The Mysteries of Udolpho
obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of
fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and
the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes
moved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be
closed for ever on this world. “Those distant and sublime mountains,”
said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, “these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the
cheerful light of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the
peasant, the cheering voice of man—will no longer sound for me!”
The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of
her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such
tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of
regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without
protection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,
and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she
pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to
conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves
of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the
scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon,
marking the point where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal
evening. A cool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the
glass; but the air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to
sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up.
Increasing illness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the
day’s journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had
yet to go to the next post. He replied, “Nine miles.” “I feel I am
unable to proceed much further,” said St. Aubert; “enquire, as you go,
if there is any house on the road that would accommodate us for the
night.” He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in
the air, set off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert,
almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the
window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road,
for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was
any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He
replied, that he knew of none. “There is a château, indeed, among those
woods on the right,” added he, “but I believe it receives nobody, and I
cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here.” St. Aubert
was going to ask him some further question concerning the château, but
the man abruptly passed on. After some consideration, he ordered
Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the
twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another
peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the château in the
woods?” cried Michael.
“The château in the woods!” exclaimed the peasant—“Do you mean that
with the turret, yonder?”
“I don’t know as for the turret, as you call it,” said Michael, “I mean
that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among
the trees.”
“Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going
thither?” said the man with surprise.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar
tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “We are
travellers,” said he, “who are in search of a house of accommodation
for the night; is there any hereabout?”
“None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,”
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, “but I would not advise you
to go there.”
“To whom does the château belong?”
“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.”
“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.”
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and
risk the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore
desired the countryman would show Michael the way, and bade him expect
reward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,
that he was going on other business, but that the road could not be
missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed.
St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night,
and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate,
and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of
ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty
arch above. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the
appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost
shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which
the peasant had mentioned the château, she gave a mysterious meaning to
his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These
apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were
probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father’s
situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made
sensible to every impression.
They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,
together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of
old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed
with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.
Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a
figure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit
him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.
“This seems a wild place,” said Michael; “there is no house hereabout,
don’t your honour think we had better turn back?”
“Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to
the road,” replied St. Aubert.
Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace
made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he
saw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess
of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this
might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in
the avenue.
“Please your honour, he may be a robber,” said Michael. “It does not
please me,” replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the
simplicity of his phrase, “and we will, therefore, return to the road,
for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.”
Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with
alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It
was not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone,
which seemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they
went as fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken
ground, and the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he
reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the high-road,
where he went into a more moderate pace.
“I am very ill,” said St. Aubert, taking his daughter’s hand. “You are
worse, then, sir!” said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, “you
are worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!” He
leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him
with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling
of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily
the voice of Hope. “Oh! we are near some human habitation!” said she,
“help may soon be had.”
She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come
from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she
looked towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint
moonlight something like a château. It was difficult, however, to reach
this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;
Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her
father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a
distance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it was
necessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told
Michael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted,
and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.—“My dear,
dear father!” cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was
dying, “speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your
voice!” But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road; and,
having received some in the man’s hat, with trembling hands she
sprinkled it over her father’s face, which, as the moon’s rays now fell
upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of
selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St.
Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules,
she stepped from the carriage in search of the château she had seen at
a distance. It was a still moonlight night, and the music, which yet
sounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy
lane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely
occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for
herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now
wholly excluded the moonlight, and the wildness of the place, recalled
her to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and
she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified
perplexity, till a sense of her father’s condition again overcoming
every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in
the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being,
and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,
however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and
endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue,
which opened upon a moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The
wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to
the turreted château, and she was inclined to believe, that this was a
part of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While she
hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud
merriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness,
but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard a
distant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting but
it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a
second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than
the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules,
and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a
feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her
heart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence
the voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the
fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moonlight glade she had
before noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw,
between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf,
surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On
drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be
peasants, and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of