happineſs ? Alas, what is it to me,
whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow,
if


( 229 )
if he comes at all ?—and that he will come
-it were weakneſs to doubt.”
To withdraw her thoughts, however,
from the ſubject of her misfortunes, ſhe
attempted to read, but her attention wan-
dered from the page, and, at length, ſhe
threw aſide the book, and determined to
explore the adjoining chambers of the caſtle.
Her imagination was pleaſed with the view
of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of
melancholy awe awakened all its powers,
as ſhe walked through rooms, obſcure and
deſolate, where no footſteps had.paffed pro-
bably for many years, and remembered the
ſtrange hiſtory of the former poffeffor of the
edifice. This brought to her recollection
the veiled picture, which had attracted her
curioſity, on the preceding night, and ſhe
refolved to examine it. As ſhe paſſed
through the chambers, that led to this, ſhe
found herſelf ſomewhat agitated ; its con-
nection with the late lady of the caſtle, and
the converſation of Annette, together with
the


( 230 )
the circumſtance of the veil, throwing a
myſtery over the object, that excited a fains
degree of terror. But a terror of this na-
ture, as it occupies and expands the mind,
and elevates it to high expectation, is purely
fublime, and leads us, by a kind of faſci-
nation, to ſeek even the object, from which
we appear to ſhrink. .
Emily paſſed on with faltering ſteps, and
having pauſed a moment at the door, before
fhe attempted to open it, the then haſtily
entered the chamber, and went towards che
picture, which appeared to be encloſed in a
frame of uncommon ſize, that hung in a dark
part of the room. She paufed again, and
then, with a timid hand, liftecl the veil;
but inſtantly let it fall-perceiving that
what it had concealed was no picture, and,
before ſhe could leave the chamber, ſhe
dropped ſenfeleſs on the floor.
When ſhe recovered her recollection, the
remembrance of what ſhe had ſeen had
nearly deprived her of it a ſecond time.
She


( 231 )
She had ſcarcely ſtrength to remove from
the room, and regain her own ; and, when
arrived there, wanted courage to remain
alone. Horror occupied her mind, and
excluded, for a time, all fenfe of paſt, and
dread of future misfortune : the feated
herſelf near the caſement, becauſe from
thence ſhe heard voices, though diſtant, on
the terrace, and might ſee people paſs, and
theſe, trilling as they were, were reviving
circumſtances. When her ſpirits had re-
covered their tone, the conſidered whether
The ſhould mention what ſhe had feen to
Madame Montoni, and various and im-
portant motives urged her co do fo, among
which the leaſt was the hope of the relief,
which an overburdened mind finds in ſpeak-
ing of the ſubject of its intereſt. But ſhe
was aware of the terrible conſequences,
which ſuch a communication might lead to;
and, dreading the indiſcretion of her aunt,
at length, endeavoured to arm herlelf with
Teſolution to obſerve a profound filence, on
the ſubject. Montoni and Verezzi ſoon
after


(232)
after paſſed under the caſenient, ſpeaking
cheerfully, and their voices revived her.
Preſently the Signors Bertolini and Ca-
vigni joined the party on the terrace, and
Emily, fuppoſing that Madame Montoni
was then alone, went to ſeek her ; for the
folitude of her chamber, and its proximity
to that where ſhe had received ſo fevere a
ſhock, again affected her fpirits..
She found her aunt in her dreſſing.
room, preparing for dinner. Emily's pale
and affrighted countenance alarmed even
Madame Montoni; but ſhe had ſufficient
ſtrength of mind to be ſilent on the ſubject,
that ſtill made her ſhudder, and which was
ready to burſt from her lips. In her aunt's
apartment the remained, till they both de-
ſcended to dinner. There ſhe met the gen-
tlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of
buſy ſeriouſneſs in their looks, which was
fomewhat unuſual with them, while their
thoughts ſeemed too much occupied by
ſome deep intereſt, to ſuffer them to be-
ſtow much attention either on Emily, or
Madame


( 233 )
Madame Montoni. They fpoke little, and
Montoni leſs. Emily, as ſhe now looked
on him, ſhuddered. The horror of the
chainber ruſhed on her mind. Several
times the colour faded from her cheeks,
and ſhe feared, that illneſs would betray
her emotions, and compel her to leave the
room ; but the ſtrength of her reſolution
remedied the weakneſs of her frame; ſhe
obliged herſelf to converſe, and even tried
to look cheerful.
Montoni evidently laboured under fome
vexation, ſuch as would probably have agi,
tated a weaker mind, or a more ſuſceptible
heart, but which appeared, from the ſtern:
neſs of his countenance, only to bend up
his faculties to energy and fortitude.'
It was a comfortleſs and filent meal. The
gloom of the caſtle ſeemed to have ſpread
its contagion even over the gay countenance
of Cavigni, and with this gloom was min-
gled a fierceneſs, ſuch as ſhe had ſeldom
ſeen him indicate. Count Morano was not
named, and what converſation there was,
turned
Inten


( 234 )
turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that
time agitated the Italian ſtates, the ſtrength
of the Venetian armies, and the characters
of their generals.
After dinner, when the ſervants had with-
drawn, Emily learned, that the cavalier,
who had drawn upon himſelf the vengeance
of Orſino, had ſince died of his wounds,
and that ſtrict ſearch was ſtill making for his
murderer. The intelligence ſeemed to diſ.
turb Montoni, who muſed, and then en.
quired, where Orſino had concealed him.
felf. His gueſts, who all, except Cae
vigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had
himſelf aſiſted him to eſcape from Venice,
replied, that he had fled in the night with
ſuch precipitation and ſecrecy, that his
moft intimate companions knew not whi-
ther. Montoni blamed himſelf for having
aſked the queſtion, for a ſecond thought
convinced him, that a man of Orſino's ſuf-
picious temper was not likely to truſt any
of the perſons preſent with the knowledge of
his afylum. He conſidered himſelf, however,
25


(235 )
as entitled to his utmoſt confidence, and
did not doubt, that he ſhould ſoon hear of
him.
Emily retired with Madame Montoni,
ſoon after the cloth was withdrawn, and
left the cavaliers to their ſecret councils,
but not before the ſignificant frowns of
Montoni had warned his wife to depart,
who paſſed from the hall to the ramparts,
and walked, for ſome time, in filence, which
Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was
alſo occupied by intereſts of its own. Ic
required all her reſolution, to forbear com-
municating to Madame Montoni the ter.
rible ſubject, which ftill thrilled her every
nerve with horror; and ſometimes ſhe was
on the point of doing ſo, merely to obtain
the relief of a moment; but ſhe knew how
wholly ſhe was in the power of Montoni,
and, conſidering, that the indiſcretion of
her aunt inight prove fatal to them both,
ſhe compelled herſelf to endure a preſent
and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a
future and a heavier one. A ſtrange kind
of


( 236 )
of preſentiment frequently, on this day,
occurred to her ;-it ſeemed as if her fate
reſted here, and was by ſome inviſible means
connected with this caſtle.
« Let me not accelerate it," ſaid ſhe to
herſelf: " for whatever I may be reſerved,
let me, at leaſt, avoid felf-reproach.”
As ſhe looked on the maſſy walls of the
edifice, her melancholy ſpirits repreſented
it to be her priſon; and ſhe ſtarted as at a
new ſuggeſtion, when ſhe conſidered how
far diſtant ſhe was from her native country,
from her little peaceful home, and from her.
only friend-how remote was her hope of
happineſs, how feeble the expectation of
again ſeeing him! Yet the idea of Valan-
court, and her confidence in his faithful
love, had hitherto been her only ſolace, and
ſhe ſtruggled hard to retain them. A few
tears of agony ſtarted to her eyes, which ſhe,
turned aſide to conceal.
: While the afterwards leaned on the wall
of the rampart, ſome peaſants, at a little dif-
tance, were ſeen examining a breach, before
which


( 238 )
As ſhe gazed, the vanguard iſſued from the
woods into the valley, but the train ſtill
continued to pour over the remore ſummit
of the mountain, in endleſs ſucceſſion ;
while, in the front, the military uniform
became diſtinguiſhable, and the command.
ers, riding firſt, and ſeeming, by their ger-
tures, to direct the march of thoſe that fol.
lowed, at length, approached very near to
the caſtle.
Such a ſpectacle, in theſe ſolitary regions,
both ſurpriſed and alarmed Madame Mon-
toni, and ſhe haſtened towards ſome pea-
ſants, who were employed in raiſing baſtions
before the ſouth rampart, where the rock
was leſs abrupt than elſewhere. Theſe men
could give no ſatisfactory anſwers to her
enquiries, but, being rouſed by them, gazed
in ſtupid aſtoniſhment upon the long caval-
cade. Madame Montoni, then thinking
it neceſſary to communicate farther the
object of her alarm, fent Emily to ſay,
that ſhe wilhed to ſpeak to Montoni; an
errand her niece did not approve, for ſhe
dreaded


( 239 )
dreaded his frowns, which ſhe knew this
meſſage would provoke; but ſhe obeyed in
filence.
As ſhe drew near the apartment, in which
he ſat with his gueſts, ſhe heard them in
earneſt and loud diſpute, and ſhe pauſed a
moment, trembling at the diſpleafure, which
her ſudden interruption would occaſion. In
the next, their voices ſunk altogether ; the
then ventured to open the door, and, while
Montoni turned haſtily and looked at her,
without ſpeaking, the delivered her meſ.
fage.
“ Tell Madame Montoni I am engaged,”.
ſaid he.
Emily then thought it proper to men-
tion the ſubject of her alarm. "Montoni
and his companions roſe inſtantly and went
to the windows, but, theſe not affording
them a view of the troops, they at length
proceeded to the ramparts, where Cavigni
conjectured it to be a legion of Condottieri,
on their march towards Modena.
One part of the cavalcade now extended
along


( 240 )
along the valley, and another wound among
the mountains towards the north, while
ſome troops ſtill lingered on the woody
precipices, where the firſt had appeared,
ſo that the great length of the proceſſion
ſeemed to include an whole army. While
Montoni and his family watched its pro-
greſs, they heard the found of trumpets and
the claſh of cymbals in the vale, and then
others, anſwering from the heights. Emily
liſtened with emotion to the ſhrill blaſt,
that woke the echoes of the mountains, and .
Montoni explained the ſignals, with which
he appeared to be well acquainted, and
which meant nothing hoſtile. The uni-
forms of the troops, and the kind of arms
they bore; confirmed to him the conjecture
of Cavigni, and he had the ſatisfaction to
ſee them paſs by, without even ſtopping
to gaze upon his caſtle. He did not, how-
ever, leave the rampart, till the baſes of the
mountains had ſhut them from his view,
and the laſt murmur of the trumpet floated
away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi
were


(242)
drooping heart: but Madame Montoni's
was torn, and the ſofteſt accents of Emily's
voice were loft upon it. With her uſual
delicacy, ſhe did not appear to obſerve her
aunt's diſtreſs, but it gave an involuntary
gentleneſs to her manners, and an air of fo-
licitude to her countenance, which Ma-
dame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who
ſeemed to feel the pity of her niece to be an
inſult to her pride, and diſmiſſed her as
ſoon as ſhe properly could. Emily did not
venture to mention again the reluctance
ſhe felt to her gloomy chamber, but ſhe re-
queſted that Annette might be permirted to
remain with her till the retired to reſt; and
the requeſt was ſomewhat reluctantly grant-
ed. Annette, however, was now with the
ſervants, and Emily withdrew alone.
With light and haſty ſteps ſhe paſſed
through the long galleries, while the feeble
glimmer of the lamp ſhe carried only ſhew-
ed the gloom around her, and the pailing
air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely
filence, that reigned in this part of the caſtle,
en.
awed


( 243 )
La
MONO
awed her; now and then, indeed, ſhe heard
a faint peal of laughter riſe from a remote
part of the edifice, where the ſervants were
aſſembled, but it was ſoon loft, and a kind
of breathleſs ſtillneſs remained. As the
pafled the ſuite of rooms which Me had via
fied in the morning, her eyes glanced fear.
fuily on the door, and the alrnoſt fancia
ſhe heard murinuring ſounds within, but ſhe
pauſed not a moment to enquire.
· Having, reached her own apartment,
where no blazing wood on the hearth dilli.
pated the gloom, the ſat down with a book,
to enliven her attention, till Annette ſhould
come, and a fire could be kindled. She
continued to read till her light was nearly
expired, but Annette did not appear, and
the ſolitude and obſcurity of her chamber
again affected her fpirits, the more, becauſe
of its nearneſs to the ſcene of horror, that
The had witneſſed in the morning. Gloomy
and fantaſtic images came to her mind.
She looked fearfully towards the door of
C
M2
ihe


( 244 )
the ſtair-caſe, and then, examining whether
it was ſtill faſtened, found that it was ſo.
Unable to conquer the uneaſineſs ſhe felt
at the proſpect of ſleeping again in this
remote and inſecure apartment, which ſome
perſon ſeemed to have entered during the
preceding night, her impatience to ſee An-
nette, whom ſhe had bidden to enquire con-
cerning this circumſtance, became extreme-
ly painful. She wiſhed alſo to queſtion her,
as to the object, which had excited ſo much
horror in her own mind, and which An-
nette on the preceding evening had appear.
ed to be in part acquainted with, though
her words were very remote from the truth,
and it appeared plainly to Emily, that the
girl had been purpoſely miſled by, a falſe
report: above all ſhe was ſurpriſed, that
the door of the chamber, which contained
it, ſhould be left unguarded. Such an in-
ſtance of negligence almoſt ſurpaſſed be-
lief. But her light was now expiring; the
faint flaſhes it threw upon the walls called
up
1
.


( 245 :)
vant
are
up all the terrors of fancy, and ſhe roſe to
find her way to the habitable part of the
caſtle, before it was quite extinguiſhed.
· As ſhe opened the chamber door, ſhe
heard remote voices, and, ſoon after, ſaw a
light iſſue upon the further end of the
corridor, which Annette and another fer-
vant approached. ." I am glad you are
come,” ſaid Emily: “ what has detained
you ſo long ? Pray light me a fire immedi.
ately.”
“My lady wanted me, ma’amſelle,” re-
plied Annette in ſome confuſion; “ I will
go and get the wood.”
- No,” ſaid Caterina, “ that is my
buſineſs," and left the room inſtantly, while
Annette would have followed; but, being
called back, ſhe began to talk very loud,
and laugh, and ſeemed afraid to truſt a pauſe
of ſilence.
Caterina ſoon returned with the wood,
and then, when the cheerful blaze once
more animated the room, and this ſervant •
had withdrawn, Emily aſked Annette, whe-
ther
M
3


( 247 )
you for an auditor, for I perceive you be-
lieve them all.”
" Dear ma’amſelle! I will thew you the
very cannon; you can ſee it from theſe
windows !"
66 Well,” ſaid Emily, “but that does not
prove, that an apparition guards it.”
" What! not if I ſhew you the very
cannon! Dear ma'am, you will believe
nothing." .
« Nothing probably upon this ſubject,
but what I fee,” ſaid Emily. " Well,
ma'am, but you ſhall ſee it, if you will only
ſtep this way to the caſement.”- Emily
could not forbear laughing, and Annette
looked ſurpriſed. Perceiving her extreme
aptitude to credit the marvellous, Emily
forbore to mention the ſubject ſhe had in-
tended, left it ſhould overcome her with
ideal terrors, and ſhe began to ſpeak on a
lively topic—the regattas of Venice.
“Aye, ma’amſelle, thoſe rowing matches,”
faid Annette, “ and the fine moonlight
nights, are all that are worth ſeeing in Ve.
M4
nice.


( 248 )
nice. To be ſure that moon is brighter
than any I ever ſaw, and then to hear ſuch
fweet muſic, too, as Ludovico has often
and often fung under the lattice by the
weſt portico! Ma’amſelle, it was Ludovico,
that told me about that picture, which you
wanted ſo to look at laſt night, and "
“ What picture?” ſaid Emily, wiſhing
Annette to explain herſelf.
“O! that terrible picture with the black
veil over it.”
“ You never ſaw it, then??" ſaid Emily.
“ Who, 15-No, ma’amſelle, I never did.
But this morning," continued Annette,
ering her voice, and looking round the
room, “ this morning, as it was broad day-
light, do you know, ma'am, I took a
ſtrange fancy to ſee it, as I had heard ſuch
odd hints about it, and I got as far as the
door, and ſhould have opened it, if it had
not been locked!”
Emily, endeavouring to conceal the
emotion this circumſtance occaſioned, en-
quired at what hour ſhe went to the cham-
- ber,


( 250 )
2
not without many hints from Annette, that
ſhe wilhed to go. The embers were now
nearly burnt out; and Emily heard, at a
diſtance, the thundering ſound of the hall
doors, as they were ſhut for the night. She,
therefore, prepared for reſt, but was ſtill
unwilling that Annette ſhould leave her. At
this inſtant, the great bell of the portal
founded. They liſtened in fearful expecta-
tion, when, after a long pauſe of ſilence, it
founded again. Soon after, they heard the
noiſe of carriage wheels in the court-yard.
Emily ſunk almoſt lifeleſs in her chair; “ It
is the Count," ſaid ſhe.
: “ What, at this time of niglit, ma'am!" :
ſaid Annette : “no, my dear lady. But,
for that matter, it is a ſtrange time of night
for any body to come!”.
“ Nay, pr’ythee, good Annette, ſtay not
talking,” ſaid Emily in a voice of agonya
“ Go, pr’ythee go, and ſee who it is.”
Annette left the room, and carried with
her the light, leaving Emily in darkneſs,
which a few moments before would have
terrified


(251)
terrified her in this room, but, was now
ſcarcely obſerved by her. She liſtened and
waited, in breathleſs expectation, and heard
diſtant noiſes, but Annette did not return.
Her patience, at length, exhauſted, ſhe tried
to find her way to the corridor, but it was
long before ſhe could touch the door of the
chamber, and, when ſhe had opened it, the
total darkneſs without made her fear to pro-
ceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily
even thought the diſtinguiſhed thoſe of
Count Mirano, and Montoni. Soon after,
ſhe heard ſteps approaching, and then a ray
of light ſtreamed through the darkneſs, and
Annette appeared, whom Emily went to
meet.
- Yes, ma'amfelle,” ſaid ſhe, “ you was
right, it is the Count, ſure enough.”
“ It is he !” exclaimed Emily, lifting her
eyes towards heaven, and ſupporting herſelf
by Annette's arm.
- Good Lord ! my dear lady, don't be in
ſuch a fluter, and look fo pale, we ſhall
foon hear more."
M6
6 We


( 252 )
“ We ſhall, indeed!” ſaid Emily, moving
as faſt as ſhe was able towards her apart-
ment. “I am not well; give me air."
Annette opened a caſement, and brought
water. The faintneſs ſoon left Emily, but
ſhe deſired Annette would not go till ſhe
heard from Montoni.
“ Dear ma’amſelle ! he ſurely will not
diſturb you at this time of night; why he
muſt think you are aſleep."
" Stay with me till I am ſo, then,” ſaid
Emily, who felt temporary relief from this
fuggeftion, which appeared probable enough,
though her fears had prevented its occurring
to her. Annette, with ſecret reluctance,
conſented to ſtay, and Emily was now com-
poſed enough to aſk her ſome queſtions ;
among others, whether ſhe had ſeen the
Count.
“Yes, ma'am, I faw him alight, for I
went from hence to the grate in the north
turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard,
you know. There I ſaw the Count's car-
riage, and the Count in it, waiting at the
great


( 253 )
great door, -for the porter was juſt gone to
bed—with ſeveral men on horſeback all by
the light of the torches they carried.”—
Emily was compelled to ſimile. “ When the
door was opened, the Count faid ſomething,
that I could not make out, and then got
out, and another gentleman with him. I
thought, to be ſure, the Signor was gone to
bed, and I haſtened away to my lady's dreff-
ing-room, to fee what I could hear. But
in the way I met Ludovico, and he told me
that the Signor was up, counſelling with his
maſter and the other Signors, in the room
at the end of the north gallery; and Lu-
dovico held up his finger, and laid it on
his lips, as much as to ſay—There is more
going on, than you think of, Annette, but
you muſt hold your tongue. And ſo I did
hold my tongue, ma’amſelle, and came away
to tell you directly."
Emily enquired who the Cavalier was,
that accompanied the Count, and how
Montori received them ; but Annette could
not inform her.
“ Ludo.


