The Mysteries of Udolpho - Ann Ward Radcliffe (great novels of all time .TXT) 📗

they may provoke him to further violence against you.’

‘What! would you have me submit, 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, madam!’ said Emily, ‘I am unequal to advise 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 attempt it.’

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings, she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. ‘Your situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, 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 possession 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 interrupted her. ‘Unfeeling, cruel girl!’

said she, ‘and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that my future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are as fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart to a person, who could sympathize in my distress, but I find, that your people of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may retire to your chamber.’

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yielded to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt’s situation had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, in France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also, concerning his character, appeared not less so, though the particular circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet remained to be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced her, that Montoni’s situation was not what it 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 weakened, when she considered the present style of Montoni’s living, the number of servants he 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. Several assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she had believed were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, 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 circumstances justified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano’s assertion, that he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself, to a richer suitor.

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni, he had said—he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor willingly leave ANOTHER murder 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 shuddered to think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible they could apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neither release her from her melancholy situation, or enable her to bear it with greater fortitude, she 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 sleeping fancy they played, without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tenderness 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, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time, when she mourned for her father, 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 she obeyed.

‘My lady’s, ma’amselle,’ replied Annette: ‘the Signor ordered her dinner to be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. There have been sad 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, she told of the arrival of the men, whom Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at their strange appearance, 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 castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told old Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They have been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am frightened whenever 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 her emotion.

‘Dear ma’amselle,’ said Annette, ‘to see how young ladies will disguise themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough to hate him.’

‘I hope I hate nobody,’ replied Emily, trying to smile; ‘but certainly I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person dying by violent means.’

‘Yes, ma’amselle, but it is his own fault.’

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. ‘To be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,’ said she, ‘to break into a lady’s room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle comes to desire him to walk about his business—to turn round, and draw his sword, and swear he’ll run him through the body!-

-To be sure it was very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did not know what he was about.’

‘Enough of this,’ said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and her lady. ‘It is nothing 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’amselle!—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, ma’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 she always 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 obedient, whether you would, or no. 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’amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always disturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too 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 believed you would run away with Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you connived at his coming about the house at night, and—’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, ‘it is surely impossible my aunt could thus have represented me!’

‘Indeed, ma’am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been in fault, ma’amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But my lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter.’

‘However that may be, Annette,’ interrupted Emily, recovering her composure, ‘it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to me. I know you have meant well, but—say no more.—I have quite dined.’

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table.

‘Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?’ said Emily, when she was alone; ‘the treatment I am to receive from a relation—an aunt—

who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my reputation,—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 say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with slanders—required a depravity 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 distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me only remember, if possible, 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 she often wished, that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods