Emily’s heart was not so; but her
sufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind. Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy
of passion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason
and living in a world of its own. The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on
the shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light,
amid the deep blue æther, as they silently moved in their destined
course. She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear
father, how often he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and
explained their laws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an
almost equal degree, awakened her grief and astonishment. They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, which
had occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily,
who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knew
only goodness and happiness—to her, the late events and her present
situation—in a foreign land—in a remote castle—surrounded by vice and
violence—seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination,
than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parents
would have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her future
life. While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same
planet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her
father’s death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while she
remembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probable
state of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she had
heard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of her
reason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she wept
again, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet music
passed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stood
listening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and then
endeavoured to recollect her thoughts, and to reason herself into
composure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lost
in the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain
the form of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night. Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at
least, justifiable; for it was long—very long, since she had listened
to anything like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were
the only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho. When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from
what quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below;
but whether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could
not with certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the
enchantment of a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the
most soft and melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a
distance, trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased. She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft music
leaves on the mind—but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstance
her thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hear
music at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long since
retired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had been
heard before, probably, for many years. Long suffering had made her
spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by the
illusions of superstition.—It now seemed to her, as if her dead father
had spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort and
confidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet
reason told her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined
to dismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imagination
guides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. She
remembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which had
given it into the possession of its present owner; and, when she
considered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had
disappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind was
impressed with a high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there
appeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she was
inclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. At
this conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked
fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, that
prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect. At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she
approached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp,
that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, she
shrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness,
which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed,
where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still
mused on the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next
night, when, at the same hour, she determined to watch whether the
music returned. “If those sounds were human,” said she, “I shall
probably hear them again.”



 CHAPTER XII

Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,
Keep me in patience; and, in ripen’d time,
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
In countenance. SHAKESPEARE


Annette came almost breathless to Emily’s apartment in the morning. “O
ma’amselle!” said she, in broken sentences, “what news I have to tell! I have found out who the prisoner is—but he was no prisoner,
neither;—he that was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think
him a ghost, forsooth!”

“Who was the prisoner?” enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced back
to the circumstance of the preceding night. “You mistake, ma’am,” said Annette; “he was not a prisoner, after all.”

“Who is the person, then?”

“Holy Saints!” rejoined Annette; “How I was surprised! I met him just
now, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in my life! Ah! ma’amselle! this is a strange place! I should never have done
wondering, if I was to live here a hundred years. But, as I was saying,
I met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking of nobody less
than of him.”

“This trifling is insupportable,” said Emily; “pr’ythee, Annette, do
not torture my patience any longer.”

“Nay, ma’amselle, guess—guess who it was; it was somebody you know very
well.”

“I cannot guess,” said Emily impatiently. “Nay, ma’amselle, I’ll tell you something to guess by—A tall Signor,
with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a high
feather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, when
people spoke to him; and to look at people from under his eyebrows, as
it were, all so dark and frowning. You have seen him, often and often,
at Venice, ma’am. Then he was so intimate with the Signor, too.