( 254 )
“ Ludovico,” ſhe added, “ had juſt been
to call Signor Montoni’s valet, that he might
tell him they were arrived, when I met him.”
Emily fat muſing for ſome time, and then
her anxiety was ſo much increaſed, that the
deſired Annette would go to the ſervants'
hall, where it was poſſible ſhe might hear
fomething of the Count's intention, reſpect-
ing his ſtay at the caſtle.
“ Yes, ma'am,” ſaid Annette with readi-
neſs; “ but how am I to find the way, if I
leave the lamp with you?"
Emily ſaid ſhe would light her, and they
immediately quitted the chamber. When
they had reached the top of the great itair-
cafe, Emily recollected, that ſhe might be
feen by the Count, and, to avoid the great
hall, Annette conducted her through ſome
private paflages to a back ſtair-caſe, which
led directly to that of the ſervants.
As ſhe returned towards her chamber,
Emily began to fear, that ſhe might again
loſe herſelf in the intricacies of the caſtle,
and again be ſhocked by ſome myſterious
fpectacle ;


( 255 )
ſpectacle ; and, though ſhe was already per.
plexed by the numerous turnings, ſhe feared
to open one of the many doors that offered.
While ſhe ſtepped thoughtfully along, ſhe
fancied that ſhe heard a low moaning at no
great diſtance, and, having pauſed a mo.
ment, ſhe heard it again and diſtinctly. Se-
veral doors appeared on the right hand of
the paſſage. She advanced, and liſtened.
When ſhe came to the ſecond, ſhe heard a
voce, apparently in complaint, within, to
which ſhe continued to liſten, afraid to open
the door, and unwilling to leave it. Con-
vulſive fobs followed, and then the piercing
accents of an agonizing ſpirit burſt forth.
Emily ſtood appalled, and looked through
the gloom, that ſurrounded her, in fearful
expectation. The lamentations continued.
Pity now began to fubdue terror; it was
poſſible ſhe might adminiſter comfort to
the ſufferer, at leaſt, by expreſſing fympathy,
and ſhe laid her hand on the door. While
ſhe heſitated ſhe thought ſhe knew this voice,
diſguiſed as it was by tones of grief. Having,
there-


( 256 )
therefore, ſet down the lamp in the paſſage,
ſhe gently opened the door, within which all
was dark, except that from an inner apart-
ment a partial light appeared ; and ſhe ſtep-
ped ſoftly on. Before ſhe reached it, the
appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning
on her dreſſing-table, weeping, and with a
handkerchief held to her eyes, ſtruck her,
and the paufed.
Some perſon was ſeated in a chair by the
fire, but who it was ſhe could not diſtinguiſh.
He ſpoke, now and then, in a low voice,
that did not allow Emily to hear what was
uttered, but ſhe thought, that Madame
Montoni, at thoſe times, wept the more,
who was too much occupied by her own
diſtreſs, to obſerve Emily, while the latter,
though anxious to know what occaſioned
this, and who was the perſon admitted at ſo
late an hour to her aunt's dreſſing-room,
forbore to add to her ſufferings by ſurpriſing
her, or to take advantage of her ſituation,
by liſtening to a private diſcourſe. She,
therefore, ſtepped ſoftly back, and, after
fome


( 257 )
OV
C
cern
| fome further difficulty, found the way to
her own chamber, where nearer intereſts, at
length, excluded the ſurpriſe and concern
?. The had felt, reſpecting Madame Montoni.
Annette, however, returned without fatif-
factory intelligence, for the ſervants, ainong
whom ſhe had been, were either entirely ig.
norant, or affected to be ſo, concerning the
Count's intended ſtay at the caſtle. They
could talk only of the ſteep and broken road
they had juſt paſſed, and of the numerous
dangers they had eſcaped, and expreſs won-
der how their lord could chooſe to encoun-
ter all theſe, in the darkneſs of night; for
they ſcarcely allowed, that the torches had
ſerved for any other purpoſe but that of
Thewing the drearineſs of the mountains.
Annette, finding ſhe could gain no informa-
tion, left them, making noiſy petitions, for
more wood on the fire and more ſupper on
the table.
“ And now, ma'amfelle,” added ſhe, “ I
am ſo fleepy ! I am ſure, if you was fo
ſleepy,
was


( 259 )
“ Have you been in my aunt's dreſſing,
room, ſince you left me ?”
“No, ina’amſelle, I called at the door as
I paſſed, but it was faſtened; ſo I thought
my lady was gone to bed.”
" Who, then, was with your lady juſt
now?” ſaid Emily, forgetting, in furpriſe,
her uſual prudence.
• Nobody, I believe, ma’am,” replied
Annette, nobody has been with her, I
believe, ſince I left you."
Emily took no further notice of the ſub-
ject, and, after ſome ſtruggle with imaginary
fears, her good nature prevailed over them
ſo far, that the diſmiſſed Annette for the
night. She then fat, muſing upon her own
circumſtances and thoſe of Madame Mon.
toni, till her eye reſted on the miniature
picture, which the had found, after her fa.
ther's death, among the papers he had en-
joined her to deſtroy. It was open upon
ihe table, before her, aniong ſome looſe
drawings, having, with them, been taken
out of a little box by Emily, ſome hours
before.
Ces


( 260 )
ntenan
before. The light of it called up many in.
tereſting reflections, but the melancholy
ſweetneſs of the countenance foothed the
emotions, which the had occaſioned.' It
was the fame ſtyle of countenance as that
of her late father, and, while ſhe gazed on
it with fondneſs on this account, the even
fancied a reſemblance in the features. But
this tranquillity was ſuddenly interrupted,
when ſhe recollected the words in the ma-
nuſcript, that had been found with this pic-
ture, and which had formerly occaſioned
her ſo much doubt and horror. At length,
the rouſed herſelf from the deep reverie,
into which this remembrance had thrown
her; but, when ſhe roſe to undreſs, the
ſilence and ſolitude, to which ſhe was left,
at this midnight hour, for not even a diſtant
found was now heard, conſpired with the
impreſſion the ſubject ſhe had been conſi-
dering had given to her mind, to appall
her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this
chamber, ſimple as they were, had not fail-
ed to affect her, ſince they followed a cir-
cumftance


( 261 )
cumſtance of peculiar horror, which the
herſelf had witneſſed, and ſince the ſcene
of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her
own.
The door of the ſtair caſe was, perhaps,
a ſubject of more reaſonable alarm, and ſhe
now began to apprehend, ſuch was the ap-
titude of her fears, that this ſtair-caſe had
ſome private communication with the apart-
ment, which ſhe ſhuddered even to remem-
ber. Determined not to undreſs, ſhe lay
down to ſeep in her clothes, with her late
father's dog, the faithful Manchon, at the
foot of the bed, whom ſhe conſidered as a
kind of guard.
Thus circumſtanced, ſhe tried to baniſh
reflection, but her buſy fancy would ſtill
hover over the ſubjects of her intereſt, and
ſhe heard the clock of the caſtle ſtrike two,
before the cloſed her eyes.
From the diſturbed number, into which
the then ſunk, ſhe was foon awakened by a
noiſe, which ſeemed to ariſe within her cham-
ber; but the filence, that prevailed, as the
fearfully


( 262 )
CIU
fearfully liſtened, inclined her to believe,
that ſhe had been alarmed by ſuch ſounds
as ſometimes occur in dreams, and ſhe laid
her head again upon the pillow.
A return of the noiſe again diſturbet
her; it ſeemed to come from that part of
the room, which communicated with the
private ſtair.caſe, and ſhe inſtantly remem-
bered the odd circunſtance of the door
having been faſtened, during the preceding
night, by ſome unknown hand. Her late
alarming ſuſpicion, concerning its commu-
nication, alſo occurred to her. Her heart
became faint with terror. Half raiſing her-
ſelf from the bed, and gently drawing aſide
the curtain, ſhe looked towards the door of
the ſtair-caſe, but the lamp, that burnt on the
hearth, ſpread ſo fecble a light through the
apartment, that the remote parts of it were
loft in ſhadow. The noiſe, however, which,
ſhe was convinced, came from the door, con-
tinued. It ſeemed like that made by the
undrawing of ruſty bolts, and often ceaſed,
and was then renewed more gently, as if
the


1' 263 )
the hand, that occaſioned it, was reſtrained
by a fear of diſcovery. While Emily kept
her eyes fixed on the spot, ſhe ſaw the door
inove, and then Nowly open, and perceived
ſomething enter the room, but the extreme
duſkineſs prevented her diſtinguiſhing what
it was. Almoſt fainting with terror, fie
tad yet fufficient command over herſelf, to
check the ſhriek, that was eſcaping from
her lips, and, letting the curtain drop from
her hand, continued to obſerve in ſilence the
motions of the myſterious form ſhe ſaw. It
ſeemed to glide along the remote obſcurity
of the apartment, then pauſed, and, as it ap.
proached the hearth, ſhe perceived, in the
ſtronger light, what appeared to be a human
figure. Certain remembrances now ſtruck
upon her heart, and almoſt ſubdued the
feeble remains of her ſpirits; the continued,
however, to watch the figure, which remain-
ed for ſome time motionleſs, but then, ad-
vancing ſlowly towards the bed, ſtood filent-
ly at the feet, where the curtains, being a
little open, allowed her ſtill to ſee it: terror,
however,


( 264 )
however, had now deprived her of the
power of diſcrimination, as well as of that
of utterance.
Having continued there a moment, the
form retreated towards the hearth, when it
took the lamp, held it up, ſurveyed the
chamber, for a few moments, and then
again advanced towards the bed. The
light at that inſtant awakening the dog,
that had ſlept at Emily's feet, he barked
loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at
the ſtranger, who ſtruck the animal ſmartly
with a ſheathed ſword, and, ſpringing towards
the bed, Emily diſcovered--Count Morano!
She yazed at him for a moment in ſpeech.
leſs affright, while he, throwing himſelf on
his knee at the bed-ſide, beſought her to
fear nothing, and, having thrown down his
fword, would have taken her hand, when
the faculties, that terror had ſuſpended, fud-
denly returned, and ſhe ſprung from the
bed, in the dreſs, which ſurely a kind of
prophetic apprehenſion had prevented her,
on this night, from throwing aſide.
Morano


( 265 )
Morano roſe, followed her to the door,
through which he had entered, and caught
her hand, as ſhe reached the top of the ſtair.
caſe, but not before ſhe had diſcovered, by
the gleam of a lamp, another man half-
way down the ſteps. She now ſcreamed
in deſpair, and, believing herſelf given
up by Montoni, ſaw, indeed, no pollibility
of eſcape.
"The Count, who ſtill held her hand, led
her back into the chamber.
- Why all this terror?” ſaid he, in a tre-
mulous voice. ~ Hear me, Emily: I come
not to alarm you ; no, by Heaven! I love
you too well—too well for my own peace.”
Emily looked at him for a moment, in
fearful doubt.
“ Then leave me, ſir,” ſaid ſhe, “ leave
me inſtantly."
“ Hear me, Emily,” reſumed Morano,
“ hear me! I love, and am in deſpair-yes
sin deſpair. How can I gaze upon you,
and know, that it is, perhaps, for the laſt
time, without ſuffering all the phrenſy of
Voi, II.
N.
deſpair?


( 266 )
deſpair? But it ſhall not be lo; you ſhall
be mine, in ſpite of Montoni and all his
villany."
“ In ſpite of Montoni!” cried Emily
eagerly : “ what is it I hear?”
“ You hear, that Montoni is a villain,"
exclaimed Morano with vehemence,-“ a
villain who would have ſold you to my
love !-Who-”
“ And is he-leſs, who would have bought
me?” ſaid Emily, fixing on the Count an
eye of calm contempt. « Leave the room,
fir, inſtantly,” ſhe continued in a voice,
trembling between joy and fear, “or I will
alarm the family, and you may receive that
from Signor Montoni’s vengeance, which I
have vainly ſupplicated from his pity.” But
Emily knew, that ſhe was beyond the hear-
ing of thoſe, who might protect her.
“ You can never hope any thing from his
pity,” ſaid Morano; "he has uſed me in-
famouſly, and my vengeance ſhall purſue
him. And for you, Emily, for you, he has
new plans more profitable than the laſt, no
.doubt."
.


( 267 )
70U
doubt.” The gleam of hope, which the
Count's former ſpeech had revived, was
now nearly extinguiſhed by the latter; and,
while Emily's countenance betrayed the
emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to
take advantage of the diſcovery.
" I loſe time," ſaid he: “ I came not to
exclaim againſt Montoni ; I came to ſolicit,
to plead-to Emily ; to tell her all I ſuffer,
to entreat her to ſave me from deſpair, and
herſelf from deſtruction. Emily! the ſchemes
of Montoni are inſearchable, but, I warn
you, they are terrible; he has no principle,
when intereſt, or ambition leads. Can I
love you, and abandon you to his power ?
Fly, then, fly from this gloomy priſon, with
a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a
ſervant of the caſtle to open the gates, and,
before to-morrow's dawn, you ſhall be far
on the way to Venice." .
Emily, overcome by the ſudden ſhock
Sie had received, at the moment, too, when
The had begun to hope for better days, now
thought ſhe ſaw deſtruction ſurround her on
. Na
every


( 268 ) :
every ſide. Unable to reply, and almoſt to
think, lhe threw herſelf into a chair, pale
and breathleſs. That Montoni had for-
merly ſold her to Morano, was very proba.
ble; that he had now withdrawn his con
ſent to the marrige, was evident from the
Count's preſent conduct; and it was nearly
certain, that a ſcheme of ſtronger intereſt
only could have induced the ſelfiſh Mon-
toni to forego a plan, which he had hitherto
ſo ſtrenuouſly purſued. Theſe reflections
made her tremble at the hints, which Mo-
rano had juſt given, which ſhe no longer
heſitated to believe;, and, while ſhe ſhrunk
from the new ſcenes of miſery and oppreſ.
ſion, that might await her in the caſtle of
Udolpho, ſhe was compelled to obſerve,
that almoſt her only means of eſcaping
them was by ſubmitting herſelf to the pro-
tection of this man, with whom evils more
certain and not leſs terrible appeared,-evils,
upon which ſhe could not endure to pauſe
for an inſtant.
Her ſilence, though it was that of agony,
encou,


( 269 )
encouraged the hopes of Morano, who
watched her countenance with impatience,
took again the reſiſting hand ſhe had with-
drawn, and, as he preſſed it to his heart,
again conjured her to determine immediate-
ly. “Every moment we loſe; will make our
departure more dangerous,” ſaid he: “theſe
few moments loſt may enable Montoni to
overtake us." ,
" I beſeech you, ſir, be ſilent,” ſaid
Emily faintly : “ I am indeed very wretch-
ed, and wretched I muſt remain. Leave
me-I command you, leave me to my
fate.”
“ Never !” cried the Count vehemently:
" let me periſh firſt! But forgive my vio.
lence! the thought of loſing you is madneſs.
You cannot be ignorant of Montoni's cha. :
racter, you may be ignorant of his ſchemes
-nay, you muſt be ſo, or you would not
heſitate between my love and his power.”
6. Nor do I heſitate,” ſaid Emily:
' " Let us go then," ſaid Morano, eagerly
kiſſing
N 3


[ 270 1
kiſſing her hand, and riſing, “my carriage
waits, below the caſtle walls."
" You miſtake me, ſir,” ſaid Emily.
" Allow me to thank you for the intereſt
you expreſs in my welfare, and to decide
by my own choice. I Mall remain under
the protection of Signor Montoni.”
“ Under his protection !” exclaimed Mo-
rano, proudly, “his prote&tion! Emily,
why will you fuffer yourſelf to be thus de-
luded? I have already told you what you
have to expect from his protection.”
« And pardon me, fir, if, in this inſtance,
I doubt mere affertion, and, to be convinced,
require ſomething approaching to proof."
“ I have now neither the time, or the
means of adducing proof,” replied the
Count.
" Nor have I, ſir, the inclination to liſten
to it, if you had.”
i “But you trifle with my patience and
my diſtreſs,” continued Morano. “ Is a
marriage with a man, who adores you, ſo
-
very


( 271 )
-
very terrible in your eyes, that you would
prefer to it all the miſery, to which Mon-
toni may condemn you in this remote pri- .
fon? Some wretch muſt have ſtolen thoſe
affections, which ought to be mine, or you
could not thus obſtinately perfift in re-
fuſing an offer, that would place you be-
yond the reach of oppreſſion.” Morano
walked about the room, with quick ſteps,
and a diſturbed air.
“ This diſcourſe, Count Morano, fuffi-
ciently proves, that my affections ought not
to be yours," faid Emily, mildly, “ and
this conduct, that I ſhould not be placed
beyond the reach of oppreſſion, ſo long as
I remained in your power. If you wiſh me
to believe otherwiſe, ceaſe to oppreſs me any
longer by your preſence. If you refuſe this,
you will compel me to expoſe you to the
reſentment of Signor Montoni.”
" Yes, let him come,” cried Morano fu.
riouſly, “and brave my reſentment! Let
him dare to face once more the man he has
fo courageouſly injured ; danger ſhall teach
him
:
N4 .


(272)
i
him morality, and vengeance juſtice let
him coine, and receive my ſword in his
heart!"
The vehemence, with which this was
uttered, gaye Emily new cauſe of alarm,
who aroſe from her chair, but her trembling
frame refuſed to ſupport her, and ſhe re-
ſumed her ſeat;- the words died on her lips,
and, when the looked wiſtfully towards the
door of the corridor, which was locked, ſhe
conſidered it was impoſſible for her to leave
the apartment, before Morano would be
appriſed of, and able to counteract, her in,
tintion.
Without obferving her agitation, he con-
tinued to pace the room in the utmoſt per:
turbation of ſpirits. His darkened counte.
nance expreſſed all the rage of jealouſy and
revenge; and a perſon, who had ſeen his fea.
tures under the ſmile of ineffable tenderneſs,
which he fo lately aſſumed, would now ſcarce-
ly have believed them to be the ſame,
“ Count Morano,” ſaid Emily, at length
recovering her voice, “ calm, 1 entreat you,
.
there
as


( 275 )
- can never leave you. Do you believe your
heart to be, indeed, ſo hardened, that you
can look without emotion on the ſuffering,
to which you would condemn me?”—
Emily was interrupted by the growling
of the dog, who now came again from the
bed, and Morano looked towards the door
of the ſtair-caſe, where no perſon appearing,
he called aloud, “ Ceſario !”
“ Emily,” ſaid the Count, “why will you
reduce me to adopt this conduct? How
much more willingly would I perſuade, than
compel you to become my wife! but, by
Heaven! I will not leave you to be ſold
by Montoni. Yet a thought glances acroſs
my mind, that brings madneſs with it. I
know not how to name it. It is prepoſterous
-it cannot be. Yet you tremble-you
grow pale! It is! it is ſo;---you-you-love
Montoni!” cried Morano, graſping Emily's
wriſt, and ſtamping his foot on the floor.
An involuntary air of ſurpriſe appeared
on her countenance. “ If you have indeed
believed fo," ſaid ſhe, “ believe fo ftill.”.
N6 . “ That


( 276 )
: “ That look, thoſe words confirm it,"
exclaimed Morano, furiouſly. “No, no,
no, Montoni had a richer prize in view,
than gold. But he ſhall not live to triumph
over me! --This very inſtant-"
He was interrupted by the loud barking
of the dog.
“ Stay, Count Morano,” ſaid Emily,
- terrified by his words, and by the fury ex-
preſſed in his eyes, “ I will ſave you from
this error.-Of all men, Signor Montoni is
not your rival; though, if I find all other
means of ſaving myſelf vain, I will try whe-
ther my voice may not aroule his ſervants
to my fuccour."
"«Affertion,” replied Morano, « at ſuch
a moment, is not to be depended upon.
How could I ſuffer myſelf to doubt, even
for an inſtant, that he could ſee you, and
not love?-But my firſt care ſhall be to
convey you from the caſtle. Ceſario ! ho,
-Cefaric !”
A man now appeared at the door of the
fair.caſe, and other ſteps were heard afcend.
- sn.
ing


( 277 )
ing. Emily uttered a loud ſhriek, as Mo-
rano hurried her acroſs the chamber, and,
at the ſame moment, ſhe heard a noiſe at the
door, that opened upon the corridor. The
Count pauſed an inſtant, as if his mind was
ſuſpended between love and the deſire of
vengeance; and, in that inſtant, the door
gave way, and Montoni, followed by the
old ſteward and ſeveral other perſons, burſt
into the room.
sh Draw !” cried Montoni to the Count,
who did not pauſe for a ſecond bidding,
but, giving Emily into the hands of the
people, that appeared from the ſtair.caſe,
turned fiercely round. “ This in thine
heart, villain !” ſaid he, as he made a thruſt
at Montoni with his ſword, who parried
the blow, and aimed another, while ſome of
the perfons, who had followed him into the
room, endeavoured to part the combatants,
and others reſcued Emily from the hands of
Morano's ſervants.
" Was it for this, Count Morano,” ſaid
Montoni,


Montoni, in a cool farcaſtic tone of voice,
“ that I received you under my roof, and
permitted you, though my declared enemy,
to remain under it for the night ? Was it,
that you might repay my hoſpitality with
the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of my
niece ?" -
. " Who talks of treachery ?” ſaid Mo.
rano, in a tone of unreſtrained vehemence..
“Let him that does, ſhew an unbluſhing face
of innocence. Montoni, you are a villain !
If there is treachery in this affair, look to
yourſelf as the author of it. If-do I ſay?
Lm-whom you have wronged with unexam.
pred baſeneſs, whom you have injured al-
moſt beyond redreſs ! But why do I uſe
words ?-Come on, coward, and receive
juſtice at niy hands !"
“Coward!” cried Montoni, burſting from
the people who held him, and ruſhing on the
Count; when they both retreated into the
corridor, where the fight continued ſo defpe-
rately, that none of the ſpectacors dared ap-
proach


į 281 )
that they would not move him till he re-
vived, Montoni's ſtood inactive, Cavigni re-
monſtrating, and Emily, ſuperior to Mon-
toni's menaces, giving water to Morano,
and directing the attendants to bind up his
wound. At length, Montoni had leiſure to
feel pain from his own hurt, and he with-
drew to examine it.
The Count, meanwhile, having ſlowly re-
covered, the firſt object he ſaw, on raiſing
his eyes, was Emily, bending over him
with a countenance ſtrongly expreſſive of
ſolicitude. He ſurveyed her with a look of
anguilh.
: “I have deſerved this," ſaid he,“ but not
from Montoni. It is from you, Emily,
that I have deſerved puniſhment, yet I re.
ceive only pity !" He pauſed, for he had
ſpoken with difficulty. After a moment,
he proceeded. “I muſt reſign you, but
not to Montoni. Forgive me the ſuf-
ferings I have already occaſioned you ! But
for that villain-his infamy ſhall not go
unpuniſhed. Carry me from this place," !
ſaid


( 282 )
I
ſaid he to his fervants. “ I am in no con.
dition to travel : you muſt, therefore, take
me to the neareſt cottage, for I will not paſs
the night under his roof, although I may
expire on the way from it.”
Ceſario propoſed to go out, and enquire
for a cottage, that might receive his maſter,
before he attempted to remove him : but
Morano was impatient to be gone; the 'an-
guiſh of his mind feemed to be even greater
than that of his wound, and he rejected,
with diſdain, the offer of Cavigni to entreat
Montoni, that he might be ſuffered to paſs
the night in the caſtle. Ceſario was now
going to call up the carriage to the great
gate, but the Count forbade him. “ I can.
not' bear the motion of a carriage,” ſaid he:
“ call ſome others of my people, that they
may aſlift in bearing me in their arms."
At length, however, Morano ſubmitted
to reaſon, and conſented, that Ceſario ſhould
firſt prepare ſome cottage to receive him.
Emily, now that he had recovered his
. fenſes, was about to withdraw from the cor-
ridor,


( 283 )
who
I
ridor, when a meſſage from Montoni com-
inanited her to do ſo, and alſo that the
Count, if he was not already gone, ſhould
quit the caſtle immediately. Indignation
Aaſhed from Morano's eyes, and Auſhed his
cheeks.
6 Tell Montoni,” ſaid he, “ that I ſhall
go when it luits my own convenience ; that
I quit the caſtle, he dares to call his, as I
would the neſt of a ſerpent, and that this is
not the laſt he ſhall hear from me. Tell
him, I will not leave another murder on his
conſcience, if I can help it.”
“ Count Morano! do you know what
you ſay?” ſaid Cavigni. .
6 Yes, Signor, I know well what I ſay,
> - and he will underſtand well what I mean,
His conſcience will aſſiſt his underſtanding,
on this occaſion.”
“ Count Morano,” ſaid Verezzi, who had
hitherto ſilently obferved him, “ dare again
to inſult my friend, and I will plunge this
Sword in your body."
"It would be an action worthy the friend
of
:


( 284 )
of a villain !” ſaid Morano, as the ſtrong
impulſe of his indignation enabled him to
raiſe himſelf from the arms of his ſervants;
but the energy was momentary, and he ſunk
back, exhauſted by the effort. Montoni's
people, meanwhile, held Verezzi, who ſeem-
ed inclined, even in this inſtant, to execute
his threat ; and Cavigni, who was not ſo
depraved as to abet the cowardly malignity
of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him
from the corridor ; and Emily, whom a
compaſſionate intereſt had thus long de-
tained, was now quitting it in new terror,
when the ſupplicating voice of Morano ar.
reſted her, and, by a feeble geſture, he beck-
oned her to draw nearer. She advanced
with timid ſteps, but the fainting languor
of his countenance again awakened her pity,
and overcame her terror...
6 I am going from hence for ever,” faid
he : « perhaps, I ſhall never ſee you again.
I would carry with me your forgiveneſs,
Emily; nay more I would alſo carry your
good wilhes."
“ You


( 285 )
- « You have my forgiveneſs, then,” ſaid
Emily, “ and my ſincere .wiſhes for your
recovery.”
“ And only for my recovery?” ſaid Mo-
rano, with a ſigh. “ For your general wel--
fare,” added Emily.
“ Perhaps I ought to be contented with
this,” he reſumed; “I certainly have not
deſerved more, but I would aſk you, Emily,: -
ſometimes to think of me, and, forgetting
my offence, to reinember only the paſſion
which occaſioned it.. I would aſk, alas!.
impoſſibilities: I would aſk you to love me!
At this moment, when I am about to part
with you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I am
ſcarcely myſelf. Emily-may you never
know the torture of a paſſion like mine!
What do I ſay? O, that, for me, you
might be ſenſible of ſuch a paſſion !”
Emily looked impatient to be gone. “I
entreat you, Count, to conſult your own
ſafety,” ſaid ſhe, “and linger here no longer. ;
I tremble for the conſequences of Signor Ve-
rezzi's paſſion, and of Montoni's reſentment,
ſhould he learn that you are ſtill here."
ері
ş
1.


