The Mysteries of Udolpho
held up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of
an escape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough
oak, showed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had left, and
no other door than that, by which she had entered. The feeble rays of
the lamp, however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent;
she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastened in
the centre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain
from the ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for some
time, with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made
for the purpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair
were rings of the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she
concluded, that they were instruments of torture, and it struck her,
that some poor wretch had once been fastened in this chair, and had
there been starved to death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what
was her agony, when, in the next moment, it occurred to her, that her
aunt might have been one of these victims, and that she herself might
be the next! An acute pain seized her head, she was scarcely able to
hold the lamp, and, looking round for support, was seating herself,
unconsciously, in the iron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where
she was, she started from it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end
of the room. Here again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and
perceived only a dark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to
the floor, was drawn along the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she
was, the appearance of this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze
upon it, in wonder and apprehension.
It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded,
to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by a
recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly
unveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing,
that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a
fit of desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse,
stretched on a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood,
as was the floor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly
and horrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the face.
Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager,
frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she
fell senseless at the foot of the couch.
When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among
whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then bore
her along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme
languor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to
feel any distinct fear. They carried her down the staircase, by which
she had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and
one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, opened a small door,
that was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road,
the light he bore showed several men on horseback, in waiting. Whether
it was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the
objects she now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and
made an ineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the
ruffians, who held her.
Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant
voices answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same
instant, a light flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he
vociferated for the torch, and the men hurried Emily through the gate.
At a short distance, under the shelter of the castle walls, she
perceived the fellow, who had taken the light from the porter, holding
it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a horse, round
which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh features received
the full glare of the torch; while the broken ground beneath them, the
opposite walls, with the tufted shrubs, that overhung their summits,
and an embattled watch-tower above, were reddened with the gleam,
which, fading gradually away, left the remoter ramparts and the woods
below to the obscurity of night.
“What do you waste time for, there?” said Barnardine with an oath, as
he approached the horsemen. “Dispatch—dispatch!”
“The saddle will be ready in a minute,” replied the man who was
buckling it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence,
and Emily, calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses,
while the ruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed for
her not being ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the
great gates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette
above those of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment,
she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of
ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but
with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of
any dangers, that might await her within the castle, whence so lately,
and so anxiously she had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her
from without, had engrossed all her apprehensions.
A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni,
however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that
numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly
interested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while
Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily was
led back into the castle. As she repassed the courts, the remembrance
of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its horror,
to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shut
her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and,
almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think,
that anything less precious than liberty and peace was to be found
beyond them.
Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he
soon followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious
affair. Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her
aunt, and scarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient
enquiries, her answers and her manner convinced him, that she had not
taken a voluntary part in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon
the appearance of his servants, whom he had ordered to attend, that he
might enquire further into the affair, and discover those, who had been
accomplices in it.
Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her
mind allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then,
again, the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had
disclosed, came to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified
Annette the more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the
subject of it, for she feared to trust her with so fatal a secret, lest
her indiscretion should call down the immediate vengeance of Montoni on
herself.
Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the
secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the
intolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette,
and, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered from the
purpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly,
but her voice seemed not to make any impression on the sense of the
long agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, now and
then, she heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.
Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to
inform Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without
having made any discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild
description, which this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow
her immediately to the chamber.
At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of
recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rose
from her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke
to her in accents somewhat softened from their usual harshness, but she
regarded him with a kind of half curious, half terrified look, and
answered only “yes,” to whatever he said. Her mind still seemed to
retain no other impression, than that of fear.
Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having
attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, after
ordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform
him, in the morning, of her condition.
When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that
had been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor—Signor
Montoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she
did not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed into
abstraction.
With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined
with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing,
turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified,
went towards the door, that she might bring one of the female servants
to pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her going, called her
by name, and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her
voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake her.—“For since my
father died,” added she, sighing, “everybody forsakes me.”
“Your father, ma’amselle!” said Annette, “he was dead before you knew
me.”
“He was, indeed!” rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She now
wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at length
sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt
her tears. This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these
moments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched
alone by Emily, during the whole night.
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,