Chapter: CHAPTER II



     unfold
 What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
 Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook!
     IL PENSEROSO

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the
bed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances of
the preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to retain
no trace of what had passed, and she was still gazing with surprise on
Annette, when the latter awoke.

'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.

'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are you
sitting by me thus?'

'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,--very ill indeed! and I am sure I
thought--'

'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the
past.--'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by
frightful dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely it
was nothing more than a dream!'

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,
said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over
now.'

'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and shuddering
instantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of the
circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to a
disordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speech
alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry her
off, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered. Annette replied,
that he had not, though he might easily be guessed at; and then told
Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who, endeavouring to
command the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt had occasioned,
appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth, she heard
scarcely a word that was said.

'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be even
with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it out
myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had opened
the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you;
for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy?
So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him, and, when I
opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other end of the
passage, which way you were going. I followed the light, at a distance,
till you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I was afraid to go
further, for I had heard strange things about these vaults. But then,
again, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by the
time Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved to follow you, and
I did so, till you came to the great court, and there I was afraid he
would see me; so I stopped at the door again, and watched you across to
the gates, and, when you was gone up the stairs, I whipt after. There,
as I stood under the gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and several
men talking; and I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing
you out, and just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came down
the stairs again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way. But I had
heard enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him,
and to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some new scheme
of Count Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into the castle, but I
had hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel, and
what is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they had
told me about, though I would not go into that place again by myself for
all the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were up, so we had
soon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that Barnardine and
his rogues, all together.'

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length
she said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where is he?'

Annette asked who was meant.

'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily. 'I would speak with him;' and Annette,
now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding night,
respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him herself.

This honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to
him; and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began
to believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had
formerly been mingled with his wine.

The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under the
anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; but
he had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he was
condemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only the
state of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these sufferings
abated, his former views revived, till, his health being re-established,
he again found himself ready for enterprise and difficulty. The porter
of the castle, who had served him, on a former occasion, willingly
accepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the means of drawing
Emily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither he had been
carried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to another
at several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon by
Barnardine, who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette,
the most probable means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back his
servants to the castle, while he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with
an intention of carrying her immediately to Venice. How this, his second
scheme, was frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, and
various passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on his
return to that city, can only be imagined.

Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of her
request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar
room, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily
on her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not
distinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and sometimes
she even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his presence. She
wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared to believe the
request would be granted, that he would permit her, since her aunt was
no more, to return to her native country.

As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much,
that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely
be called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could
be said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was
equally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and terrified as
to its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretend
ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be sharing its
criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on which Emily
could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.

While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, that
Montoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits were
then relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight of
apprehension. Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going out
to the wars again, for the court-yard was filled with horses, and she
heard, that the rest of the party, who went out before, were expected at
the castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,' added she, 'say
to his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring home a rare deal of
booty.--So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safe conscience, send
his people out a-robbing--why it is no business of mine. I only wish
I was once safe out of this castle; and, if it had not been for poor
Ludovico's sake, I would have let Count Morano's people run away with
us both, for it would have been serving you a good turn, ma'amselle, as
well as myself.'

Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruption
she would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive,
absorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kind
of solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of faculties
overstrained by suffering.

When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music,
that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree of
interest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness.
The influence of superstition now gained on the weakness of her
long-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation, to the
guardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette for the
night, determined to watch alone for their return. It was not yet,
however, near the time when she had heard the music on a former night,
and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects, she sat
down with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; but
her mind, refusing controul, became restless and agitated, and she went
often to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she heard
a voice, but then, every thing without the casement remaining still, she
concluded, that her fancy had deceived her.

Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the distant
sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed to
reign over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where she
was soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusual
sounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some person in
distress. As she listened, her heart faltered in terror, and she became
convinced, that the former sound was more than imaginary. Still,
at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble lamentation, and sought to
discover whence it came. There were several rooms underneath, adjoining
the rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the sound probably
rose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, whether
any light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive,
were quite dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she
thought she saw something moving.

The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to
distinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch,
and she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, that she
might escape notice, during her further observation.

The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the
rampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something like
a human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced her it
was no sentinel. As it drew near, she hesitated whether to retire; a
thrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of she scarcely
knew what warned her to withdraw.

While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was
stationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a
foot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious form
she saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the casement,
when, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and glide down
the rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity of night.
Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had passed, and
then retired within her chamber, musing on this strange circumstance,
and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a supernatural appearance.

When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other
explanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises of
Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappy
person, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither a
captive; and that the music she had formerly heard, came from him.
Yet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared improbable, that they
should have brought him to the castle, and it was also more consistent
with the manners of banditti to murder those they rob, than to make them
prisoners. But what, more than any other circumstance, contradicted
the supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it wandered on the
terrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her dismiss
immediately her first surmise.

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtained
admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficulties
and dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if he
had so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement at
midnight was not the conduct he would have adopted, particularly since
the private stair-case, communicating with her apartment, was known to
him; neither would he have uttered the dismal sounds she had heard.

Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who had
designs upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, that
probability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could be
that haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents and
in such sweet music (for she was still inclined to believe, that the
former strains and the late appearance were connected,) she had no means
of ascertaining; and imagination again assumed her empire, and roused
the mysteries of superstition.

She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her
doubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to address
the figure, if it should appear again.

 Annette fills Em in on how she knew Barnardine was bad: she watched from the terrace as the evil porter tried to kidnap Em. Em wants to see Montoni ASAP, but he puts off seeing her for a day. Meanwhile, Em hears more than strange music at night. There's the distinct sound of moaning around midnight. Naturally, Em wants to know who's moaning. She leans over the casement and sees a human form creeping below her window. With her imagination running wild, Em thinks it could be a captive from the dungeon.