( 288 )
comprehend you, ſir,” ſaid ſhe : “ You cer-
tainly do not mean to imply, that the de-
ſign of the Count to viſit the double cham.
ber was founded upon any approbation of
mine."
« To that I reply nothing,” ſaid Mon.
toni; “but it muſt certainly be a more
than common intereſt, that made you plead
ſo warmly in his cauſe, and that could de-
tain you thus long in his preſence, contrary
to my expreſs order-in the preſence of a
man, whom you have hitherto, on all occa-
fions, moſt ſcrupulouſly ſhunned !”
" I fear, fir, it was more than common
intereſt, that detained me,” ſaid Emily calm-
ly; “ for of la-e, I have been inclined to
think, that of compaſſion is an uncommon
one. But how could I, could you, ſir, wit-
neſs count Morano's deplorable condition,
and not wiſh to relieve it?”
“ You add hypocriſy to caprice,” ſaid
Montoni, frowning, " and an attempt at
ſatire, to both ; but, before you undertake
to regulate the morals of other perſons,
you


( 289 )
you ſhould learn and practiſe the virtues,
which are indiſpenſable to a woman
ſincerity, uniformity of conduct and obe-
dience.”
Emily, who had always endeavoured to
regulate her conduct by the niceſt laws, and
whoſe mind was finely ſenſible, not only of
what is juſt in morals, but of whatever is
beautiful in the female character, was
ſhocked by theſe words; yet, in the next
moment, her heart ſwelled with the con-
ſciouſneſs of having deſerved praiſe, in-
ſtead of cenſure, and ſhe was proudly ſilent.
Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of
her mind, knew how keenly ſhe would feel
his rebuke; but he was a ſtranger to the
luxury of conſcious worth, and, therefore,
did not foreſee the energy of that ſentiment,
which now repelled his fatire. Turning to
a ſervant who had lately entered the room,
he aſked whether Morano had quitted the
caſtle. The man anſwered, that his fer-
vants were then removing him, on a couch,
į to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni ſeemed
VOL. II.
ſome-


( 290 )
ſomewhat appeaſed, on hearing this; and,
when Ludovico appeared, a few moments
after, and ſaid, that Morano was gone,
he told Emily ſhe might retire to her
apartment.
She withdrew willingly from his pre-
ſence; but the thought of paſſing the re-
mainder of the night in a chamber, which
the door from the ſtair-caſe made liable to
the intruſion of any perſon, now alarmed
her more than ever, and the determined to
call at Madame Montoni's room, and re-
queſt, that Annette might be permitted to
be with her..
On reaching the great gallery, ſhe heard
voices ſeemingly in diſpute, and, her ſpirits
now apt to take alarm, ſhe pauſed, but
foon diſtinguiſhed ſome words of Cavigni
and Verezzi, and went towards them, in
the hope of conciliating their difference.
They were alone. Verezzi's face was ſtill
fuſhed with rage; and, as the firſt object
of it was now removed from him, he ap-
peared willing to transfer his reſentment to
Cavigni,


( 291 )
CICI
Cavigni, who ſeemed to be expoſtulating,
rather than diſputing, with him.
Verezzi was proteſting, that he would
inſtantly inform Montoni of the inſult,
which Morano had thrown out againſt him,
and above all, that, wherein he had accuſed
him of murder.
- There is no anſwering,” ſaid Cavigni,
* for the words of a man in a paſſion; lice
tle ſerious regard ought to be paid to them.
If you perſiſt in your reſolution, the con-
ſequences may be fatal to both. We have
now more ferious intereſts to purſue, than
thoſe of a petty revenge."
Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's
arguments, and they, at length, prevailed
ſo far, as that Verezzi conſented to retire,
without ſeeing Montoni.
On calling at her aunt's apartment, the
found it faſtened. In a few minutes, how-
ever, it was opened by Madame Montoni
herſelf.
1. It may be remembered, that it was by
a door leading into the bed-room from a
O 2
back
>


(292)
back paffage, that Emily had ſecretly en-
tered a few hours preceding. She now
conjectured, by the calmneſs of Madame
Montoni's air, that ſhe was not appriſed of
the accident, which had befallen her huſ-
band, and was beginning to inforın her of
it, in the tendereft manner ſhe could, when
her aunt interrupted her, hy ſaying, ſhe was
acquainted with the whole affair.
Emily knew indeed, that ſhe had little
reaſon to love Montoni, but could ſcarcely
have believed her capable of fuch perfect
apathy, as ſhe now diſcovered towards him;
having obtaind permiſſion, however, for
Annette to ſleep in her chamber, ſhe went
thither immediately.
A track of blood appeared along the
corridor, leading to it; and on the ſpot,
where the Count and Montoni had fought,
the whole floor was ſtained. Emily ſhud-
dered, and leaned on Annette, as ſhe pair-
ed. When ſhe reached her apartment, ſhe
inſtantly determined, ſince the door of the
ſtair-caſe had been left open, and that An-
anette
ent


( 293 )
nette was now with her, to explore whither
it led,-a circumſtance now materially con-
nected with her own ſafety. Anneite ac-
cordingly, half curious and half afraid, pro-
poſed to deſcend the ſtairs; but, on ap-
proaching the door, they perceived, that it
was already faſtened without, and their care
was then directed to the ſecuring it on the
inſide alſo, by placing againſt it as much
of the heavy furniture of the room, as they
could lift. Emily then retired to bed, and
Annette continued on a chair by the hearth,
where ſome feeble embers remained.
| O 3
CH AP,


( 294 )
CHAP. VII.
* Of aery tongues, that fyllable men's name:
On fands and lhores and deſert wilderneſſes."
MILTON
IT is now neceſſary to mention ſome
circumſtances, which could not be related
airidſt the events of Emily's haſty departure
from Venice, or together with thoſe which
ſo rapidly ſucceeded to her arrival in the
caſtle.
On the morning of her journey, Count
Morano had gone at the appointed hour
to the manſion of Montoni, to demand his
bride. When he reached it, he was ſome-
what furpriſed by the filence and folitary
air of the portico, where Montoni's lacqueys
uſually loicered; but ſurpriſe was ſoon
changed to aſtoniſhment, and aſtoniſhinent
to the rage of diſapointment, when the
door was opened by an old woman, who
told his ſervants, that her maſter and his
family


( 295 )
family had left Venice, early in the morning,
for Terra firma. Scarcely believing what
his ſervants told, he left his gondola, anti
ruſhed into the hall to enquire further. The
old wo:nan, who was the only perſon left in
care of the manſion, perſiſted in her ſtory,
which the ſilent and deſerted apartments
foon convinced him was no fiction. He
then ſeized her with a menacing air, as if he
meant to wreak all his vengeance upon her,
at the ſame time aſking her twenty queſtions
in a breath, and all theſe with a geſticula-
tion ſo furious, that ſhe was deprived of the
power of anſwering them; then ſuddenly
letting her go, he ſtamped about the hall,
like a madman, curſing Montoni and his
own folly.
When the good woman was at liberty,
and had ſomewhat recovered from her fright,
the told him all ſhe knew of the affair, which
was, indeed, very little, but enough to en-
able Morano to diſcover, that Montoni was
gone to his caſtle on the Apennine. Thither
he followed, as ſoon as his ſervants could
04
complete


( 290 )
una
complete the neceſſary preparation for the
journey, accompanied by a friend, and at-
tended by a number of his people, deter-
mined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge
on Montoni. When his mind had reco-
vered from the firſt efferveſcence of rage,
and his thoughts became leſs obſcured, his
conſcience hinted to him certain circunti.
ſtances, which, in ſome meaſure, explained
the conduct of Montoni: but how the latter
could have been led to ſuſpect an inten.
tion, which, he had believed, was known on-
ly to himſelf, he could not even gueſs. On
this occaſion, however, he had been partly
betrayed by that ſympathetic intelligence,
which may be ſaid to exiſt between bad minds,
and which teaches one man to judge what
another will do in the ſame circumſtances.
Thus it was with Montoni, who had now
received indiſputable proof of a truth, which
he had ſome time ſuſpected--that Morano's
circumſtances, inſtead of being affluent, as
he had been bidden to believe, were greatly
involved. Montoni had been intereſted in
his


( 297 )
his fuit by motives entirely ſelfiſh, thoſe of
avarice and pride; the laſt of which would
have been gratified by an alliance with a
Venetian nobleman, the former by Emily's-
eſtate in Gaſcony, which he had ſtipulated,
as the price of his favour, ſhould be de-
livered up to him from the day of her
marriage. In the mean time, he had been
led to ſuſpect the conſequence of the Count's
boundleſs extravagance; but it was not till
the evening, preceding the intended nupcials,
that he obtained certain information of his
· diſtreſſed circumſtances. He did not heſi-
tate then to infer, that Morano deſigned to
defraud him of Emily's eſtate ; and in this
ſuppoſition he was confirmed, and with ap.
parent reaſon, by the ſubſequent conduct of
the Count, who after having appointed to
meet him on that night, for the purpoſe of
ſigning the inſtrument, which was to ſecure
to him his reward, failed in his engagement.-
Such a circumſtance, indeed, in a man of
Morano's gay and thoughtleſs character, and
: 27 a time when his mind was engaged by
0 5
the


( 293 )
the buſtle of preparation for his nuptials,
might have been attributed to a cauſe leſs
deciſive than deſign: but Montoni did not
heſitate an inſtant to interpret it his own way,
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 a mo-
mnent's notice. By haſtening to Udolpho
he intended to remove Emily from the
reach of Morano, as well as to break off
the affair, without ſubmitting himſelf to
uſeleſs altercation: and, if the Count meant
what he called honourably, he would doubt-
leſs follow Emily, and ſign the writings in
queſtion. If this was done, fo little confi-
deration had Montoni for her welfare, that
he would not have fcrupled to ſacrifice her
to a man of ruined fortune, ſince by that
means he could enrich himſelf; and he for-
bore to mention to her the motive of his
ſudden journey, left the hope it might re-
vive ſhould render her more intractable,
when ſubmiſſion would be required.
. With theſe conſiderations, he had left Ve.
nice;


( 299 )
nice; and, with others totally different, Mo.
rano had, ſoon after, purſued his ſteps acroſs
the rugged Apennines. When his arrival
was announced at the caſtle, Montoni did
not believe, that he would have preſumed
to ſhew himſelf, unleſs he had meant to ful-
fil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily
admitted him; but the enraged countenance
and expreſſions of Morano, as he entered
the apartment, inſtantly undeceived him ;
and, when Montoni had explained, in part,
the motives of his abrupt departure from
Venice, the Count ſtill perſiſted in demand-
ing Emily, and reproaching Montoni, with."
out even naming the former ftipulation.
Montoni, at length, weary of the diſpute,
deferred the ſettling of it till the morrow,
and Morano retired with ſome hope, ſuge
geſted by Montoni's apparent indeciſion.
When, however, in the ſilence of his own
apartment, he began to conſider the paſt
converſation, the character of Montoni, and
ſome former inſtances of his duplicity, the
hope, which he had admitted, vaniſhed, and
06.
hc


Ć 300 )
van CC
he determined not to neglect the preſent poſ-
fibility of obtaining Emily by other means.
To his confidential valet he told his deſign
of carrying away Emily; and ſent him back
to Montoni's ſervants to find out one among
them, who might enable him to execute it.
The choice of this perſon he entruſted to
the fellow's own diſcernment, and not im.
prudently; for he diſcovered a man, whom
Montoni had, on ſome former occaſion,
treated harſhly, and who was now ready to
betray him. This man conducted Ceſario
round the caſtle, through a private paſſage,
to the ſtair-caſe that led to Emily's cham-
ber; then ſhewed him a ſhort way out of
the building, and afterwards procured him
the keys, that would ſecure his retreat. The
: man was well rewarded for his trouble ; how
the count was rewarded for his treachery,
has already appeared.
Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard tuo
of Morano's ſervants, who had been ordered
to be in waiting with the carriage beyond the
caſtle walls, expreſſing their ſurpriſe at their
- maſter's


(301)
maſter's ſudden, and ſecret departure, for the
valet had entruſted them with no more of Mo-
rano's deſigns, than it was neceſſary for them
to execute. They, however, indulged them-
ſelves in ſurmiſes, and in expreſſing them to
each other, and from theſe Carlo had drawn a
juſt concluſion. But, before he ventured to
diſcloſe his apprehenſions to Montoni, he en-
deavoured to obtain further confirmation of
them, and, for this purpoſe, placed himſelf,
with one of his fellow ſervants, at the door
of Emily's apartment, 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 was con-
vinced, that Morano was in the room, and
had liſtened long enough to his converſation,
to underſtand his ſcheme, he immediately
alarmed Montoni, and thus reſcued Emily
from the deſigns of the Count.
Montoni, on the following morning, ap-
peared as uſual, except that he wore his
wounded arm in a ſling; he went out upon
the ramparts; overlooked the men employed
CO
wa
in


(302)
in repairing them; gave orders for additional
workmen, and then came into the caſtle to
give audience to ſeveral perſons, who were
juſt arrived, and who were ſhewn into a pri-
vate apartment, where he communicated
with them, for near an hour. Carlo was then
fummoned, and ordered to conduct the
ftrangers to a part of the caſtle, which, in
former times, had been occupied by the up-
per ſervants of the family, and to provide
them with every neceſſary refreſhment.-
When he had done this, he was bidden to
return to his maſter.
. Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cot-
tage in the ſkirts of the woods below, ſuffer-
ing under bodily and mental pain, and me-
ditating deep revenge againſt Montoni. His
ſervant, whom he had diſpatched for a ſurgeon
to the neareſt town, which was, however, at
a conſiderable diſtance, did not return till.
the following day, when, his wounds being
examined and drefled, the practitioner re.
fuſed to deliver any poſitive opinion, con-
cerning the degree of danger attending them;
buty:


( 303 )
but, giving his patient a compoſing draught
and ordering him to be kept quiet, remained
at the cottage to watch the event..
Emily, for the remainder of the late
eventful night, had been ſuffered to ſleep,
undiſturbed; and when her mind recovered
from the confuſion of Number, and ſhe re-
membered, that ſhe was now releaſed from:
the addreſſes of Count Morano, her ſpirits,
were ſuddenly relieved from a part of the
terrible anxiety, that had long oppreſſed
them; that which remained, aroſe chiefly
from a recollection of Morano's aſſertions,
concerning the ſchemes of Montoni. He had
faid, that the plans of the latter, concerning
Emily, were in ſearchable, yet that he knew
them to be terrible. At the time he uttered
this, ſhe almoſt believed it to be deſigned
for the purpoſe of prevailing with her to
throw herſelf into his protection, and ſhe
ſtill thought it might be chiefly ſo ac-
counted for; but his affertions had left an
impreſſion on her mind, which a conſidera- .
tion


| 305 )
natu
when ſhe had finiſhed which, ſhe was ſur-
priſed to obſerve the ſpirit of her group.
But ſhe had copied from nature.
Carlo, when he had placed refreſhment
before theſe men in the apartment aſſigned
to them, returned, as he was ordered, to
Montoni, who was anxious to diſcover by
'what ſervant the keys of the caſtle had been
delivered to Morano, on the preceding night.
But this man, though he was too faithful to
his maſter quietly to ſee him injured, would
not betray a fellow ſervant even to juſtice ;
he, therefore, pretended to be ignorant who
it was, that had conſpired with Count Ma-
rano, and related, as before, that he had
only overheard ſome of the ſtrangers deſcribe
ing the plot.
Montoni's ſuſpicions naturally fell upon
the porter, whom he ordered now to attend.
Carlo heſitated, and then with now ſteps
went to ſeek him.
Barnardine, the porter, denied the accu-
Sarion with a countenance fo ſteady and un-
ļ daunted, that Montoni could ſcarcely be-
ra
lieve


( 306 )
lieve him guilty, though he knew not how
to think him innocent. At length, the man
was diſmiſſed from his preſence, and, thoughi
the real offender, eſcaped detection.
Montoni then went to his wife's apart-1
ment, whither Emily followed ſoon after,
but, finding them in high diſpute, was in-
ftantly leaving the room, when her aunt
called her back, and deſired her to ſtay..
“ You ſhall be a wirneſs,” ſaid ſhe, " of my
oppoſition. Now, fir, repeat the command,
I have ſo often refuſed to obey."
Montoni turned, with a ſtern countenance,
to Emily, and bade her quit the apartment,
while his wife perfifted in deſiring that ſhe
would ſtay. Emily was eager to eſcape
from this ſcene of contention, and anxious,
allo, to ſerve her aunt; but ſhe deſpaired of 5
conciliating Montoni, in whoſe eyes the
riſing tempeſt of his ſoul fated 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, continued to meditate on the
unhappy


( 307 )
unhappy marriage of her father's ſiſter, and
on her own deſolate ſituation, occaſioned
by the ridiculous imprudence of her, whom
ſhe had always wilhed to reſpect and love.
Madame Montoni's conduct had, indeed,
rendered it in poffible for Emily to do ci-
ther, but her gentle heart was touched by
her diſtreſs, and, in the pity thus,awakened,
The 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'amfelle, I have been looking
for you all over the caſtle,” ſaid ſhe. “ If
you will ſtep this way, I will ſhew you a
picture.”
- A picture !” exclained Emily, and
ſhuddered.
6 Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady
of this place. Old Carlo juſt now told me
it was her, and I thought you would be
curious to ſee it. As to my lady, you
know, ma'amſelle, one cannot talk about -
ſuch things to her,
66 And


(309)
« Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful;
but do you know, that, unleſs you guard
? againſt this inclination, it wil lead you into
72. all the miſery of ſuperſtition?"
Annette might have ſmiled in her turn, at
at this fage obſervation of Emily, who could
i tremble with ideal terrors, as much as her.
ſelf, and liflcn almoſt as ea rerly to the re-
cital of a myſterious ſtory. Annette urged
· her requeſt.
“ Are you ſure it is a picture?” ſaid
- Emily, “Have you ſeen it?-Is it veiled?”
“ Holy Maria! ma’amſelle, yes, no, yes.
I am ſure it is a picture I have ſeen it,
and it is not veiled ?"
The tone and look of ſurpriſe, with which
Į this was uttered, recalled Emily's prudence;
who concealed her emotion under a ſmile,
and bade Annette lead her to the picture.
It was in an obſcure chamber, adjoining
that part of the caſtle, allotted to the fer-
vants. Several other portraits hung on the
walls, covered, like this, with duſt and
i cobweb.
« That


( 310 )
" That is it, ma’amnſelle,” ſaid Annette,
in a low voice, and pointing. Emily ad.
vanced, and ſurveyed the picture. It re.
preſented a lady in the flower of youth and
beauty; her features were handſome and
noble, full of ſtrong expreſſion, but had
little of the captivating ſweetneſs, that
Emily had looked for, and ſtill leſs of the
penſive mildneſs ſhe loved. It was a coun-
tenance, which ſpoke the language of paſ-
fion, rather than that of. ſentiment; a
haughty impatience of misfortune-not the
placid melancholy of a ſpirit injured, yet
reſigned.
“ How many years have paſſed, ſince this
lady diſappeared, Annette ?” ſaid Emily.
“ Twenty years, ma'amfelle, or there-
about, as they tell me; I know it is a long
while ago.” Emily continued to gaze upon
the portrait.
“I think,"reſumed Annette, “the Signor
would do well to hang it in a better place,
than this old chamber. Now, in my mind,
he ought to place the picture of a lady, who
7
gave


312 )
Ini
* Dear, ma’amſelle, there is nothing ſur-
priſing in that; we had all a little more cu-
riouſneſs than you had."
“ I thought you told me, the door was
kept locked ?” ſaid Emily.
?" If that was the caſe, ma’amſelle," re-
plied Annette, looking about her, “ how
could we get here?”
"0; you nican this picture,” ſaid Emily,
with returning calmneſs. “ Well, Annette,
here is nothing more to engage my atten-
tion; we will go.”
Emily, as ſhe paſſed to her own apart-
ment, ſaw Montoni go down to the hall,
and ſhe turned into her aunt's dreſſing-
room, whom ſhe found weeping and alone,
grief and reſentment firuggling on her
countenance. Pride had hitherto reſtrained
complaint. Judging of Emily's diſpoſition
from her own, and from a conſciouſneſs
of what her treatment of her deferved, ſhe
had believed, that her griefs would be cauſe
of triumph to her niece, rather than of
fympathy; that ſhe would defpife, not pity
her.
OWL


( 313 )
her. But ſhe knew not the tenderneſs and
benevolence of Emily's heart, that had al-
ways taught her to forget her own injuries
in the misfortunes of her enemy. The ſuf-
ferings of others, whoever they might be,
called forth her ready compaſſion, which
diſipated at once every obſcuring cloud to
goodneſs, that paſſion or prejudice might
have raiſed in her mind.
Madame Montoni's ſufferings, at length,
roſe above her pride, and, when Emily had
before entered the room, ſhe would have
told them all, had not her huſband prevent-
ed her ; now that ſhe was no longer reſtrain-
ed by his preſence, ſhe poured forth all her
complaints to her niece.
.“ O Emily !” ſhe exclaimed, “I am the
moſt wretched of women-I am indeed
cruelly treated! Who, with my proſpects
of happineſs, could have foreſeen ſuch a
wretched fate is this?..who could have
thought, when I married ſuch a man as the
Signor, that I ſhould ever have to bewail my
lot? But there is no judging what is for the
Vol. II. . P
beſt-


( 314 )
beſt-there is no knowing what is for our
good! The moſt flattering proſpects often
change the beſt judgments may be de-
ceived—who could have foreſeen, when I
married the Signor, that I ſhould ever re-
pent my generoſity?".
Emily thought ſhe might have foreſeen
it, but this was not a thought of triumph.
She placed herſelf in a chair near her aunt,
took her hand, and with one of thoſe looks
of ſoft compaſſion, which might characterize
the countenance of a guardian angel, ſpoke
to her in the tendereſt'accents. But theſe
did not footh Madame Montoni, whom im.
patience to talk made unwilling to liſten.
She wanted to complain, not to be conſoled;
and it was by-exclamations of complaint
only that Emily learned the particular cir-
cumſtances of her affliction.
“ Ungrateful man!” ſaid Madame Mon.
toni, he has deceived me in every reſpect;
and now he has taken me from my country
- and friends, to ſhut me up in this old caſtle;
and, here, he thinks he can compel me to
- do


( 315 )
do whatever he deſigns ! But he ſhall find
himſelf miſtaken, he fhall find that no
threats can alter- But who would have
believed ! who would have ſuppoſed, that a
- man of his family and apparent wealth had
abſolutely no fortune ?-no, ſcarcely a fe='
quin of his own! I did all for the beſt; I
thought he was a man of conſequence, of
great property, or I am ſure I would never
have married him,-ungrateful, artful man!"
She' pauſed to take breath.
“ Dear Madam, be compoſed,” ſaid
Emily: “ the Signor may not be ſo rich as
you had reaſon to expect, but ſurely he
cannot be very poor, ſince this caſtle and
the manſion at Venice are his. May I aſk
what are the circumſtances, that particularly
affect you?”.
“What are the circumſtances !” exclaim.
ed Madame Montoni with reſentment:
6 why is it not ſufficient, that he had
long ago ruined his own fortune by play,
and that he has ſince loſt what I brought
him—and that now he would compel me
P2 1
1
to


( 317 )
- all meekly,--you know, niece, I never ut-
tered a word of complaint, till now; no!
That ſuch a diſpoſition as inine ſhould be ſo
impoſed upon! That I, whoſe only faults
are too much kindneſs, too much genero-
ſity, ſhould be chained for life to ſuch a
vile, deceitful, cruel monſter !”
· Want of breach compelled Madaine
Montoni to ſtop. If any thing could have
made Emily ſmile in theſe moments, it
would have been this ſpeech of her aunt,
delivered in a voice very little below a
ſcream, and with a vehemence of geſticula.
tion and of countenance, that turned the
whole into burleſque. Emily faw, that
her misfortunes did not admit of real con-
ſolation, and, contemning the common.
place; terms of ſuperficial comfort, ſhe was
ſilent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of
her own conſequence, miſtook this for the
Mence of indifference, or of contempt, and
reproached her with want of duty and feel.
ing.
“O! I ſuſpected what all this boaſted
P3 : ſenſibility


( 318 )
ſenſibility would prove to be!" rejoined
The; “ I thought it would not teach you to
feel either duty, or affections for your re-
lations, who have treated you like their own
daughter !"
“Pardon me, madam,” ſaid Emily, mild.'
ly, “it is not natural to me to boaſt, and
if it was, I am ſure I would not boaſt of
ſenſibility-na quality, perhaps, more to be
feared, than deſired."
“ Well, well, niece, I will not diſpute
with you. But, as I ſaid, Montoni threat-
ens me with violence, if I any longer refuſe
to ſign away my ſettlements, and this was
the ſubject of our conteſt, when you came
into the room before. Now, I am deter-
mined no power on earth ſhall make me do
this. Neither will I bear all this tamely.
He ſhall hear his true character from me,
I will tell him all he deſerves, in ſpite of his
threats and cruel treatment."
Emily ſeized a pauſe of Madame Mon.
toni's voice, to ſpeak. “ Dear madam,"
ſaid ſhe, “but will not this ferve to irri-
tare


( 319 )
tate the Signor unneceſſarily? will it not
provoke the harſh treatment you dread?”
"I do not care,” replied Madam Mon-
toni, “it does not ſignify: I will not ſub-
mit 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,"
--faid Emily, with heſitation. “Why, does
he not deſerve reproaches ?” ſaid her aunt.
“ Certainly he does; but will it be pru-
dent in you, madam, to make them?”
« Prudent !" replied Madame Montoni,
.“ Is this a time to talk of prudence, when ...
one is threatened with all ſorts of violence ?"
“ It is to avoid that violence, that pru-
dence is neceſſary,” ſaid Emily.
" Of prudence !" continued Madame
Montoni, without attending to her, "of
prudence towards a man, who does not
ſcruple to break all the common ties of
humanity in his conduct to me! And is it
' P4 .
for:
i


( 320)
for me to conſider prudence in my beha-
viour towards him! I am not ſo mean."
“ It is for your own fake, not for the
Signor's madam,” faid Emily modeſtly,
" that you ſhould conſult prudence. Your
reproaches, however juſt, cannot puniſh
him, but they may provoke him to further
violence againſt you."
" What! would you have me fubmit,
then, to whatever he commands-would
you 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, ma.
dam !” ſaid Emily, “I am unequal to ad-
viſe you on a point ſo important as the laſt :
but you will pardon me for ſaying, that, if
you conſult your own peace, you will try
to conciliate Signor Montoni, rather than to
irritate him by reproaches.”
“ Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece,
it is utterly impoſſible; I diſdain to at-
tempt it.”
Emily was ſhocked to obſerve the per-
verted


( 321 )
verted underſtanding and obſtinate temper
of Madame Montoni; but, not leſs grieved
for her ſufferings, ſhe looked round for
fome alleviating circumſtance to offer her.
“ Your ſituation is, perhaps, not ſo deſpe-
rate, dear madam,” ſaid Emily, “ as you
may imagine. The Signor may repreſent
his affairs to be worſe than they are, for the
purpoſe of pleading a ſtronger neceſſity for
his poffeffion of your ſettlement. Beſides,
ſo long as you keep this, you may look
forward to it as a reſource, at leaſt, that
will afford you a competence, should the
Signor's future conduct compel you to ſue
for ſeparation,
Madame Montoni impatiently interrupt-
ed her. “Unfeeling, cruel girl!” ſaid ſhe,
“ and ſo you would perſuade me, that I
have no reaſon to complain; that the Sig.
nor is in very Aouriſhing circumſtances,
that my future proſpects promiſe nothing
but comfort, and that my griefs are as fan-
ciful and romantic as your own! Is it the
way to conſole me, to endeavour to per-
P 5 : ſuade


( 323.)
not what is formerly appeared to be, the
intelligence ſhe had juſt received from her
aunt on this point, ſtruck her with all the
force of aſtoniſhment, which was not weak-
ened, when ſhe conſidered the preſent ſtyle
of Montoni's living, the number of ſervants
hé maintained, and the new expences he
was incurring, by repairing and fortifying
his caſtle. Her anxiety for her aunt and
for herſelf increaſed with reflection, Se-
veral affertions of Morano, which, on the
preceding night, he had believed were
prompted either by intereft, or by reſenta
ment, now returned to her mind with the
ſtrength of truth. She could not doubt,
that Montoni had formerly agreed to give
her to the Count, for a pecuniary reward;
his character, and his diſtreſſed circum-
ſtances juſtified the belief; theſe, alſo,
ſeemed to confirm Morano's aſſertion, that
he now deſigned to diſpoſe of her, more ad.
vantageouſly for himſelf, to a richer ſuitor.
Amidſt the reproaches, which Morang
had thrown out againft Montoni, he had
P6
faid


(324 )
NOT
ſaid - he would not quit the caſtle he dared
to call bis, nor willingly leave another mur-
der on his conſcience-hints, which might
have no other origin than the paſſion of the
moment : but Emily was now inclined to
account for them more ſeriouſly, and ſhe
fhuddered to think, that ſhe was in the
hands of a man, to whom it was even pof-
fible they could apply. At length, confi-
dering, that reflection could neither releaſe
her from her melancholy ſituation, or ena-
ble her to bear it with greater fortitude,
the tried to divert her anxiety, and took
down from her little library a volume of
her favourite Arioſto; but his wild imagery
and rich invention could not long enchant
her attention ; his ſpells did not reach her
heart, and over her fleeping fancy they
played, without awakening it.
· She now put aſide the book, and took
her lute, for it was ſeldom that her ſuffer-
ings refuſed to yield to the magic of ſweet
founds; when they did ſo, ſhe was oppreſſed
by forrow, that came from exceſs of tender-
neſs


( 325 )
neſs and regret; and there were times,
when muſic had increaſed ſuch ſorrow
to a degree, that was ſcarcely endurable ;
when, if it had not ſuddenly ceaſed, the
might have loſt her reaſon. Such was
the time, when ſhe mourned for her fa-
ther, and heard the midnight ſtrains, that
floated by her window near the convent
in Languedoc, on the night that followed
his death.
She continued to 'play, till Annette
brought dinner into her chamber, at which
Emily was ſurpriſed, and enquired whoſe
order lhe obeyed. “ My lady's, ma'am-
ſelle," replied Annette : “ the Signor or.
dered her dinner to be carried to her own
apartment, and ſo ſhe has ſent you yours.
There have been fad doings between them,
worſe than ever, I think.”
- Emily, not appearing to notice what .
ſhe ſaid, ſat down to the little table, that
was ſpread for her. But Annette was not
to be ſilenced thus eaſily. While ſhe waited,
The told of the arrival of the men, whom
Emily


( 326 ) .
DC
Emily had obſerved on the ramparts, and
expreſſed much ſurpriſe at their ſtrange ap-
pearance, as well as at the manner, in
which they had been attended by Montoni's
order. “Do they dine with the Signor,
then?” ſaid Emily. .
:“ No, ma'amſelle, they dined long ago,
in an apartment at the north end of the cal-
tle, but I know not when they are to go,
for the Signor told old Carlo to ſee them
provided with every thing neceffary. They
have been walking all about the caſtle, and
aſking queſtions of the workmen on the
ramparts. I never ſaw ſuch ftrange-look-
ing men in my life; I am frightened when-
ever I ſee them.”
Emily enquired, if ſhe had heard of
Count Morano, and whether he was likely
to recover : but Annette only knew, that
he was lodged in a cottage in the wood
below, and that every body ſaid he muſt die,
Emily's countenance diſcovered heremotiun.
« Dear ma'amſelle,” ſaid Annette, “ to
ſee how young ladies will diſguiſe them:
ſelves,


( 328 )
« Enough of this,” ſaid Emily, who now
ſmiled without an effort; and Annette re-
turned to a mention of the diſagreement be-
tween Montoni and her lady. “ It is no-
thing new,” ſaid ſhe: “ we ſaw and heard
enough of this 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 as prudent
now; the ſubject is an unpleaſant one."
“ Ah dear, ma'amfelle!--to ſee now how
conſiderate you can be about ſome folks,
who care ſo little about you! I cannot
bear to ſee you ſo deceived, and I muſt tell
you. But it is all for your own good, and
not to ſpite my lady, though, to ſpeak truth,
I have little reaſon to love her; but,"
“ You are not ſpeaking thus of my aunt,
I hope, Annette ?” ſaid Emily, gravely,
“Yes, ina’amſelle, but I am though; and
if you knew as much as I do, you would
not look ſo angry. I have often, and often,
heard the Signor and her talking over your
marriage with the Count, and the always
adviſed


( 329 )
adviſed him never to give up to your fooliſh
whims, as ſhe was pleaſed to call them, but
to be reſolute, and compel you to be obe.
dient, whether you would, or not. And I
am ſure, my heart has ached a thouſand
times, and I have thought, when ſhe was ſo
unhappy herſelf, ſhe might have felt a little
for other people, and—”
“ I thank you for your pity, Annette,"
ſaid Emily, interrupting her: “ but my aunt
was unhappy then, and that diſturbed her
temper perhaps, or I think I am ſure
You may take away, Annette, I have done.”
“Dear, ma'amiſelle, you have eat nothing
at all! Do try, and take a little bit more.
Diſturbed her temper truly ! why, her tem-
per is always diſturbed, I think. And at
Tholouſe I have heard my lady talking
of you and Monſ. Valancourt to Madame
Merveille and Madame Vaiſon, often and
often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought,
telling them what a deal of trouble ſhe had
to keep you in order, and what a fatigue
and diſtreſs it was to her, and that ſhe be-
lieved


: (331)
a WOL
"Is this, then, the reward of my ingenu.
ouſneſs ?” ſaid Emily, when ſhe was alone;
“ the treatment I am to receive from a re-
lation-an aunt-who ought to have been
the guardian, not the flanderer of my repu-
tation,---who, as a woman, ought to have
reſpected the delicacy of female honour,
and, as a relation, ſhould have protected
mine ! But, to utter falſehoods on ſo nice
a ſubject to repay the openneſs, and, I
may fay with honeft pride, the propriety of
my conduct, with Nanders-required a de.
právity of heart, ſuch as I could ſcarcely
have believed exiſted, ſuch as I weep to
find in a relation. O! what a contraſt does
her character preſent to that of my beloved
father ; while envy and low cunning form
the chief traits of hers, his was diſtinguiſh-
ed buy benevolence and philofophic wiſdom!
But now, let me only remember, if poflible,
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


( 332 )
ita
Or
ehough ſhe often wiſhed, that ſhe might be
permitted to ramble among the woods be.
low, and ſtill more, that ſhe might ſome.
times explore the ſublime ſcenes of the ſur-
rounding country. But as Montoni would
not ſuffer her to paſs the gates of the caſtle,
ſhe tried to be contented with the romantic
views ſhe beheld from the walls. The pea-
fants, who had been employed on the forti-
fications, had left their work, and the ram.
parts were ſilent and ſolitary. Their lonely
appearance, together with the gloom of a
lowering ſky, affifted the muſings of her
mind, and threw over it a kind of melan.
choly tranquillity, ſuch as the often loved to
mdulge. She turned to obſerve a fine effect
of the ſun, as his rays, ſuddenly ſtreaming
from behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the
weſt towers of the caſtle, while the reſt of
the edifice was in deep ſhade, except, that,
through a lofty gothic arch, adjoining the
tower, which led to another terrace, the
beams darted in full ſplendour, and ſhewed
the three ſtrangers he had obſerved in the
morning.


( 333 )
morning. Perceiving them, ſhe ſtarted, and
a momentary fear came over her, as the
looked up the long rampart, and ſaw no
other perſons. While ſhe heſitated, they ap-
proached. The gate at the end of the terrace,
whither they were advancing, ſhe knew, was
always locked, and ſhe could not depart
by the oppoſite extremity, without meeting
them; but before ſhe paſſed them, the hafa
tily drew a thin veil over her face, which
did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty.
They looked earneſtly at her, and ſpoke to
each other in bad Italian, of which ſhe
caught only a few words, but the fierceneſs
of their countenances, now that ſhe was near
enough to diſcriminate them, ſtruck her yet
more than the wild ſingularity of their air
and dreſs had formerly done. It was the
countenance and figure of him, who walked
between the other two, that chiefly ſeized
her attention, which expreſſed a fullen
haughtineſs and a kind of dark watchful vil.
lany, and gave a thrill of horror to her heart.
All this was to legibly written on his features
een II


( 334 )
as to be ſeen by a ſingle glance, for the
paſſed the group ſwiftly, and her timid eyes
ſcarcely reſted on them a moment. Having
reached the terrace, ſhe ſtopped, and per-
ceived the ſtrangers ſtanding in the ſhadow
of one of the turrets, gazing after her, and
ſeemingly by their action, in earneſt conver-
ſation. She immediately left the rampart,
and retired to her apartment.
In the evening, Montoni ſat late, carouſ-
ing with his gueſts in the cedar chamber.
His recent triumph over Count Morano, or,
perhaps, ſome other circumſtance, contri-
buted to elevate his ſpirits to an unuſual
height. He filled the goblet often, and
gave a looſe to merriment and talk. The
gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was
fomewhat clouded by anxiety. He kept a
watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with
the utmoſt difficulty, he had hitherto re-
ſtrained from exaſperating Montoni further
againſt Morano, by a mention of his late
taunting words.
One of the company exultingly recurred
. - ; to


( 335 )
À
to the event of the preceding evening. Ve.
rezzi's eyes {parkled. The mention of Mo-
rano led to that of Emily, of whom they
were all profuſe in the praiſe, except Mon-
toni, who fat filent, and then interrupted the
ſubject.
When the ſervants had withdrawn, Mon.
toni and his friends entered into cloſe con-
verſation, which was ſometimes checked
by the irraſcible temper of Verezzi, but in
which Montoni diſplayed his conſcious ſu-
periority, by that deciſive look and manner,
which always accompanied the vigour of
his thought, and to which moſt of his com-
panions fubmitted, as to a power, that they
had no right to queſtion, though of each
other's ſelf-importance they were jealouſly
ſcrupulous. Amidſt this converſation, one of
them imprudently introduced again the name
of Morano ; and Verezzi, now more heated
by wine, diſregarded the expreſſive looks of
Cavigni, and gave ſome dark hints of what :
had paſſed on the preceding night. Theſe,
however, Montoni did not appear to under-
• 9 ſtand,


( 337 )
-
rupted Montoni, ſternly: “ produce your
proof."
“ We believe only what we know,"
repeated Verezzi, " and we know nothing
of what Morano afferts.” Montoni ſeem-
ed to recover himſelf. “ I am haſty,
my friends," ſaid he, « with reſpect to
my honour; nó man ſhall queſtion it
with impunity-you did not mean to
queſtion it. Theſe fooliſh words are not
worth your remembrance, or my refent-
ment. Verezzi, here is to your firſt ex.
ploit."
“ Succeſs to your firſt exploit," re-echoed.
the whole company.
"Noble Signor,” replied Verezzi, glad
to find he had eſcaped Montoni's refent:
ment, “ 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 the caſtle,” ſaid Bertolini.-
Montoni was filent. “To the Lady of the
VOL. II.
caſtle,"


( 339 )
She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her ;
but her heart was fixed upon another, and
. ſhe rejected me. It is probable, however,
that he was herſelf rejected of the per-
fon, whoever he might be, on whom ſhe
beſtowed her favour, for a deep and ſettled
melancholy took poffeffiðn of 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 and
myſterious circumſtances attending that
event, I ſhall repeat 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
fame enquiry. Montoni, at length, recover-
ing himſelf, ! We are overheard,” ſaid he :
“ we will finiſh this ſubject another time.
Paſs the goblet."
The cavaliers looked round the wide
chamber.
“ Here is no perſon, but ourſelves,” ſaid
Verezzi: “ pray, Signor, proceed.”
Q 2
66 Did


(340 )
“Did you hear any thing?” ſaid Mon-
toni.
“ We did,” ſaid Bertolini.
“ It could be only fancy,” ſaid Verezzi,
looking round again. “We fee no perſon
beſides ourſelves; and the ſound I thought
I heard ſeemed within the room. Pray, Sig.
nor, go on.”
Montoni pauſed a moment, and then pro-
ceeded in a lowered voice, while the cavaliers
drew nearer to attend.
" Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady
Laurentini had for ſome months ſhewn
ſymptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a
diſturbed imagination. Her mood was very
unequal; ſometimes ſhe was funk in calm
melancholy, and, at others, as I have been
told, ſhe betrayed all the ſymptoms of fran-
tic madneſs. It was one night in the month
of October, after fie had recovered from
one of thoſe fits of exceſs, and had ſunk again
into her uſual melancholy, that ſhe retired
alone to her chamber, and forbade all inter-
. ruption. It was the chamber at the end of
the
an-


( 341 )
the corridor, Signors, where we had the
affray, laſt night. From that hour, ſhe was
feen no more.”
“ How! feen no more !” ſaid Bertolini,
" was not her body found in the cham-
· Ber?”
- Were her remains never found ?" cried
the reſt of the company all together. :
6 Never !” replied Montoni.
" What reaſons were there to ſuppofe
ſhe deſtroyed herſelf, then ?" ſaid Bertolini.
-“ Aye, what reaſons ?" ſaid Verezzi.
“ How happened it that her remains were
never found ? Although the killed herſelf,
ſhe could not bury herſelf.” Montoni
looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began
to apologize. “ Your pardon, Signor,"
ſaid he . “ I did not conſider, that the lady
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 to believe, that'
the lady committed ſuicide.”
Q3
“ Thoſe
10


5 ( 342 )
0
« Thoſe I will explain hereafter,” ſaid
Montoni: 66 at preſent let me relate a moſt
extraordinary circumſtance. This conver-
ſation goes no further, Signors. Liſten,
then, to what I am going to ſay.”
“ Liſten!” ſaid a voice.
They were all again ſilent, and the coun-
tenance of Montoni changed, " This is no
illuſion of the fancy,” ſaid Cavigni, at
length breaking the profound ſilence,
" No,” ſaid Bertolini; “ I heard it myſelf,
now. Yer here is no perfon in the room
but ourſelves !”
“ This is very extraordinary,” ſaid Mon-
toni, ſuddenly riſing. “ This is not to be
Lorne; here is ſome deception, ſome trick,
I will know what it means.”
. All the company roſe from their chairs
in confuſion.
66 It is very odd !” ſaid Bertolini.
“ Here is really no ftranger in the room.
If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to
puniſh the author of it ſeverely.”
- A trick!


(343)
“ A trick! what elſe can it be?” ſaid
Cavigni, affecting a laugh.
The ſervants were now fummoned, and
the chamber was ſearched, but no perſon
was found. The ſurpriſe and confier-
nation of the company increaſed. Montoni
was diſcompoſed. " We will leave this
room," ſaid he," and the ſubject of our
converſation alſo; it is too folemn." His
gueſts were equally ready to quit the apart-
ment; but the ſubject had rouſed their cu-
rioſity, and they entreated Montoni co with-
draw to another chamber, and finiſh it; no
intreaties could, however, prevail with him.
Notwithſtanding his efforts to appear at eaſe,
he was viſibly and greatly diſordered.
" Why, Signor, you are not ſuperſti-
tious,” cried Verezzi, jeeringly; “ you,
who have ſo often laughed at the credulity
of others !”
" I am not ſuperſtitious,” replied Mon-
toni, regarding him with ſtern diſpleaſure,
" though I know how to deſpiſe the com-
.mon-place ſentences, which are frequently
uttered
Q_4


( 344 )
vitered againſt ſuperſtition. I will enquire
further into this affair.” He then left the
room; and his gueſts, ſeparating for the
night, retired to their reſpective apart-
ments,
C H A P.


