“I was not on guard that night, lady,” replied the man, “but I heard of
what happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. Strange stories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no
business of mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to
complain; our Chief does nobly by us.”

“I commend your prudence,” said Emily. “Good night, and accept this
from me,” she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then
closing the casement to put an end to the discourse. When he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasure
to the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, and
watched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. The
pealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains,
other thunder seemed to answer from the opposite horizon; while the
accumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, assumed a red
sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm. Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now,
every instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, made
it no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unable to
compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to the
tremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its foundation. She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproar
of the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself to
listen, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenance
of wild affright. “She is dying, ma’amselle, my lady is dying!” said she. Emily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni’s room. When she entered,
her aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, and
insensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to yield to
grief, while any duty required her activity, applied every means that
seemed likely to restore her. But the last struggle was over—she was
gone for ever. When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she
interrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni
had fallen into a doze soon after Emily’s departure, in which she had
continued, until a few minutes before her death. “I wondered, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “what was the reason my lady
did not seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and I
went often to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep;
till presently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she
was dying.”

Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the
violent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected
this fatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni. After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be
informed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he
might, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the present
temper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette alone,
therefore, whom she encouraged by her own example, she performed some
of the last solemn offices for the dead, and compelled herself to watch
during the night, by the body of her deceased aunt. During this solemn
period, rendered more awful by the tremendous storm that shook the air,
she frequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and protection,
and her pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, that
giveth comfort. CHAPTER V

The midnight clock has toll’d; and hark, the bell
Of death beats slow! heard ye the note profound? It pauses now; and now with rising knell
Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound. MASON


When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered that
she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to the
accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the
expression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, and
watched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, by
the corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappy
fate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and
imperious conduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings,
thought of her only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she
could not avoid musing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so
fatal to her aunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of
misfortune, from which she saw no means of escaping,—the marriage with
Montoni. But, when she considered this circumstance, it was “more in
sorrow than in anger,”—more for the purpose of indulging lamentation,
than reproach. In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only
avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but that
part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a
contagion in death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the
funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the
memory of Madame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved,
when, on the evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the
interment was to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would
not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think that the
remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one
relative, or friend to pay them the last decent rites, that she
determined to be deterred by no considerations for herself, from
observing this duty. She would otherwise have shrunk from the
circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were to
be carried by men whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them for
murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which Montoni
had chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the reliques of a
woman, whom his harsh conduct had, at least, contributed to destroy. Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by
Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in
cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it,
till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of the
men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty that
Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrown
open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch
they carried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on
their shoulders, while the third preceding them with the light,
descended through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower
vault of the chapel within the castle walls. They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,
which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence
and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily’s mind,
occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard
the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the
ivied battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the
bat, which frequently crossed her way.