( 345 )
CH A P. VIII.
6. He wears the roſe of youth upon his cheek.”
SHAKESPEARE.
W E now return to Valancourt, who, it
may be remembered, renained at Tholouſe,
ſome time after the departure of Emily,
reſtleſs and miſerable. Each morrow, that
approached, he deſigned ſhould carry him
from thence; yet to morrow and to-morrow
came, and ſtill ſaw him lingering in the
ſcene of his former happineſs. He could
not immediately tear himſelf from the ſpot,
where he had been accuſtomed to converſe
with Emily, or from the objects they had
viewed together, which appeared to him
memorials of her affection, as well as a
kind of ſurety for its faithfulneſs; and, next
to the pain of bidding her adieu, was that
of leaving the ſcenes, which ſo powerfully
awakened her image. Sometimes he had
Q5
bribed


( 347 )
ceived from hints, and ſuch as his fears re.
preſented it, would riſe to his view, to.
gether with all the dangers it ſeemed to
threaten to Emily and to his love. He
blamed himſelf, that he had not urged theſe
more forcibly to her, while it might have
been in his power to detain her, and that
he had ſuffered an abſurd and criminal de-
licacy, as he termed it, to conquer fo foon
the reaſonable arguments he had oppoſed
to this journey. Any evil, that might have
attended their marriage, ſeemed ſo inferior
to thoſe, which now threatened their love,
or even to the ſufferings, that abſence oc-
caſioned, that he wondered how he could
have ceaſed to urge his ſuit, till he had
convinced her of its propriety; and he
would certainly now have followed her to
Italy, if he could have been ſpared from
his regiment for ſo long a journey. His
regiment, indeed, foon reminded him, that
he had other duties to attend, than thoſe of
love.
A ſhort time after his arrival at his bro.
Q6
ther's
i


( 348 )
ther's houſe, he was ſummoned to join his
brother officers, and he accompanied a bat-
talion to Paris ; where a ſcene of novelty
and gaiety opened upon him, ſuch as, till
then, he had only a faint idea of. But gai- .
ety diſguſted, and company fatigued, his
fick mind; and he became an object of un-
ceaſing raillery to his companions, from
whom, whenever he could ſteal an oppor-
tunity, he eſcaped, to think of Emily. The
ſcenes around him, however, and the com-
pany with whom he was obliged to mingle,
engaged his attention, though they failed
to amuſe his fancy, and thus gradually
weakened the habit of yielding to lamen-
tation, till it appeared leſs a duty to his
love to indulge it. Among his brother-
officers were many, who added to the or-
dinary character of a French foldier's gai.
ety ſome of thoſe faſcinating qualities,
which too frequently throw a veil over fol- ,
ly, and ſometimes even ſoften the features
of vice into ſmiles. To theſe men the re-
ſerved and thoughtful inanners of Valan-
court


( 349 )
court were a kind of tacit cenſure on their
own, for which they rallied him when pre-
ſent, and plotted againſt him when abſent;
they gloried in the thought of reducing him
to their own level, and, conſidering it to
be a fpirited frolic, determined to accom-
pliſh it.
Valancourt was a ſtranger to the gradual
progreſs of ſcheme and intrigue, againſt
which he could not be on his guard. He
had not been accuſtomed to receive ridi.
cule, and he could ill endure its ſting; he
reſented it, and this only drew upon him a
louder laugh. To efcape from ſuch ſcenes,
he fied into folitude, and there the image
of Emily met him, and revived the pangs
of love and deſpair. He then fought to
renew thoſe tait-iui ſtudies, which had been
the delight of his early years; but his mind
had loſt the tranquillity, which is neceſſary
for their enjoyment. To forget himſelf
· and the grief and anxiety, which the idea
of her recalled, he would quit his ſolitude,
and again mingle in the crowd--glad of a
temporary


(350)
&
temporary relief, and rejoicing to ſnatch
amulement for the moment.
Thus paffed weeks after weeks, time
gradually loftening his forrow, and habit
ftrengthening his deſire of amuſement, till
the ſcenes around him ſeemed to awaken in-
to a new character, and Valancourt, to have
fallen among them from the clouds.
His figure and addreſs made him a wel.
come viſitor, wherever he had been intro-
duced, and he ſoon frequented the moſt gay
and faſhionable circles of Paris. Among
theſe, was the aſſembly of the Counteſs La-
cleur, a woman of eminent beauty and cap.
tivating manners. She had paſſed the ſpring
of youth, but her wit prolonged the triumph
of its reign, and they mutually alliſted the
fame of each other; for thoſe, who were
charmed by her lovelineſs, ſpoke with en-
thuſiaſm of her talents; and others, who
admired her playful imagination, declared,
that her perſonal graces were unrivalled.
But her imagination was merely playful,
and her wit, if ſuch it could be called, was
brilliant,


( 351 )
brilliant, rather than juſt; it dazzled, and
its fallacy eſcaped the detection of the mo.
ment; for the accents, in which ſhe pro-
nounced it, and the ſmile, that accompa-
nied them, were a ſpell upon the judg.
ment of the auditors. Her petits foupers ·
were the moſt taſteful of any in Paris, and
- were frequented by many of the ſecond claſs
of literati. She was fond of muſic, was
herſelf a ſcientific performer, and had fre.
quently concerts at her houſe. Valancourt,
who paſſionately loved muſic, and who
ſometimes aſſiſted at theſe concerts, ad-
mired her execution, but remembered with
a ſigh the eloquent ſimplicity of Emily's
fongs and the natural expreſſion of her
manner, which waited not to be approved
by the judgment, but found their way at
once to the heart.
Madame La Comteſſe had often deep play
at her houſe, which ſhe affected to reſtrain,
but fecretly encouraged; and it was well
known among her friends, that the ſplen-
dour of her eſtabliſhment was chiefly ſup-
plied
man


( 352 )
9
W
plied from the profits of her tables. But
her petits ſoupers were the moſt charming
imaginable ! Here were all the delicacies of
the four quarters of the world, all the wit
and the lighter efforts of genius, all the
graces of converſation-the ſmiles of beauty,
and the charms of muſic; and Valancourt
paſſed his pleaſanteſt, as well as moſt dan-
gerous hours in theſe parties.
His brother, who remained with his fa- ,
mily in Gaſcony, had contented himſelf
with giving hinn letters of introduction to
ſuch of his relations, reſiding at Paris, as-
the latter was not already known to. All
theſe were perſons of ſome diſtinction;
and, as neither the perſon, mind, or man-
ners of Valancourt the younger threatened
to diſgrace their alliance, they received him
with as much kindneſs as their nature, har-
dened by urinterrupted proſperity, would
admit of; but their attentions did not ex,
tend to acts of real friendſhip, for they were
too much occupied by their own purſuits,
to feel any intereſt in his; and thus he was
ſec


( 353 )
fet down in the midſt of Paris, in the pride
of youth, with an open, unſuſpicious tem.
per and ardent affections, without one
friend, to warn him of the dangers, to
which he was expoſed. Emily, who, had the
been preſent, would have ſaved hiin froin
theſe evils by awakening his heart, and en-
gaging him in worthy purſuits, now only
increaſed his danger :-it was to loſe the
grief, which the remembrance of her occa-
fioned, that he firſt ſought ainuſement; and
for this end he purſued it, till habit made
it an object of abſtract intereſt.
There was alſo a Marchioneſs Champfort,
a young widow, at whoſe aſſemblies he paſſed
much of his time. She was handſome, ſtill
more artful, gay and fond of intrigue. The
ſociety, which ſhe drew round her, was
leſs elegant and more vicious, than that
of the Counteſs Lacleur; but, as ſhe had
addreſs enough to throw a veil, though
but a ſlight one, over the worſt parts of her
character, he was ſtill viſited by many per-
fons of what is called diſtinction. Valan-
court
Or


€ 354 )
court was introduced to her parties by two
of his brother-officers, whoſe late ridicule
he had now forgiven fo far, that he could
ſometimes join in the laugh, which a men-
tion of his former manners would renew.
The gaiety of the moſt fplendid court in
Europe, the magnificence of the palaces,
entertainments, and equipages, that fur-
rounded him--all conſpired to dazzle his
imagination, and re-animate his ſpirits, and
the example and maxims of his military af-
fociates to delude his mind. Emily's image,
indeed, ſtill lived there, but it was no long-
er the friend, the monitor, that ſaved him
from himſelf, and to which he retired to
weep the ſweet, yet melancholy, tears of
tenderneſs. When he had recourſe to it, it
aſſumed a countenance of mild reproach,
that wrung his ſoul, and called forth tears
of unmixed miſery; his only eſcape from
which was to forget the object of it, and he
endeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily
as ſeldom as he could.
Thus dangerouſly circumſtanced was Va-
lancourt,


( 355 )
lancourt, at the time, when Emily was ſuf-
fering at Venice, from the perſecuting ad-
dreſſes of Count Morano, and the unjuſt
authority of Montoni ; at which period we
leave him.
С НА Р.


( 356 )
CH A P. IX.
“ The image of a wicked, heinous fault
Lives in his eye ; that cloſe aſpect of his
Does ſhew the mood of a much-troubled breaft.”
KING John.
LEAVING the gay ſcenes of Paris, we
return to thoſe of the gloomy Apennine,
where Emily's thoughts were ſtill faithful
to Valancourt. Looking to him as to her
only hope, the recollected, with jealous ex-
actneſs, every aſſurance and every proof lhe
had witneſſed of his affection ; read again
and again the letters ſhe had received from
him; weighed with intenſe anxiety, the
force of every word, that ſpoke of his at-
tachment; and dried her tears, as ſhe truft-
ed in his truth,
· Montoni, meanwhile, had made ſtrict en.
quiry, concerning the ſtrange circumſtance
of his alarm, without obtaining information;
and was, at length, obliged to account for
it


( 357 )
it by the reaſonable ſuppoſition, that it was
a miſchievous trick played off by one of his
domeſtics. His diſagreements with Ma-
dame Montoni, on the ſubject of her fer-
tlements, were now more frequent than
ever ; he even confined her entirely to her
own apartment, and did not ſcruple to
threaten her with much greater ſeverity,
ſhould ſhe perſevere in a refuſal.
Reaſon, had ſhe conſulted it, would now
have perplexed her in the choice of a con-
duct to be adopted. It would have pointed
out the danger of irritating by fur her op-
poſition a man, ſuch as Montoni had proved
himſelf to be, and to whoſe power ſhe had
ſo entirely committed herſelf; and it would
alſo have told her, of what extreme import.
ance to her future comfort it was, to relerve
for herſelf thoſe poſ-llions, which would
enable her to live independently of Mon-
toni, ſhould ſhe ever eſcape from his imme-
diate controul. But ſhe was directed by a
more deciſive guide than reaſon the fpi-
rit of revenge, which urged her to oppoſe
violence


(358 )
n
violence to violence, and obſtinacy to obſti.
пасу.
Wholly confined to the ſolitude of here
apartment, ſhe was now reduced to ſolicit
the ſociety ſhe fo lately rejected; for Emily
was the only perſon, except Annette, with
whom ſhe was permitted to converſe.
Generouſly anxious for her peace, Emily,
therefore, tried to perſuade, when ſhe could
not convince, and fought by every gentle
means to induce her to forbear that aſpe.
rity of reply which ſo greatly irritated
Montoni. The pride of her aunt did ſome-
times ſoften to the ſoothing voice of Emily,
and there even were moments, when ſhe
regarded her affectionate attentions with
good-will.
The ſcenes of terrible contention, to
which Emily was frequently compelled to
be witneſs, exhauſted her fpirits more than
any circumſtances, that had occurred ſince
her departure from Tholouſe. The gentle-
neſs and goodneſs of her parents, together
with the ſcenes of her early happineſs, often
8
ſtole


( 359 )
ſtole on her mind, like the viſions of a
higher world; while the characters and cir.
cumitances, now palling beneath her eye,
excited both terror and ſurpriſe. She could
ſcarcely have imagined, chat pallious ſo
fierce and ſo various, as thoſe which Mon-
toni exhibited, could have been concen.
trated in one individual; yet what 11 ore
ſurpriſed her, was, that, ong it occifions,
he could bend theſe pallion, wild as they
were, to the cauſe of his intreít, and gine-
rally could diſguiſe in his countenance their
operation on bis mind; but ſhe had ſeen
him too often, when he had thought it un-
neceffary to conceal his nature, to be de-
ceived on ſuch occaſions.
Her preſent life appeared like the dream
of a diſtempered imagination, or like one
of thote frightful fictions, in which the wild
genius of the poets ſometimes delighted.
Reflection brought only regret, and antici-
pation terror. How often did ſhe wiſh to
“ ſteal the lark's wing, and mount the
ſwifteſt gale,” that Languedoc and repoſe
might once more be hers!
Of


( 360 )
Of Count Morano's health ſhe made fre-
quent enquiry ; but Annette heard only
vague reports of his danger, and that his
ſurgeon had ſaid he would never leave the
cottage alive; while Emily could not but be
ſhocked to think, that ſhe, however inno-
cently, might be the means of his death ;
and Annette, who did not fail to obſerve
her emotion, interpreted it in her own way.
But a circumſtance foon occurred, which
entirely withdrew Annette's attention from
this ſubject, and awakened the ſurpriſe and
curioſity fo natural to her. Coming one day
to Emily's apartment, with a countenance
full of importance, " What can all this
mean, ma’amſelle?” ſaid ſhe. “Would I was
once fafe in Languedoc again, they ſhould
never catch me going on my travels any
more! I muſt think it a fine thing, truly, to
come abroad, and ſee foreign parts! I little
thought I was coming to be caged up in
an old caſtle, among ſuch dreary mountains,
with the chance of being murdered, or, what
is as good, having my throat cut!"
6 What


(361)
::-“ What can all this mean, indeed, An.
nette ??” ſaid Emily in aſtoniſhment.
.“ Aye, ma’amſelle, you may look ſur-
priſed; but you won't believe it, perhaps,
till they have murdered you, too. You
would not believe about the ghoſt I told
you of, though I ſhewed you the very place,
where it uſed to appear ! You will believe
nothing, ma'amſelle.”
“ Not till you ſpeak more reaſonably,
Annette ; for Heaven's ſake, explain your
meaning. You ſpoke of murder !”
" Aye, ma’amſelle, they are coming to
murder us all, perhaps ; but what ſignifies
explaining ?-you will not believe."
Emily again deſired her to relate what
ſhe had ſeen, or heard.
“O, I have ſeen enough, ma'am, and
heard too much, as Ludovico can prove.
Poor ſoul! they will murder him, too!
I little thought, when he ſung thoſe ſweet
verſes under my lattice at Venice!”—Emily
looked impatient and diſpleaſed. “Well,
'ma'amſelle, as I was ſaying, theſe prepara-
Vol. II.
R
tions


( 362 )
tions about the caſtle, and theſe ſtrange.
looking people, that are calling here every
day, and the Signor's cruel uſage of my
lady, and his odd goings-on-all theſe, as I
told Ludovico, can bode no good. And he
bid me hold my tongue. So, ſays I, the
Signor's ſtrangely altered, Ludovico, in this
gloomy caſtle, to what he was in France;
there, all ſo gay! Nobody fo gallant to
my lady, then; and he could ſmile, too,
upon a poor ſervant, ſometimes, and jeer
her, too, good-naturedly enough. I re.
meinber once, when he ſaid to me, as I was
going out of my lady's dreſſing rooin---An-
nette, ſays he—"
“Never mind what the Signor ſaid,” in-
terrupted Emily; “ but tell me, at once, the
circumſtance, which has thus alarmed you.”
“ Aye, ma’amſelle," rejoined Annette,
" that is juſt what Ludovico ſays: ſays he,
Never mind what the Signor ſays to you.
So I told him what I thought about the
Signor. He is ſo ſtrangely altered, ſaid I:
for now he is ſo haughty, and ſo command-
ing,


( 365 )
can le; and he ſaid, No, he did not think ,
they were, but he did not know for certain.
• Then, yeſterday,' ſaid he, but you muſt
not tell this, ma’anlelle, ' yeſterday, a party
of theſe men came, and left all their horſes
in the caſtle ſtables, where, it ſeems, they
are to ſtay, for the Signor ordered them all
to be entertained with the beſt provender in
the manger ; but the men are, moſt of them,
in the neighbouring cottages.'
“So, ma’amſelle, I came to tell you all
this, for I never heard any thing ſo ſtrange
in my life. But what can theſe ill-looking
men be come about, if it is not to murder
us? And the Signor knows this, or why-
ſhould he be ſo civil to them? And why
ſhould he fortify the caſtle, and counſel ſo
much with the other Signors, and be ſo
thoughtful ?”
“ Is this all you have to tell, Annette ?"
ſaid Emily. “Have you heard nothing elſe
that alarms you?”
“ Nothing elſe, ma’amſelle !” ſaid An-
nette; “why, is not this enough ?” “ Quite
R 3
enough
en


( 366 )
Пces
enough for my patience, Annette, but not
quite enough to convince me we are all to be
murdered, though I acknowledge here is
ſufficient food for curiolity.” She forbore
to ſpeak her apprehenſions, becauſe ſhe
would not encourage Annette's wild terrors ;
but the preſent circumſtances of the caſtle
both ſurpriſed, and alarmed her. An.
nette, having told her tale, left the cham-
ber, on the wing for new wonders.
In the evening, Emily had paſſed ſome
melancholy hours with Madame Montoni,
and was retiring to reſt, when ſhe was
alarmed by a ſtrange and loud knocking
at her chamber door, and then a heavy
weight fell againſt it, that almoſt burſt it
open. She called to know who was there,
and receiving no anſwer, repeated the call;
but a chilling ſilence followed. It occur.
red to her for, at this moment, ſhe could
not reaſon on the probability of circum-
ſtances--that ſome one of the ſtrangers,
lately arrived at the caſtle, had diſcovered
her apartment, and was come with ſuch
intent,


( 367 )
incent, as their looks rendered too poſſible
to rob, perhaps to murder, her. The mo-
ment the admitted this poſſibility, terror
fupplied the plice of conviction, and a
kind of inſtinctive remembrance of her re-
mote ſituation from the family heightened
it to a degree, that almoſt overcaine her
fenſes. She looked at the door, which led
to the ſtair-caſe, expecting to ſee it open,
and liſtening, in fearful ſilence, for a re-
turn of the noiſe, till ſhe began to think it
had proceeded from this door, and a wiſh of
eſcaping through the oppoſite one ruſhed
upon her mind. She went to the gallery
door, and then, fearing to open it, leſt
fome perſon might be filently lurking for
her without, ſhe ſtopped, but with her eyes
, fixed in expectation upon the oppoſite door
of the ſtair-caſe, As thus ſhe ſtood, he heard the
a faint breathing near her, and became con-
vinced, that ſome perſon was on the other
ſide of the door, which was already locked.
She fought for other faſtening, but there
was none.
R4
While


( 368 )
While ſhe yet liftened, the breathing was
diſtinctly heard, and her terror was not
ſoothed, when, looking round her wide and
lonely chamber, ſhe again conſidered her
remote ſituation. As ſhe ſtood heſitating
whether to call for aſſiſtance, the continu-
ance of the ſtillneſs ſurpriſed her; and her
ſpirits would have revived, had ſhe not con-
tinued to hear the faint breathing, that con-
vinced her, the perſon, whoever it was, had
not quitted the door.
At length, worn out with anxiety, ſhe
determined to call loudly for aſſiſtance
from her caſement, and was advancing to
it, when, whether the terror of her mind
gave her ideal ſounds,, or that real ones did.
come, ſhe thought footſteps were aſcending
the private ſtair-caſe; and, expecting to ſee
its door unclofe, ſhe forgot all other cauſe
of alarm, and retreated towarcis the corri-
dor. Here the endeavoured to make her
eſcape, but, on opening the door, was very
near falling over a perſon, who lay on the
floor without. She fereamed, and would
have


( 369 )
CCO
have paſſed, but her trembling frame re-
fuſed to ſupport her; and the moment, in
which ſhe leaned againſt the wall of the
gallery, allowed her leiſure to obſerve the
figure before her, and to recognize the fea-
tures of Annette. Fear inſtantly yielded to
ſurpriſe. She ſpoke in vain to the poor
girl, who remained ſenſeleſs cn the door,
and then, loſing all conſciouſneſs of her own
weakneſs, hurried to her alliſtance.
When Annette recovered, ſhe was helped
by Emily into the chamber, but was ſtill
unable to ſpeak, and looked round her, as
if her eyes followed fome perſon in the
room. Emily tried to ſooth her diſturbed
Spirits, and forbore, at preſent, to aſk her
any queſtions; but the faculty of ſpeech
was never long withheld from Annette,
and ſhe explained, in broken ſentences, and
in her tedious way, the occaſion of her dif-
order. She affirmed, and with a ſolem.
nity of conviction, that almoſt ſtaggered
the incredulity of Emily, that ſhe had ſeen
R 5
an


(370)
an apparition, as ſhe was paſſing to her bed-
room, through the corridor. .
"I had heard ſtrange ſtories of that
chamber before,” ſaid Annette : « but as it
was ſo near yours, ma’amſelle, I would not
tell them to you, becauſe they would fright-
en you. · The ſervants had told me, often
and often, that it was haunted, and that
was the reaſon why it was ſhut up: nay, for
that matter, why the whole ſtring of theſe
rooms, here, are ſhut up. 'I quaked when-
ever I went by, and I muſt ſay, I did ſome-
times think I heard odd noiſes within it.
But, as I ſaid, as I was paſſing along the
corridor, and not thinking a word about the
matter, or even of the ſtrange voice that
the Signors heard the other night, all of a :
ſudden comes a great light, and, looking
behind me, there was a tall figure (I ſaw it
as plainly, ma’amſelle, as I ſee you at this,
moment), a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I
cannot deſcribe how !) into the room, that
is always ſhut up, and nobody has the key
of
os
cal


(371)
of it but the Signor, and the door ſhut di-
rectly.
“ Then it doubtleſs was the Signor,”
ſaid Emily.
“O no, ma’amſelle, it could not be him,
for I left him buſy a-quarrelling in my lady's
dreſſing-room !" -
“ You bring me ſtrange tales, Annette,"
faid Emily: “it was but this morning,
that you would have terrified me with the
apprehenſion of murder; and now you
would perfuade me, you have ſeen a ghoſt !
Theſe wonderful ſtories coine too quickly."
“ Nay, ma’amſelle, I will ſay no more,
only, if I had not been frightened, I ſhould
Roc have fainted dead away, fo: I ran as faſt
as I could, to get to your door ; but, what
was worſt of all, I could not call out; then
I though ſomething muſt be ſtrangely the
matter with me, and directly I dropt down."
- "Was it the chamber where the black
veil hangs?” ſaid Emily. “O! no, ma'am-
ſelle, it was one nearer to this. What ſhall
I do, to get to my room ? I would not go
R6
out


( 372 )
out into the corridor again, for the whole
worla! Emily, whoſe ſpirits had been
ſeverely ſhocked, and who, therefore, did
not like the thought of paſſing the night
alone, told her ſhe might Deep where ſhe .!
was. “O, no, ma’amſelle,” replied An-
netre, “ I would not neep in the room,
now, for a thouſand ſequins !” .
Wearied and diſappointed, Emily firſt
ridiculed, though ſhe ſhared, her fears, and
then tried to footh them;. but neither ato
tempt ſucceeded, and the girl perſiſted in
· believing and affirming, that what ſhe had
ſeen was nothing human. It was not till
ſome time after Emily had recovered her
compoſure, that ſhe recollected the ſteps ſhe
had heard on the ſtair-caſe--a remeinbrance,
however, which made her inſiſt that An.
nette ſhould paſs the night with her, and,
with much difficulty, The, at length, pre-
vailed, aſſiſted by that part of the girl's
fear, which concerned the corridor. .
Early n the following morning, as
Emily croſſed the hall to the ramparts, ſhe
lieard


( 373 )
heard a noiſy buſtle in the court yard, and
the clatter of horſes' hoofs. Such unuſual
ſounds excited her curioſity; and, inſtead of
going to the ramparts, ſhe went to an
upper caſement, from whence the law, in
the court below, a lrge party of horſe-
men, dreſled in a ſingular, but uniform
· habit, and completely, though variouſly,
- armed. They wore a kind of ſhort jacket,
compoſed of black and ſcarlet, and ſeveral
of them had a cloak, of plain black, which,
covering the perſon entirely, hung down to
the ſtirrups. As one of theſe cloaks glanced
aſide, ſhe ſaw, beneath, daggers, apparently
of different ſizes, cucked into the horſe-
man's belt. She further obſerved, that
theſe were carried, in the ſame manner, by
many of the horſemen without cloaks, moſt
of whom bore alſo pikes, or javelins. On
their heads were the finall Italian caps,
ſome of which were diſtinguiſhed by black
feathers. Whether theſe caps gave a fierce
air to the countenance, or that the counte-
nances they furmounted had naturally ſuch
an


(375 ) .
fine
e of fu
te gazt
med
glance
was
to
reales
2
with a ſhade of thought on his countenance;
and, as he managed his horſe with dexterity,
his graceful and commanding figure, which
exhibited the ma eſty of a hero, had never
appeared to more advantage. Emily, as
ſhe obſerved him, thought he ſomewhat re-
fembled Valancourt, in the ſpirit and dig-
nity of his perſon; but ſhe looked in vain
for the noble, benevolent countenance, the
foul's intelligence, which overspread the fea-
tures of the latter.
As ſhe was hoping, ſhe ſcarcely knew
why, that Montoni would accompany the
party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-
accoutred. Having carefully obſerved the
horſemen, converſed awhile with the cava-
liers, and bidden them farewel, the band
wheeled round the court, and led, by Ve.
rezzi, iſſued forth under the portcullis ;
Montoni following to the portal, and gaz
ing after them for ſome time. Emily then
retired from the caſement, and, now certain
of being unmoleſted, went to walk on the
ramparts, from whence ſhe ſoon after ſaw
the
the


( 376 )
the party winding among the mountains to
the weſt, appearing and diſappearing be-
tween the woods, till diſtance confuſed their
figures, conſolidated their numbers, and
only a dingy maſs appeared moving along
the heights.
Emily obſerved, that no workmen were
on the ramparts, and that the repairs of
the fortifications ſeemed to be completed,
While ſhe fauntered thoughtfully on, the
heard diſtant footſteps, and, raiſing her eyes,
ſaw feveral men lurking under the caſtle
walls, who were evidently not workmen,
but looked as if they would have accorded
well wiih the party which was gone. Won-
dering where Annette had hid herſelf fo
long, who might have explained ſome of
the late circumſtances, and then conſidering
that Madame Montoni was probably riſen,
ſhe went to her dreſſing-room, where ſhe
mentioned what had occurred; but Madame
Montoni either would not, or could not,
give any explanation of the event. The
Signor's reſerve to his wife, on this ſubject,
was


( 377 )
WAS
was probably nothing more than uſual; yet,
to Emily, it gave an air of myſtery to the
whole affair, that ſeemed to hint, there was
danger, if not villany, in his ſchemes.
Annette preſently came, and, as uſual,
was full of alarm; to her lady's eager en-
quiries of what ſhe had heard among the
ſervants, ſhe replied: .
“Ah, madam! nobody knows what it
is all about, but old Carlo; he knows well
enough, but I dare ſay, he is as cloſe as
his maſter. Some ſay the Signor is go.
ing out to frighten the enemy, as they
call it : but where is the enemy? Then
others ſay, he is going to take away ſome
body's caſtle : but I am ſure he has room
enough in his own, without taking other
people's; and I am ſure I ſhould like it a
great deal better, if there were more people
to fill it.”
"Ah! you will ſoon have your wiſh, I
fear,” replied Madame Montoni.
“No, madam, but ſuch ill-looking fel-
lows are not worth having. I mean ſuch
gallant,


(378)
?
gallant, ſmart, merry fellows as Ludovico,
who is alway's telling droll ſtories, to make
one laugh. It was but yeſterday, he told
me ſuch a humourſome tale! I can't help
laughing at it now. -Says he ?. .
.“ Well, we can diſpenſe with the ſtory,"
faid her lady. “Ah!" continued Annette,
“ he ſees a great way, a great way further
than other people! Now he fees into all
the Signor's meaning, without knowing a
word about the matter !"
“ How is that?” ſaid Madame Montoni.
.“ Why he ſays-but he made me promiſe
not to tell, and I would not diſoblige him
for the world.”
" What is it he made you promiſe not
to tell ?” faid her lady, ſternly. “ I inliſt
upon knowing immediately-what is ic he
made you promiſe ?" ...
"O madam,” cried Annette, “I would
nor tell for the univerſe !" " I infiſt upon
your telling this inftant," ſaid Madame
Montoni. " O dear madam! I would not
tell for án hundred fequins! You would
not


( 379)
2
-
not have me forſwear myſelf, madam !” ex-
claimed Annette.
“I will not wait another moinent,” ſaid
Madame Montoni. Annette was ſilent..
“The Signor ſhall be informed of this
directly,” rejoined her miſtreſs : “ he will
make you diſcover all.”
“It is Ludovico, who has diſcovered,”
faid Annette : 66 but for mercy's fake, ma-
dam, don't tell the Signor, and you ſhall
know all directly." Madame Montoni ſaid,
that ſhe would not.
“ Well, then, madam, Ludovico ſays,
that the Signor, my maſter, is-is-that is,
he only thinks ſo, and any body, you know,
madam, is free to think that the Signor,
my maſter, is-is-"
« Is what?" ſaid her lady, impatiently...
" That the Signor, my maſter, is going
to be a great robber--that is—he is going
to rob on his own-account ;-to be, (but I
am ſure I don't underſtand what he means)
to be a--captain of-robbers."
'" Art thou in thy ſenfes, Annette ?" ſaid
Madame


(380)
Madame Montoni; or is this a trick to de.
ceive me? Tell me, this inſtant, what Lu-
dovico did ſay to thee ;-no equivocation ;
this inſtant."
“Nay, madam," cried Annette, " if this
is all I am to get for having told the ſecreta
-Her miſtreſs thus continued to inſiſt,
and Annette to proteſt, till Montoni, him-
felf, -appeared, who bade the latter leave
the room, and the withdrew, trembling for
the fate of her ſtory. Emily alſo was re.
tiring, but her aunt deſired ſhe would ſtay ;
and Montoni had ſo often made her a wit-
neſs of their contention, that he no longer
had ſcruples on that account.
“I inſiſt upon knowing this inſtant,
Signor, what all this means :” ſaid his wife
-" what are all theſe armed men, whom
they tell me of, gone out about ?", Mon-
toni anſwered her only with a look of ſcorn;
and Emily whiſpered ſomething to her.
“ It does not ſignify,” ſaid her aunt : “I
will know; and I will know, too, what the
caſtle has been fortified for.”
so Come,


. ! 381 ).
« Coine, come," ſaid Montoni, “ other
buſineſs brought me here. I muſt be trifed
with no longer. I have immediate occa.
fion for whać I demand-thoſe eſtates muſt
be given up, without further contention ;
or I may find a way "
• They never ſhall be given up," inter-
rupted Madame Montoni:," they never
ſhall enable you to carry on your wild
ſchemes ;- but what are theſe? I willknow.
Do you expect the caſtle to be attacked?
Do you expect enemies ? Am I to be ſhut
up here, to be killed in a ſiege?”
". Sign the writings," ſaid Montoni,
“ and you ſhall know more.”
" What enemy can be coming ?” con-
tinued his wife. “ Have you entered into
the ſervice of the ſtate? Am I to be blocked
up here to dig?”
: “ That may poiſibly happen,” ſaid Mon-
toni, “ unleſs you yield to my demand: for,
come what may, you ſhall not quit the
caſtle till then.” Madame Montoni burſt
into


( 385 )
watch Madame Montoni, the violence of
whoſe convulſions was abating, till at
length they ceaſed, and left her in a kind
of ſtupor.
“ My aunt muſt remain quiet,” ſaid
Emily. “Go, good Carlo; if we ſhould
want your aſliſtance, I will ſend for you.
In the mean time, if you have an opportu-
nity, ſpeak kindly of your miſtreſs to your
maſter."
" Alas !” ſaid Carlo, I have ſeen too
much! I have little influence with the Sig.
nor. But do, dear young lady, take ſome
care of yourſelf; that is an ugly wound,
and you look ſadly."
" Thank you, my friend, for your conſi-
deration,” ſaid Emily, ſmiling kindly: "the
wound is triling, it came by a fall.”
Carlo ſhook his head, and left the room;
· and Emily, with Annette, continued to
watch by her aunt. “ Did my lady tell
the Signor what Ludovico ſaid, ma’am-
ſelle ?” alked Annette in a whiſper; but
Einily quieted her fears on that fubject.
Vol. II. S “I thought


( 387 )
ſelf deliver it. “No,” ſaid her aunt faint-
ly, “no I have nothing new to tell him.
Does he perſiſt in ſaying I ſhall be removed
from my chamber ?”
Emily replied, that he had not ſpoken,
on the ſubject, ſince Madame Montoni
heard hiin; and then ſhe tried to divert
her attention to ſome other topic; but
her aunt ſeemed to be inattentive to what
ſhe ſaid, and loſt in ſecret thoughts. Emi-
ly, having brought her ſome refreſhment,
now left her to the care of Anneite, and
went in ſearch of Montoni, whom ſhe
found on a remote part of the rampart, con-
verſing among a group of the men deſcrib-
ed by. Annette. They ſtood round him
with fierce, yet ſubjugated, looks, while he,
ſpeaking earneſtly, and pointing to the walls,
did not perceive Emily, who remained at
ſome diſtance, waiting, till he ſhould be ac
leiſure, and obſerving involuntarily the ap-
pearance of one man, more favage than his
fellows, who ſtood reſting on his pike, and
looking, over the ſhoulders of a comrade,
S 2
at


( 388 )
rco
at Montoni, to whom he liſtened with un-
common earneſtneſs. This man was appa-
rently of low condition ; yet his looks ap- .
peared not to acknowledge the ſuperiority
of Montoni, as did thoſe of his companions;
and ſometimes they even aſſumed an air of
authority, which the deciſive manner of the
Signor could not repreſs. Some few words
of Montoni then paſſed in the wind; and,
as the men were ſeparating, ſhe heard him
ſay, “ This evening, then, begin the watch
at ſun-ſec."
“ At fun-fet, Signor," replied one or
two of them, and walked away; while
Emily approached Montoni, who appeared
deſirous of avoiding her : but, though ſhe
obſerved this, ſhe had courage to proceed.
She endeavoured to intercede once more for
her aunt, repreſented to him her ſufferings,
and urged the danger of expoſing her to a
cold apartment in her preſent ſtate. “ She
ſuffers by her own folly,” ſaid Montoni,
" and is not to be pitied;—ſhe knows how
The may avoid theſe ſufferings in future--if
The


(389)
fhe is removed to the turret, it will be her
own fault. Let her be obedient, and ſign
the writings you heard of, and I will think
no more of it."
When Emily ventured ſtill to plead, he
ſternly ſilenced and rebuked her for inter-
fering in his domeſtic affairs, but, at length,
diſmiſſed her with this conceſſion-That he
would not remove Madame Montoni, on
the enſuing night, but allow her till the
next to conſider, whether ſhe would reſign
her fettlements, or be impriſoned in the eaſt
turret of the caſtle, “ where ſhe ſhall find,”.
he added, “a puniſhment ſhe may not ex
pect."
Emily then haſtened to inform her aunt
of this ſhort reſpite and of the alternative,
that awaited her, to which the latter made
no reply, but appeared thoughtful, while
Emily, in conſideration of her extreme lan-
guor, wiſhed to footh her mind by leading it
to leſs intereſting topics: and, though theſe ef.
forts were unſucceſsful, and Madame Mon-
toni became peevith, her reſolution, on the
S3 -
con-


( 390 )
contended point, ſeemed ſomewhat to relax,
and Emily recommended, as her only means
of ſafety, that the ſhould ſubmit to Mon-
toni's demand. “ You know not what you
adviſe,” ſaid her aunt. “Do you under-
ſtand, that theſe eſtates will deſcend to you
at imy death, if I perſiſt in a refuſal ?”.
"I was ignorant of that circumſtance,
madam,” replied Emily, “but the know-
ledge of it cannot with-hold me from ad-
viſing you to adopt the conduct, which not
only your peace, but, I fear, your ſafety re-
quires, and I entreat, that you will not ſuf.
fer a conſideration comparatively fo triling,
to make you heſitate a moment in reſigning
them.”
« Are you ſincere, niece ?" :« Is it pof-
fible you can doubt it, madam ?” Her
aunt appeared to be affected. “You are
not unworthy of theſe eſtates, niece," ſaid
ſhe: “ I would wiſh to keep them for your
fakeyou new a virtue I did not expect.”
“ How have I deſerved this reproof,
madam?" ſaid Emily ſorrowfully.
“Re.


(392)
occur to her, and which, whether real, or
ideal, would, ſhe felt, have an almoſt equal
effect upon her weakened ſpirits. The
chamber, to which Annette had alluded,
ſhe did not exactly know, but underitood
it to be one of thoſe ſhe muſt pafs in the
way to her own; and, fending a fearful look
forward into the gloom, ſhe ſtepped lightly
and cautiouſly along, till, coming to a door,
from whence iſſued a low found, ſhe heſi-
tated and pauſed; and, during the delay of
that moment, her fears ſo much increaſed,
that ſhe had no power to inove from the
ſpot. Believing, that ſhe heard a human
voice within, ſhe was ſomewhat revived ;
but, in the next moment, the door was open-
ed, and a perſon, whom ſhe conceived to
be Montoni, appeared, who inſtantly ſtarted
back, and cloſed it, though not before ſhe
had ſeen, by the light that burned in the
chamber, another perſon, ſitting in a melan-
choly attitude by the fire. Her terror van
niſhed, but her aſtoniſhment only began,
which was now rouſed by the myſterious
ſecrecy


( 394 )
I
Emily heard the door faſtened on the inſide,
and ſhe withdrew to her chamber, wonder-
ing at what ſhe had witneſſed.
It was now twelve o'clock. As ſhe cloſed
her caſement, ſhe heard footſteps on the ter-
race below, and ſaw imperfectly, through
the gloom, ſeveral perſons advancing, who
paſſed under the caſement. She then heard
the clink of arms, and, in the next moment,
the watch-word; when, recollecting the com-
mand ſhe had overheard from Montoni, and
the hour of the night, ſhe underſtood, that
theſe men were, for the firſt time, relieving
guard in the caſtle. Having liſtened till all
was again flill, ſhe retired to Neep.
CH A P.


(397)
ſtraint, if her intention was detected.: and,
though Emily wilhed, as fervently as ſhe
could do, to regain her freedom, and re-
turn to France, ſhe conſulted only Madame
Montoni's ſafety, and perſevered in adviſing
her to relinquiſh her ſettlement, without
braving further outrage.
The ſtruggle of contrary emotions, how-
ever, continued to rage in her aunt's boſom,
and ſhe ſtill brooded over the chance of ef-
fecting an eſcape. While ſhe thus fat,
Montoni entered the room, and, without:
noticing his wife's indiſpoſition, ſaid, that
he came to remind her of the impolicy of
trifling with him, and that he gave her only
till the evening to determine, whether the
would conſent to his demand, or compel
him, by a refuſal, to remove her to the eaſt.
turret. He added, that a party of cavaliers
would dine with him, that day, and that he
expected the would ſit at the head of the
table, where Emily, alſo, muſt be preſent.
Madame Montoni was now on the point of
uttering an abſolute refuſal, but, ſuddenly
con-


( 398 )
conſidering, that her liberty, during this en.
tertainment, though circumſcribed, might
favour her further plans, ſhe acquieſced,
with ſeeming reluctance, and Montoni, foon
after, left the apartment. His command
ftruck Emily with ſurpriſe and apprehen.
ſion, who ſhrunk from the thought of being
expoſed to the gaze of ſtrangers, ſuch as her
fancy repreſented theſe to be, and the words
of Count Morano, now again recollected,
did not footh her fears.
When ſhe withdrew to prepare for din-
ner, ſhe clrefled herſelf with even more. fim.
plicity than uſual, that the might eſcape
obſervation-a policy, which did not avail
her, for, as ſhe re-paſſed to her aunt's apart-
ment, ſhe was met by Montoni, who cen-
ſured what he called her prudiſh appearance,
and inſiſted, that ſhe would wear the moſt
ſplendid dreſs ſhe had, even that, which had
been prepared for her intended nuptials
with Count Morano, and which, it now ap.
peared, her aunt had carefully brought with
her from Venice. This was made, not in
the


( 399 )
were
the Venetian, but, in the Neapolitan faſhion,
ſo as to ſet off the ſhape and figure to the
utmoſt advantage. In it, her beautiful chefs
nut treſſes were negligently bound up in
pearls, and ſuffered to fall back again on
her neck. The ſimplicity of a better taſte,
than Madame Montoni's, was conſpicuous
in this dreſs, ſplendid as it was, and Emily's
unaffected beauty never had appeared more
captivatingly. She had now only to hope,
that Montoni's order was prompted, not by
any extraordinary deſign, but by an oſtenta-
tion of diſplaying his family, richly attired,
to the eyes of ſtrangers ; yet nothing leſs
than his abſolute command could have pre.
vailed with her to wear a dreſs, that had been
deſigned for ſuch an offenſive purpoſe, much
leſs to have worn it on this occaſion. As
The deſcended to dinner, the emotion of her
mind threw a faint bluſh over her counte-
nance, and heightened its intereſting expreſ-
ſion; for timidity had made her linger in
her apartment, till the utmoſt moment, and,
when ſhe entered the hall, in which a kind
of


ſ 400)
of ffate dinner was ſpread, Montoni and
his gueſts were already feated at the table.
She was then going to place herſelf by her
aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and
two of the cavaliers roſe, and feated her be..
tween them. .
The eldeſt of theſe was a tall man, with
Atrong Italian features, an aquiline noſe,
and dark penetrating eyes, that Aaſhed with
fire, when his mind was agitated, and, even
in its ſtate of reſt, retained ſomewhat of the
wildneſs of the paſſions. His viſage was
long and narrow, and his complexion of a.
fickly yetow.
The other, who appeared to be about
forty, had features of a different caſt, yet.
Italian, and his look was now, ſubtle and
penetrating; his eyes, of a dark grey, were
ſmall, and hollow; his complexion was a
ſun-burnt brown, and the contour of his
face, though inclined to oval, was irregular
and ill-formed.
Eight other gueſts ſat round the table,
who were all dreſſed in an uniform, and had
all


(402
lighteſt footſteps of the ſervants, as they
advanced through theſe, were returned in
whiſpering echoes, and their figures, ſeen
at a diſtance imperfectly through the duſk,
frequently awakened Emily's imagination.
She looked alternately at Montoni, at his
gueſts and on the ſurrounding ſcene; and
then, remembering her dear native pro.
vince, her pleaſant home and the ſimplicity
and goodneſs of the friends, whom ſhe had
loft, grief and ſurpriſe again occupied her
mind.
When her thoughts could return from:
theſe conſiderations, ſhe fancied ſhe obſerved
an air of authority towards his gueſts, ſuch
as ſhe had never before ſeen him aſſume,
though he had always been diſtinguiſhed by
an haughty carriage ; there was ſomething
alſo in the manners of the ſtrangers, that
ſeemed perfectly, though not ſervilely, to
acknowledge his ſuperiority.
During dinner, the converſation was
chiefly on war and politics. They talked
with energy of the ſtate of Venice, its dan-
gers,


( 403 )
gers, the character of the reigning Doge
and of the chief fenators; and then ſpoke
of the ſtate of Rome. When the repaſt
was over, they roſe, and, each filling his
goblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that
ftood beſide him, drank - Succeſs to our
exploits !” Montoni was lifting his gob-
let to his lips to drink this toaſt, when ſud.
denly the wine hiſſed, roſe to the brim,
and, as he held the glaſs from him, it burſt
into a thouſand pieces.
To him, who conſtantly uſed that ſort of
Venice glaſs, which had the quality of
breaking, upon receiving poiſoned liquor,
a ſuſpicion, that ſome of his gueſts had
endeavoured to betray him, inſtantly oc-
curred, and he ordered all the gates to be
cloſed, drew his ſword, and, looking round
on them, who ſtood in ſilent amazement,
exclaimed, “ Here is a traitor among us;
let thoſe, that are innocent, aſſiſt in dif-
covering the guilty."
Indignation faſhed from the eyes of the
cavaliers, who all drew their ſwords; and
Madame


( 404 )
Madame Montoni, terrified at what might
enſue, was haſtening from the hall, when
her huſband commanded her to ſtay; but
his further words could not now be diftin-
guiſhed, for the voice of every perſon roſe
together. His order, that all the ſervants
ſhould appear, was at length obeyed, and
they declared their ignorance of any deceit-
a proteſtation which could not be believed ;
for it was evident, that, as Montoni's
liquor, and his only, had been poiſoned, a
deliberate deſign had been formed againſt
his life, which could not have been carried
fo far towards its accompliſhment, without
the connivance of the ſervant, who had the
care of the wine ewers.
This man, with anoiher, whoſe face be-
trayed either the conſciouſneſs of guilt, or
the fear of puniſhment, Montoni ordered to
be chained inſtantly, and confined in a
ftrong room, which had formerly been uſed
as a priſon. Thither, likewiſe, he would
have ſent all his gueſts, had he not foreſeen
the conſequence of ſo bold and unjuſtifiable
proe


( 405 )
1се үе.
a proceeding. As to thoſe, therefore, he
contenied himſelf with ſwearing, that no
man ſhould paſs the gates, till this extraor-
dinary affair had been inveſtigated, and
- then ſternly bade his wife retire to her
apartment, whither he ſuffered Emily to
attend her.
In about half an hour, he followed to
the dreſſing-room; and Emily obſerved,
with horror, his dark countenance and qui-
vering lip, and heard him denounce ven-
geance on her aunt.
« It will avail you nothing,” ſaid he to
his wife, “ to deny the fact; I have proof
of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy
reſts on a full confeſſion ;-- there is nothing
to hope from ſullenneſs, or falſehood; your
accomplice has confeffed all.”
Emily's fainting ſpirits were rouſed by
aſtoniſhment, as the heard her aunt accuſed
of a crime fo atrocious, and ſhe could not,
for a moment, admit the poſſibility of her
guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agi-
tation did not permit her to reply; alter-
nately


( 406 )
nately her complexion varied from livid
paleneſs to a crimſon Auth; and he trem-
bled,—but, whether with fear, or with in-
dignation, it were difficult to decide.
“ Spare your words,” ſaid Montoni, ſee.
ing her about to ſpeak, “ your countenance
makes full confeſſion of your crime. You
ſhall be inſtantly removed to the eaſt turret."
« This accuſation,” ſaid Madame Mon.
toni, ſpeaking with difficulty, " is uſed on-
ly as an excuſe for your cruelty ; I diſdain
to reply to it. You do not believe me
guilty.”
“ Signor!” ſaid Ernily ſolemnly, is this
dreadful charge, I would anſwer with my
life, is falſe. Nay, Signor,” ſhe added, ob-
ferving the ſeverity of his countenance,
" this is no moment for reſtraint, on my
part; I do not ſcruple to tell you, that
you are deceived-moſt wickedly deceived,
by the ſuggeſtion of ſome perſon, who aims
at the ruin of my aunt:-it is impoſible,
that you could yourſelf have imagined a
crime ſo hideous,"
Montoni,


( 407 )
Montoni, his lips trembling more than
_before, replied only, “ If you value your
own ſafety,” addreſſing Emily, “ you will
be ſilent. I ſhall know how to interpret
your remonſtrances, ſhould you perſevere
in them.”
Emily raiſed her eyes calmly to heaven.
į “ Here is, indeed, then, nothing to hope !"
ſaid ſhe.
“ Peace !” cried Montoni,“ or you ſhall
find there is ſomething to fear.".
He turned to his wife, who had now re-
covered her ſpirits, and who vehemently
and wildly remonſtrated upon this myſte-
rious ſufpicion : but Montoni's rage height-
ened with her indignation, and Emily,
dreading the event of it, threw herſelf be-
tween them, and claſped his knees in ſilence,
looking up in his face with an expreſſion,
that might have ſoftened the heart of a
kend. Whether his was hardened by a
conviction of Madame Montoni's guilt, or
that a bare ſuſpicion of it made him eager
to exerciſe vengeance, he was totally and
alike


( 403 )
Can
alike inſenſible to the diſtreſs of his wife,
and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom
he made no attempt to raiſe, but was vehe-
mently menacing both, when he was called
out of the room by ſome perſon at the door.
As he ſhut the door, Emily heard him turn
the lock and take out the key; ſo that
Madanie Montoni and herſelf were now
priſoners ; and ſhe ſaw that his deſigns be-
came more and more terrible. Her endea-
vours to explain his motives for this cir- i
cumſtance were almoſt as ineffectual as
thote to ſooth the diſtreſs of her aunt,
whoſe innocence the could not doubt, but
ſhe, at length, accounted for Montoni's
seadineſs to ſuſpect his wife by his own con-
ſciouſneſs of cruelty towards her, and for
the ſudden violence of his preſent conduct
againſt both, before even his ſuſpicions
could be completely formed, by his general
eagerneſs to effect ſuddenly whatever he
was led to deſire, and his careleſſneſs of juf-
tice, or humanity, in accompliſhing it.
· Madame Montoni, after ſome time, again
looked


( 409 )
looked round, in ſearch of a poſſibility of
eſcape from the caſtle, and converſed with
Emily on the ſubject, who was now willing
to encounter any hazard, though ſhe for-
bore to encourage a hope in her aunt, which
ſhe herſelf did not admit. · How ſtrongly
the edifice was ſecured, and how vigilantly
guarded, ſhe knew too well; and trembled
to commit their ſafety to the caprice of the
ſervant, whoſe aſliſtance they muſt folicit.
Old Carlo was compaſſionate, but he ſeemed
to be too much in his maſter's intereſt to
be truſted by them; Annette could of here
ſelf do little, and Emily knew Ludovico
only from her report. At preſent, how-
ever, theſe conſiderations were uſeleſs, Ma-
dame Montoni and her niece being ſhut up
from all intercourſe, even with the per-
fons, whom there might be theſe reaſons to
reject.
In the hall, confufion and tumult ſtill
reigned. Emily, as ſhe liſtened anxiouſly
to the murmur, that founded along the
Vol. II. T . gallery,


( 410 )
gallery, fonetimes fancied ſhe heard the
claſhing of ſwords, and when the con-
ſidered the nature of the provocation, given
by Montoni, and his impetuoſity, it ap.
peared probable, that nothing leſs than
arms would terminate the contention. Ma-
dame Montoni, having exhauſted all her
expreſſions of indignation, and Emily, hers
of comfort, they remained ſilent, in that
kind of breathleſs ſtillneſs, which, in na-
ture, often ſucceeds to the uproar of con-
flicting elements; a ftillneſs, like the morn-
ing, that dawns upon the ruins of an earth,
quake.
An uncertain kind of terror pervaded
Emily's mind; the circumſtances of the
paſt hour ſtill came dimly and confuſedly
to her memory; and her thoughts were va-
rious and rapid, though without tumult.
From this ſtate of waking viſions ſhe was
recalled by a knocking at the chamber-
door, and, enquiring who was there, heard
the whiſpering voice of Annette.
« Dear


( 411 )
“Dear madam, let me come in, I have a
great deal to ſay,” ſaid the poor girl.
« The door is locked," anſwered her
lady.
“ Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it."
“ The Signor has the key,” ſaid Madame
Montoni.
“O bleſſed Virgin! what will become of
us ?” exclaimed Annette.
" Alift us to eſcape," ſaid her miſtreſs,
“ Where is Ludovico ?".
« Below in the hall, ma'am, amongſt
them all, fighting with the beſt of them !"
« Fighting! Who are fighting ?” cried
Madame Montoni.
“ Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the
Signors, and a great many more.”
“ Is any perſon much hurt ?” ſaid Emily,
in á tremulous voice. “Hurt? Yes, ma'am-
ſelle -- there they lie bleeding, and the
ſwords are claſhing, and holy ſaints !
Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming this
way-I ſhall be murdered !".
I 2
“ Fly!


(412)
« Fly !" cried Emily, “ fly! we cannot
open the door.”
Annette repeated, that they were coming,
and in the ſame moment fled.
“ Be calm, madam,” ſaid Emily, turning
to her aunt, “ I entreat you be calm, I am
not frightened—not frightened in the leaſt,
do not you be alarmed.”
“ You can ſcarcely ſupport yourſelf,” re-
plied her aunt ; “ Merciful God! what is
it they mean to do with us :”.
“ They come, perhaps, to liberate us,”
ſaid Emily,“ Signor Montoni perhaps is -
is conquered.”
The belief of his death gave her ſpirits a
ſudden ſhock, and ſhe grew faint as ſhe ſaw
him in imagination, expiring at her feet.
“ They are coming !” cried Madame
Montoni_“I hear their ſteps-they are at
the door!”
Emily turned her languid eyes to the
door, but terror deprived her of utterance.
The key founded in the lock; the door
opened,


( 413 )
opened, and Montoni appeared, followed
by three ruffian-like men. “ Execute your
order's," ſaid he, turning to them, and
pointing to his wife, who ſhrieked, but was
immediately carried from the room ; while
Emily funk, ſenſeleſs, on a couch, by which
The had endeavoured to ſupport herſelf.
When ſhe recovered, ſhe was alone, and re-
collected only, that Madame Montoni had
been there, together with ſome unconnected
particulars of the preceding tranſaction,
which were, however, fufficient to renew
all her terror. She looked wildly round
the apartment, as if in ſearch of ſome means
of intelligence, concerning her aunt, while
neither her own danger, or an idea of el-
caping from the room, immediately OC-
curred.
When her recollection was more com-
plete, ſhe raiſed herſelf and went, but with
only a faint hope, to examine whether the
door was unfaſtened. It was fo, and ſhe
then ſtepped timidly out into the gallery,
but pauſed there, uncertain which way ſhe
ſhould
T 3


( 415 )
the could not reſolve to ſtay, for ſhe knew
not how foon ic might become their place
of rendezvous ; and, though ſhe wiſhed to
go to her chamber, ſhe dreaded again to
encounter them on the way.
Thus ſhe fat, trembling and heſitating,
when a diſtant murmur broke on the ſilence,
and grew louder and louder, till ſhe diftin-
guiſhed voices and ſteps approaching. She
then role to go, but the founds came along
the only paſſage, by which ſhe could de-
part, and ſhe was compelled to await in the
hall, the arrival of the perſons, whoſe ſteps
ſhe heard. As theſe advanced, the diſtin-
guiſhed groans, and then ſaw a man borne
Nowly along by four others. Her fpirits
faltered at the ſight, and Me leaned againſt
the wall for ſupport. The bearers, mean-
while, entered the hall, and, being too-bu-
fily occupied to detain, or even notice
Emily, ſhe attempted to leave it, but her
ſtrength failed, and ſhe again ſat down on
the bench. A damp chillneſs came over
her ; her ſight became confuſed ;. She knew
me
T4
not


( 416 )
not what had paſſed, or where ſhe was, yet
the groans of the wounded perſon ftill vi.
brated on her heart. In a few inoments,
the tide of life ſeemed again to flow; ſhe
began to breathe more freely, and her fenſes
revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever
totally loſt her conſciouſneſs, but had con-
trived to ſupport herſelf on the bench; ſtill
without courage to turn her eyes upon the
unfortunate object, which remained near
her, and about whom the men were yet too
much engaged to attend to her.
When her ſtrength returned, ſhe roſe,
and was ſuffered to leave the hall, though
her anxiety, having produced ſome vain en-
quiries, concerning Madame Montoni, had
thus made a diſcovery of herſelf. Towards
her chamber ſhe now haftened, as faſt as
her ſteps would bear her, for ſhe ſtill per.
ceived, upon her paffage, the founds of
confuſion at a diſtance, and the endea.
voured, by taking her way through ſome
obſcure rooms, to avoid encountering the
perſons, whoſe looks had terrified her be
fore,


( 417 )
fore, as well as thoſe parts of the caſtle,
where the tumult might ſtill rage.
At length, ſhe reached her chamber, and,
having ſecured the door of the corridor,
felt herſelf, for a moment, in ſafety. A
profound ſtillneſs reigned in this remote
apartment, which not even the faint mur-
mur of the moſt diſtant ſounds now reached.
She ſat down, near one of the caſements,
and, as ſhe gazed on the mountain-view
beyond, the deep repoſe of its beauty ſtruck
her with all the force of contraſt, and ſhe
could ſcarcely believe herſelf ſo near a ſcene
of ſavage diſcord. The contending ele-
ments ſeemed to have retired from their
natural ſpheres, and to have collected them-
ſelves into the minds of men, for there alone
the tempeſt now reigned.
· Emily tried to tranquillize her ſpirits, bat
anxiety made her conſtantly liſten for ſome
found, and often look out upon the ram-
parts, where all, however,, was lonely and
ſtill. As a ſenſe of her own immediate
danger had decreaſed, her apprehenſion con-
cerning
T 5


f 418 ]
cerning Madame Montoni heightened, who,
The remembered, had been fiercely threat-
ened with confinement in the eaft turret,
and it was poffible, that her huſband had
fatisfied his preſent vengeance with this
puniſhment. She, therefore, determined,
when night ſhould return, and the inhabit-
ants of the caſtle ſhould be aſleep, to ex-
plore the way to the turret, which, as the
direction it ſtood in was mentioned, ap-
peared not very difficult to be done. She
knew, indeed, that although her aunt mighe.
be there, ſhe could afford her no effectual
aſſiſtance, but it might give her fome com-
fort even to know, that ſhe was diſcovered,
and to hear the ſound of her niece's voice;
for herſelf, any certainty,..concerning Ma-
dame Montoni's fate, appeared more tole-
rable, than this exhauſting fufpenfe.
Meanwhile Annette did not appear; and
Emily was ſurpriſed, and ſomewhat alarmed
for her, whom, in the confuſion of the late
ſcene, various accidents might have befal.
len, and it was improbable, that ſhe would
haye


(419)
have failed to come to her apartment, unleſs
ſomething unfortunate had happened.
Thus the hours paſſed in folitude; in
ſilence, and in anxious conjecturing. Be-
ing not once diſturbed by a meſſage, or
a ſound, it appeared that Montoni had
wholly forgotten her, and it gave her fome
comfort to find, that ſhe could be ſo unno-
ticed. She endeavoured to withdraw her
thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon
them, but they refuſed controul ; ſhe could
neither read, or draw, and the tones of her
lute were ſo utterly diſcordant with the pre-
ſent ſtate of her feelings, that ſhe could not
endure them for a moment:
· The ſun, at length, ſec behind the weſt-
ern mountains; his fiery beams faded from
the clouds, and then a dun melancholy
purple drew over them, and gradually in-
volved the features of the country below.
Soon after, the ſentinels paſſed on the ram.
part to commence the watch.
Twilight had now ſpread its gloom over
every object; the diſmal obſcurity of her
16
chamber


(420 )
EU
chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but the
remembered, that to procure a light ſhe
muſt paſs through a great extent of the
caſtle, and, above all, through the halls,
where ſhe had already experienced ſo much
horror. Darkneſs, indeed, in the preſent
ſtate of her fpirits, made filence and ſoli-
tude terrible to her ; it would alſo prevent
the poſſibility of her finding her way to
the turret, and condemn her to remain
in füfpenſe, concerning the fate of her
aunt; yet fhe dared not to venture forth
for a lamp
- Continuing at the caſement, that the
might catch the laſt lingering gleam of
evening, a thouſand vague images of fear
floated on her fancy. « What if ſome
of theſe ruffians,” ſaid ſhe, “ ſhould find out
the private ſtair-caſe, and in the darkneſs of
night fteal into my chamber !" Then, re-
collecting the myſterious inhabitant of the
neighbouring apartment, her terror changed
its object. “ He is not a priſoner," ſaid
The, “ though he remains in one chamber;
for


(421)
for Montoni did not faften the door, whert
he left it ; the unknown perſon himtelf dich
this; it is certain, therefore, he can come
out when he pleafes."
She pauſed, for, notwithſtanding the ter:
rors of darkneſs, the conſidered it to be
very improbable, whoever he was, that he
could have any intereſt in intruding upon
her retirement; and again the ſubject of
her emotion changed, when; remembering
her nea:nefs to the chamber, where the veil
had formerly diſcloſed a dreadful ſpectacle,
fhe doubted whether ſome paſſage might
not communicate between it and the infee
cure door of the ſtair-cafe.
It was now entirely dark, and ſhe left the
caſement.. As. The ſat with her eyes fixed
on the hearth, ſhe thought ſhe perceived
there a ſpark of light ;: it twinkled and diſ-
appeared, and then again was viſible. At
length, with much care, the fanned the
embers of a wood fire, that had been light-
ed in the morning, into flame, and, having
communicated it to a lamp, which always
ſtood
CU


(422)
ſtood in her room, felt a ſatisfaction not to
be conceived, without a review of her ſitua-
tion. Her firſt care was to guard the door:
of the ſtair-caſe, for which purpoſe the
placed againſt it all the furniture ſhe could
move, and ſhe was thus employed, for ſome
time, at the end of which ſhe had another
inſtance how much more oppreſſive misfora
tune is to the idle, than to the buſy; for,
having then leiſure to think over all the
circumſtances of her preſent afflictions, the
imagined a thouſand evils for futurity, and
theſe real and ideal ſubjects of diſtreſs alike:
wounded her mind.
Thus heavily moved the hours till mida
night, when the counted the ſullen notes of
the great clock, as they rolled along the
rampart, unmingled with any found, except
the diſtant foot-fall of a ſentinel, who
came to relieve guard. She now thought
fhe might venture towards the turret, and,
having gently opened the chamber door to
examine the corridor, and to liſten if any
perſon was ſtirring in the caſtle, found all
around


( 424 )
pelled, at faſt, to decide by chance; rao
ther than by circumſtances. That ſhe en
tered, opened firſt into a wide gallery, along
which ſhe paſſed lightly and ſwiftly; for
the lonely aſpect of the place awed her, and
the ſtarted at the echo of her own ſteps.
On a ſudden, ſhe thought ſhe heard a
voice, and, not diftinguiſhing from whence
it came, feared equally to proceed, or to
return. For ſome moments, ſhe ſtood in an
attitude of liſtening expectation, ſhrinking
almoſt from herſelf and ſcarcely daring to
look round her. The voice care again, but,
though it was now near her,terror did not al-
low her to judge exactly whence it proceeded,
She thought, however, that it was the voice
of complaint, and her belief was ſoon con-
firmed by a low moaning found, that ſeemed
to proceed from one of the chambers, open-
ing into the gallery. It inſtantly occurred
to her, that Madame Montoni might be:
there confined, and ſhe advanced to the
door to ſpeak, but was checked by confi.
dering, that ſhe was, perhaps, going to com-
mit


( 425 )
mit herſelf to a ſtranger, who might diſco-
ver her to Montoni; for, though this per-
fon, whoever it was, ſeemed to be in afflic-
tion, it did not follow, that he was a pri-
foner.
While theſe thoughts paſſed over her
mind, and left her ſtill in heſitation, the
voice ſpoke again, and, calling, “ Ludovi-
co," ſhe then perceived it to be that of An.
nette ; on which, no longer heſitating, ſhe
went in joy to anſwer her.
“ Ludovico!” cried Annette, ſobbing-
“ Ludovico !"
.." It is I,” faid Emily, trying to open the
door. “How came you here? Who ſhut
you up?"
: “ Ludovico !" repeated Annette—“O
Ludovico !”
" It is not Ludovico, it is 1-Mademoi-
felle Emily."
· Annette ceafed ſobbing, and was filent.
.: “ If you can open the door, let me in,"
faid Emily, “ here is no perſon to hurt
.
yoll.".
6. Ludom


( 426 )
« Ludovico !-O, Ludovico !” cried
Annette.
Emily now loſt her patience, and, her
fear of bring overheard increaſing, ſhe was
even nearly about to leave the door, when
ſhe conſidered, that Annette might, poſti-
bly, know ſomething of the ſituation of
Madame Montoni, or direct her to the tur.
ret. At length, ſhe obtained a reply, though
little ſatisfactory, to her queſtions, for An-
nette knew nothing of Madame Montoni,
and only conjured Emily to tell her what
was become of Ludovico. Of him ſhe had
no information to give, and ſhe again aſked
who had ſhut Annette up.
“ Ludovico," ſaid the poor girl, “ Ludo-
vico lut me up. When I ran away from
the dreſſing-room door to-day, I went I
Scarcely knew where, for ſafety; and, in
this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who
hurried me into this chamber, and locked
me up to keep me out of harm, as he ſaid..
But he was in ſuch a hurry himſelf, he
bardly ſpoke ten words, but he told ine he
would


( 428 )
Emily could ſcarcely forbear ſmiling at
the heterogeneous diſtreſſes of Annette,
though ſhe ſincerely pitied them, and ſaid
what ſhe could to ſooth her. At length, 4
ſhe obtained ſomething like a direction to
the eaſt turret, and quitted the door, from
whence, after many intricacies and perplexi-
ties, ſhe reached the ſteep and winding ſtairs
of the turret, at the foot of which ſhe ſtopped
to reſt, and to re-animate her courage with a
ſenſe of her duty. As ſhe ſurveyed this dif
mal place, ſhe perceived a door on the oppo.
ſite ſide of the ſtair-caſe, and, anxious to know
whether it would lead her to Madame Mon-
toni, ſhe tried to undraw the bolts, which
faſtened it. A freſher air came to her face, as
ſhe uncloſed the door, which opened upon
the eaſt rampart, and the ſudden current had
nearly extinguiſhed her light, which ſhe now
removed to a diſtance; and again, looking out
upon the obſcure terrace, ſhe perceived only
the faint outline of the walls and of ſome
towers, while above, heavy clouds, borne
along the wind, ſeemed to mingle with the
ſtars,


( 429 )
a
is
s
i
ſtars, and wrap the night in thicker dark.
neſs. As ſhe gazed, now willing to defer
the moment of certainty, from which ſhe
expected only confirmation of evil, a diſtant
footſtep reminded her, that ſhe might be
obſerved by the men on watch, and, haſtily
cloſing the door, ſhe took her lamp, and
paſſed up the ſtair-caſe. Trembling came
upon her, as ſhe aſcended through the
gloom. To her melancholy. fancy this
ſeemed to be a place of death, and the chill.
ing ſilence, that reigned, confirmed its cha-
racter. Her ſpirits faltered. “ Perhaps,"
ſaid ſhe, “ I am come hither only to
learn a dreadful truth, or to witneſs ſome
horrible ſpectacle; I feel that my ſenſes
would not ſurvive ſuch an addition of
horror."
The image of her aunt murdered-mur-
dered, perhaps, by the hand of Montoni,
roſe to her mind; ſhe trembled, gaſped for
breath-repented that ſhe had dared to vent-
ture hither, and checked her ſteps. But, af.
ter fhe had pauſed a few minutes, the conſci-
ouſneſs


( 432 )
windings of the aſcent. Still, as fte af.
cended, the track of blood glared upon the
fairs.
It led her to the door of a landing-place,
that terminated them, but ſhe was unable
to follow it farther. Now that ſhe was ſo
near the ſought-for certainty, ſhe dreaded
to know it, even more than before, and had
not fortitude ſufficient to ſpeak, or to at-
tempt opening the door.
Having liſtened, in vain, for ſome ſound,
that might confirm, or deſtroy her fears,
The, at length, laid her hand on the lock,
and, finding it faſtened, called on Madame
Montoni; but only a chilling ſilence en-
ſued.
“She is dead !” ſhe cried," murdered!
her blood is on the ſtairs !"
Emily grew very faint ; could ſupport
herſelf no longer, and had ſcarcely preſence
of mind to ſet down the lamp, and place
herſelf on a ſtep.
When her recollection returned, ſhe ſpoke
again at the door, and again attempted to
open


( 135 )
| C H A P XI,
.
** Who rears the bloody hand?”'
SAYERS
I MILY remained in her chamber, on
the following morning, without receiving
any notice from Montoni, or ſeeing a hu-
man being, except the armed men, who
ſometimes paſſed on the terrace below.
Having taſted no food fince the dinner of
the preceding day, extreme faintneſs made
her feel the neceſſity of quitting the afylum
of her apartment to obtain refreſhment, and
{he was alſo very anxious to procure liberty
for Annette. Willing, however, to defer
venturing forth, as long as poffible, and
conſidering, whether ſhe ſhould apply to
Montoni, or to the compaſſion of ſome
other perſon, her exceſſive anxiety concern.
U 2
ing
'


( 437)
Do
to death, if ſhe was not let out immediately.
Emily replied, that ſhe was going to beg
her releaſe of Montoni: but the terrors of
hunger now yielded to thoſe of the Signor,
and, when Emily left her, ſhe was loudly
entreating, that her place of refuge migho
be concealed from him.
'. As Emily drew near the great hall, the
founds The heard and the people ſhe met
in the paſſages renewed her alarm. The
latter, however, were peaceable, and did not
interrupt her, though they looked earneſtly
at her, as ſhe paſſed, and ſometinies ſpoke.
On croſſing the hall towards the cedar
room, where Montoni uſually fat, ſhe per-
ceived, on the pavement, fragments of
fwords, fome tattered garments ſtained with
blood, and almoſt expected to have ſeen
among them a dead body; but from ſuch
a ſpectacle ſhe was, at preſent, ſpared. As
fhe approached the room, the ſound of ſe-
veral voices iſſued from within, and a dread:
of appearing before many ſtrangers, as well
as of irritating Montoni by : ſuch an in-
. ' U 3
truſion,


( 438 ;
Š
truſion, made her pauſe and falter front
her purpoſe. She looked up through the
long arcades of the hall, in ſearch of a ſer-
vant, who might bear a meſſage, but no
one appeared, and the urgency of what ſhe
had to requeſt made her ftill linger near
the door. The voices within were not in
contention, though ſhe diſtinguiſhed thoſe
of ſeveral of the gueſts of the preceding
day:, but ſtill her reſolucion failed, when-
ever ſhe would have tapped at the door,
and ſhe had determined to walk in the hall,
till fome perſon ſhould appear, who might
call Montoni from the room, when, as ſhe
turned from the door, it was ſuddenly
opened by himſelf. Emily trembled, and
was confuſed, while he almoſt ſtarted with
ſurpriſe, and all the terrors of his counte
nance unfolded themſelves. She forgot all
ſhe would have ſaid, and neither enquired
for her aunt, or entreated for Annette, but
ſtood ſilent and embarraſſed.
After cloſing the door he reproved her for
a meanneſs, of which ſhe had not been guilty,
nd


(439)
and ſternly queſtioned her what ſhe had
overheard; an accuſation, which revived
her recollection ſo far, that ſhe aſſured him
The had not come thither with an intention
to liſten to his converſation, but to entreat
his compaſſion for her aunt, and for An-
nette. Montoni ſeemed to doubt this af-
fertion, for he regarded her with a ſcruti-
nizing look; and the doubt evidently aroſe
from no trifling intereſt. Emily then fur-
ther explained herſelf, and concluded with
entreating him to inform her, where her
aunt was placed, and to permit, that the
might viſit' her; but he looked upon her
only with a malignant ſmile, which inſtan-
taneouſly 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 the girl; the fooliſh
fellow, who Thut her up, died yeſterday."
Emily ſhuddered But my aunt,
Signor”-ſaid ſhe, “O tell me of my
aunt !”
04 “She
-
-
-
-
-
-


(440 )
ne
10m
' " She is taken care of,” replied Montoni
haſtily, “ I have no time to anſwer idle
queſtions."
He would have paſſed on, but Emily, in
a voice of agony, that could not be wholly
reſiſted, conjured him to tell her, where
Madame Montoni was; while he pauſed,
and ſhe anxiouſly watched his counte.
nance, a trumpet founded, and, in the
next moment, the heard the heavy gates
of the portal open, and then the clattering
of horſes' hoofs in the court, with the con-
fuſion of many voices. She ſtood for a mo-
ment heſitating whether ſhe ſhould follow
Montoni, who, at the ſound of the trumpet,
had pafſed through the hall, and, turning
her eyes whence it came, ſhe ſaw through
the door, that opened beyond a long pera
ſpective of arches into the courts, a party
of horſemen, whom the judged, as well as
the diſtance and her embarraſſment would
allow, to be the ſame ſhe had ſeen depart,
a few days before. But fhe ſtaid not to
ſcrutinize, for, when the trumpet ſounded
again,


( 441 )
again, the chevaliers ruſhed out of the cedar-
room, and men came running into the hall
from every quarter of the caſtle. Emily
once more hurried for ſhelter to her own
apartment. Thither ſhe was ſtill purſued
by images of horror. She re-conſidered
Montoni's manner and words, when he
had ſpoken of his wife, and they ſerved
only to confirm her moſt terrible ſuſpicions.
Tears refuſed any longer to relieve her dif-
treſs, and ſhe had ſat for a conſiderable time
abſorbed in thought, when a knocking at
the chamber door arouſed her, on opening
which the found old Carlo.
-
“ Dear young lady,” ſaid he, “ I have
been ſo furried, I never once thought of
you till juſt now. I have brought you
fome 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 Signor re-
mind you of me?"..
. “ No, Signora,” replied Carlo, “ his
U 5
Excel
:


( 442",)
ren
Excellenza has buſineſs enough on his
hands." Einily then renewed her enqui-
ries, concerning Madame Montoni, but
Carlo had been employed at the other end;
of the caſtle, during the time, that fhe was.
removed, and he had heard nothing ſince,
concerning her.
While he ſpöke, Emily looked ſteadily at:
him, for ſhe ſcarcely knew whether he was
really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge
of the truth from a fear of offending his
maſter.. To ſeveral queſtions, concerning
the contentions of yeſterday, he gave very
limited anſwers; but told, that the diſputes.
were now amicably ſettled, and that the
Signor believed himſelf to have been miſs
taken in his fufpicions of his gueſts. “ The
fighting was about that, Signora,” ſaid
Carlo; “ but I truſt I ſhall never ſee fuch
another day in this caſtle, though ſtrange
things are about to be done."
On her enquiring his meaning, “Ah, Sig.
gora!” added he, “it is not for me to betray fe-. .
crets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.”
She


( 441 )
dear friends by death," ſaid ſhe, with a
figh, that came from her heart. 66 We muſt.;
ſubmit to the will of heaven-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--yesy -ma'amſelle," ſobbed An.
nette, “but I hope. I ſhall meet him again
in this though he is ſo wounded !”
“ Wounded !” exclaimed Emily,“ does.
he live?”
“Yes, ma’an, but but he has a terrible
wound, and could not come to let me out..
They thought him dead, at firſt, and he
- has not been rightly himſelf, 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 ex-
preſſion of hope Annette thought implied
fear,


( 445 )
va
fear; and her own increaſed in proportion,
as Emily endeavoured to encourage her..
To enquiries, concerning Madame Mon-
toni, ſhe could give. no. ſatisfactory an-
fwers. .
" I quite forgot.to aſk among the ſer:
vants, ma'amfelle,” ſaid ſhe, “ for I could
think of nobody but poor Ludovico."
Annette's grief was now ſomewhat af-
ſuaged, and Emily, fent her to make en-
quiries, concerning her lady, of whom,
however, ſhe could obtain no intelligence,
ſome of the people ſhe ſpoke with being,
really ignorant of her fate, and others.
having probably received orders to con--
ceal it.. .
This day paffed with Emily in continued
grief and anxiety for her aunt; but ſhe.
was unmoleſted by any notice from Mon-
toni; and, now that Annette was liberated,
The obtained food, without expoſing herſelf
to danger, or impertinence...
Two following days paſſed in the ſame
manner, unmarked by any occurrence,
during


. (446 )
during which ſhe obtained no information
of Madame Montoni. On the evening of
the fecond, having difiniffed Annette, and
retired to bed, her mind became haunted
by the moſt diſmal images, ſuch as her long
anxiety, concerning her aunt, ſuggeſted ;
and, unable to forget herſelf, for a moment,,
or to vanquiſh the phantoms, that torment-
ed her, ſhe roſe from her bed, and went to:
one of the caſements of her chamber, to:
breathe a freer air.
All without was filent and dark, unleſs
that could be called light, which was only
the faint gliınmer of the ſtars, Chewing
imperfectly the outline of the mountains,
the weſtern towers of the caſtle and the
ramparts below, where a lolitary ſentinel
was pacing. What an image of repoſe
did this ſcene preſent!: The fierce and.
terrible paſſions, too, which ſo often agi-
raced the inhabitants of this edifice; ſeemed
now huſhed in Neep ;-- thoſe myſterious
workings, that rouſe the elements of man's
nature into tempeft-were calm. Emily's
heart.


(418 )
:
tenderly educated, ſo tenderly loved, who
once knew only goodneſs and happineſs -
to her, the late events and her preſent
ſituation-in a foreign land-in a remote
caſtle-ſurrounded by vice and violence-
ſeemed more like the viſions of a diſtem-
pered imagination, than the circumſtances
of truth. She wept to think of what her
parents would have ſuffered, could they
have foreſeen the events of her future life. -
- While ſhe raiſed her ſtreaming eyes to
hreaven, ſhe obſerved the ſame planet,
which ſhe had ſeen in Languedoc, on the:
night preceding her father's death, riſe
above the eaſtern towers of the caſtle;
while ſhe remembered the converſation,
which had paffed, concerning the probable-
ſtate of departed fouls ; remembered, alſo,
the folemn muſic The had heard, and to
which the tenderneſs of her ſpirits had, in
ſpite of her reaſon, given a ſuperſtitious
meaning. At theſe recollections ſhe wepes
again, and continued muſing, when ſud-
denly the notes of ſweet muſic paſſed on
the


(449)
01
the air. A ſuperſtitious dread ſtole over
her; ſhe ſtood liſtening, for ſome mo-
ments, in trembling expectation, and then
endeavoured to recollect her thoughts, and
to reaſon herſelf into compoſure : but hu-
nian reaſon cannot eſtabliſh her laws on
ſubjects, loſt in the obſcurity of imagina-
tion, any more than the eye can aſcertain
the form of objects, that only glimmer
through the dimneſs of night. '
Her ſurpriſe, on hearing ſuch foothing
and delicious ſounds, was, at leaſt, juftifi-
able; for it was long-very long, ſince ſhe
had liſtened to any thing like melody. The
fierce trumpet and the Thrill fife were the.
only inſtruments ſhe had heard, ſince her
arrival, at Udolpho.
When her mind was ſomewhat more
compoſed, ſhe tried to aſcertain from what
quarter the founds proceeded, and thought
they came from below; but whether from
a room of the caſtle, or from the terrace,
ſhe could not with certainty judge. Fear
and ſurpriſe now yielded to the enchant-
ment


( 4525
cious chamber, was expiring; for a mo-
ment, the ſhrunk from the darkneſs be-
yond ; and then, aſhamed of the weakneſs,
which, however, ſhe could not wholly con-
quer, went forward to the bed, where her
mind did not foon know the foothings of
ſleep. She ſtill muſed on the late occur.
rence, and looked with anxiety to the next
night, when, at the fame hour, the deter-
mined to watch whether the muſic returned.
es If thoſe ſounds were human," ſaid ſhe,
“ I ſhall probably hear them again.”
I
СІ АР.


!
(453)
?g; for :
le darka
the wa
28 whols:
CH A P. XII.
foothis
-
« Then, oh, you bleiſed miniſters above,
Keep me in patience ; and, in ripen'd time,
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
In countenance."
SHAKESPEARE.
·late con
to the ai
the cu
c reture
Gino
ds
ANNETTE came almoſt breathleſs to
Emily's apartment in the morning. “O
ma’arnſelle!” ſaid ſhe, in broken ſentences,
“ what news I have to tell! I have found
out who the priſoner is-but he was no
priſoner, neither ;-he that was ſhut up in
the chamber I told you of. I muſt think
him a ghoſt, forſooch !”
" Who was the priſoner ?” enquired
Emily, while her thoughts glanced back to
the circumſtance of the preceding night. :.
“ You miſtake, nia'am,” ſaid Annette;
she was not a priſoner, after all.” .
“ Who is the perſon, then ?" :
5. Holy Saints !” rejoined Annette ;'
“ How I was ſurpriſed ! I'met him juft
now,


( 454 )
S to
now, on the rampart below, there. I ne.
- ver was ſo ſurpriſed in my life! Ah!
ma’amſelle! this is a ſtrange place! I ſhould
never have done wondering, if I was to
live here an hundred years. But, as I was
ſaying, I met him juſt now on the rampart,
and I was thinking of nobody leſs than of
him."
• This triding is inſupportable,” ſaid
Emily, “ prºythee, Annette, do not torture
my patience any longer." : '
ss Nay, ma’amſelle, gueſs-gueſs who
it was ; it was ſomebody you know very
well."
“ I cannot gueſs,” ſaid Esily impa-
tiently.
“ Nay, ma’amſelle, I'll tell you ſome-
thing to gueſs by-A tall Signor, with a
longiſh face, who walks ſo ſtately, and
uſed to wear ſuch a high feather in his hat;
and uſed often to look down upon the
ground, when people, ſpoke to him; and
to look at people from under his eye-
brows, as it were, all fo dark and frown-
ing.


( 456 )
5. “Yes, mi’amſelle, but if that was all,
this deſolate place would conceal him,
without his ſhutting himſelf up in one
room. Who would think of coming to
look for him here? I am ſure I ſhould as
ſoon think of going to look for any body
in the world.”
“ There is ſome truth in that,” ſaid
Emily, who would now have concluded it .
was Orſino's muſic, which ſhe had heard,
on the preceding night, had ſhe not known,
that he had neither taſte, or ſkill in the art.
But, though ſhe was unwilling to add to
the number of Annette's ſurpriſes, by
mentioning the ſubject of her own, ſhe
enquired whether any perſon in the caſtle
played on a muſical inſtrument?
“O yes, ma’amſelle; there is Benedetto
plays the great drum to admiracion; and
then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay,
for that matter, Ludovico himſelf can play
on the trumpet ;- but he is ill now. I
remember once
Emily interrupted her ; “ Have you
- heard


( 457 )
heard no other muſic ſince you came to the
caſtle-none laſt night?”
“ Why, did you hear any laſt night,
ma’amfelle ?” .
Emily evaded this queſtion, by repeat-
ing her own.
“ Why, no, ma'am,” replied Annette ;
“I never heard any muſic here, I muſt
ſay, but the drums and the trumpet; and,
as for laſt night, I did nothing but dream
I ſaw my late lady's ghoſt.”
“ Your late lady's,” ſaid Emily in a tre-
mulous voice; “ you have heard more, then.
Tell me tell me all, Annette, I entreat ;
tell me the worſt at once.".
“ Nay, ma’amſelle, you know the worſt
already."
“I know nothing,” ſaid Emily.
“ Yes, you do, ma’amſelle; you know,
that nobody knows any thing about her ;
and it is plain, therefore, ſhe is gone, the
way of the firſt lady of the caſtle-nobody
ever knew any thing about her.”
Emily leaned her head upon her hand,
VOL. II.
Х
and


. ( 459 )
ger; but a little reflection ſhewed her the
improbability of this, and the bluſhed at
her weak fears.
" I will ſpeak to him, Annette,” ſaid
fhe; 6 deſire him to come to the corridor
immediately.” ..
Annette departed, and ſoon after re-
turned.'
“ Barnardine, ma’amfelle," ſaid ſhe,
“ dare not come to the corridor, leſt he
should be diſcovered, it is ſo far from his
poft; and he dare not even leave the gates
for a moment now; but, if you will come
to him at the portal, through ſome round-
about paſſages he told me of, without croff-
ing the courts, he has that to tell, which
will ſurpriſe you. But you muſt not come
through the courts, left the Signor ſhould
ſee you.” :
Emily, neither approving theſe “ round-
about paſſages," nor the other part of the
requeſt, now poſitively refuſed to go.
“ Tell him,” ſaid ſhe, “ if he has any
a thing of conſequence to impart, I will
X 2
hear


( 461 )
ma'am, and he anſwered me, that he had
the key of the gate, at the end of the ram- ,
part, that leads towards the courts, and
could let himſelf through that way; and
as for the ſentinels, there were none at 'this
end of the terrace, becauſe the place is
guarded enough by the high walls of the
caſtle, and the eaſt curret ; and he ſaid thoſe
at the other end, were too far off to ſee him,
if it was pretty dulkyiſh,”
„.“ Well,” ſaid Emily, “ I muſt hear
what he has to cell; and, therefore, deſire.
you will go with me to the terrace, this
evening."
• He deſired it might be pretty duſkyiſh,
ma’amſelle,” repeated Annette, “ becauſe
of the watch."
Emily pauſed, and then ſaid ſhe would
'be' on the terrace, an hour after ſun-ſet ;
" and tell Barnardine," ſhe added, “ to be
punctual to the time; for that I, alſo, may
be obſerved by Signor Montoni. Where is
the Signor? I would ſpeak with him."
“ He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am,
X 3
coun-


( 464 )
ſome of his gueſts, “ O, there is no fear of
that, ma'amſelle,” ſaid Annettè, “ they are
all ſet in to feaſting yet, and that Barnar,
dine knows.”
They reached the firſt terrace, where the
ſentinels demanded who paſſed; and Emily,
having anſwered, walked on to the eaſt ram.
parr, at the entrance of which they were
again ſtopped; and, having again replied,
were permitted to proceed. But Emily did
not like to expoſe herſelf to the diſcretion
of theſe men, at ſuch an hour ; and, impa.
tient to withdraw from the ſituation, ſhe
ſtepped haſtily on in ſearch of Barnardine.
He was not yet come. She leaned pen-
ſively on the wall of the rampart, and
waited for hiin. The gloom of twilight
fat deep on the ſurrounding objects, blend.
ing in ſoft confuſion the valley, the moun.
tains, and the woods, whoſe call heads, ſtir-
red by the evening breeze, gave the only
founds, that ſtole on filence, except a fainta
faint chorus of diftant voices, that arole
from within the caſtle.
“ Wha
S


( 466 )
draw; and, if it was unfaſtened, to make
another effort to diſcover her aunt.
The moments paſſed, but ſtill Barnar-
.. dine did not appear; and Emily, becom-
ing uneaſy, heſitated whether to wait any
longer. She would have fent Annette to
the portal to haften him, but feared to be
left alone, for it was now almoſt dark, and
a melancholy ſtreak of red, that ſtill linger-
ed in the weſt, was the only veſtige of de-
parted day. The ſtrong intereſt, however;
which Barnardine's meſſage had awakened,
overcame other apprehenſions, and ſtill de-
tained her.
While ſhe was conjecturing with Annette
what could thus occaſion his abſence, they
heard a key turn in the lock of the gate
near them, and preſently ſaw a man advan-
cing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily
haſtily enquired what he had to communi-
cate, and delired, that he would tell her
quickly, “ for I am chilled with this even-
ing air,” ſaid ſhe.
“ You muſt diſmiſs your maid, lady,"
ſaid:


468)
toni, and how much you wiſhed to know
what was become of her."
“ Moſt true,” ſaid Emily eagerly, “and
you can inform me. I conjure you tell me
the worſt, without heſitation.” She reſted
her trembling arm upon the wall.
“ I can tell you,” ſaid Barnardine, and
pauſed.
- Emily had no power to enforce her en-
treacies.
"I can tell you,” refumed Barnardine,
" but":
“ But what ?” exclaimed Emily, reco-
vering her reſolution.
« Here I am, ma’amſelle," faid Annette,
who, having heard the eager tone, in which
Emily pronounced theſe words, came run-
ning towards her.
" Retire !” ſaid Barnardine, ſternly;
“ you are not wanted ;” and, as Emily
faid nothing, Annette obeyed.
" I can tell you,” repeated the porter,
_" but I know not how-you was af-
flicted before."
" I am


( 470 )
that f ſhall ſay nothing about it concern-
ed only the Signora.”
i "O Heavens !” exclaimed Emily-
6 what have you done ???
. Barnardine heſitated, and was filent.
“ What fiend could tempt him, or you,
to ſuch an act !” cried Emily, chilled with
horror, and ſcarcely able to ſupport her -
fainting ſpirits..
" It was a fiend,” ſaid Barnardine in a
gloomy tone of voice. They were now both
filent ;-Emily had not courage to enquire
further, and Barnardine ſeemed to ſhrink
from telling more. At length he ſaid, “ It is
of no uſe to think of the paſt; the Signor
was cruel enough, but he would be obeyed.
What fignified my refuſing? He would have
found others, who had no ſcruples.”
“ You have murdered her, then !” ſaid
Emily, in a hollow and inward voice-
“I am talking with a murderer !" Barnar-
dine ſtood ſilent; while Emily turned from
him, and attempted to leave the place.
“Stay,


(472)
“ The Signora is alive,” ſaid he, “ for
me. She is my priſoner, though; his Ex-
cellenza has fhut her up in the chamber
over the great gates of the court, and I
have the charge of her. I was going to
have told you, you might ſee her-but
now-
Emily, relieved from an unutterable
load of anguiſh by this ſpeech, had now
only to aſk Barnardine's forgiveneſs, and
to conjure, that he would let her viſit her
aunt,
He complied with leſs reluctance, than
the expected, and told her, that, if ſhe
would repair, on the following night, when
the Signor was retired to reſt, to che poſ-
tern-gate of the caſtle, ſhe ft vuld, perhaps,
ſee Madame Montoni.
Amid all the thankfulneſs, which Emily
felt for this conceſſion, ſhe thought ſhe
obſerved a malicious triumph in his man-
ner, when he pronounced the laſt words;
but, in the ņext moment, the diſmiſſed
the thought, and, having again thanked
him,


( 473 )
--
-----------
him, commended her aunt to his pity, and
aſſured him, that ſhe would herſelf reward
him, and would-be punctual to her ap-
pointment; ſhe bade him good night, and
retired, unobſerved, to her chamber. It
was a conſiderable time, before the tumule
of joy, which Barnardine’s unexpected in-
telligence had occaſioned, allowed Emily
to think with clearneſs, or to be conſcious
of the real dangers, that ſtill ſurrounded
Madame Montoni and herſelf. When
this agitation ſubſided, the perceived, that
her aunt was yet the priſoner of a man, to
whoſe vengeance, or avarice, ſhe might
fáll a ſacrifice; and, when ſhe further con.
fidered the favage aſpect of the perfon,
who was appointed to guard Madame
Montoni, her doom appeared to be al-
ready ſealed, for the countenance of Bar.
nardine ſeemed to bear the ſtamp of a mur.
derer; and, when ſhe had looked upon it,
ſhe felt inclined to believe, that there was
no deed, however black, which he might
not be prevailed upon to execute. Theſe
reflections
--
-
mur


( 475 )
awaited its return, with more than curio-
fity.
She diſtinguiſhed, till a late hour, the
diſtant carouſals of Montoni and his com- .
panions--the loud conteſt, the diſſoluce
laugh and the choral fong, that made the
halls re echo. At length, ſhe heard the
heavy gates of the caſtle fhut for the night,
and thofe founds inftantly ſunk into a
filence, which was diſturbed only by the
whiſpering ſteps of perſons, paffing through
the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily
now judging it to be about the time, when
ſhe had heard the muſic, on the preceding
night, diſmiſſed Annette, and gently open,
ed the caſement to watch for its return.
The planet ſhe had fo particularly noticed;
at the recurrence of the muſic, was not yet
riſen ; but, with ſuperſtitious weakneſs,
ſhe kept her eyes fixed on that part of the
hemilphere, where it would rile, almoſt
expecting, that, when it appeared, the
founds would return. At length, it came,
ferenely bright, over the eaſtern towers of
the


( 477 )
expreſſion ? We all know, that it has been
affirmed celeſtial ſounds have ſometimes
been heard on earth. Father Pierre and
father Antoine declared, that they had
ſometimes heard them in the ſtillneſs of
night, when they alone were waking to
offer their oriſons to heaven. Nay, my
dear father himſelf once ſaid, that, foon
after my mother's death, as he lay watch-
ful in grief, ſounds of uncommon ſweet-
neſs called him from his bed; and, on
opening his window, he heard lofty muſic
paſs along the midnight air. It ſoothed
him, he ſaid; he looked up with confi.
dence to heaven, and reſigned her to his
God.”
Emily pauſed to weep at this recollec-
tion. “ Perhaps," reſuined ſhe, “ perhaps,
thoſe ſtrains I heard were ſent 10 comfort,
to encourage me! Never ſhall I forget
thoſe I heard, at this hour, in Langue-
doc! Perhaps, my father watches over
me, at this moment !” She wept again in
· tender...