Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that Emily
had no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible suspense,
concerning her aunt. Annette was employed in watching his steps, and in
attending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by Caterina, nursed with
the utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left much alone. Her
thoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter, and were employed in
conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it, which she sometimes
imagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at others, that it
related to some personal danger, which threatened herself. The cautious
secrecy which Barnardine observed in his conduct, inclined her to
believe the latter. As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. At
length, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels going
to their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to the
terrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together. When Emily
expressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his guests, “O,
there is no fear of that, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “they are all set
in to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows.”

They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who
passed; and Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at
the entrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again
replied, were permitted to proceed. But Emily did not like to expose
herself to the discretion of these men, at such an hour; and, impatient
to withdraw from the situation, she stepped hastily on in search of
Barnardine. He was not yet come. She leaned pensively on the wall of
the rampart, and waited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deep on the
surrounding objects, blending in soft confusion the valley, the
mountains, and the woods, whose tall heads, stirred by the evening
breeze, gave the only sounds, that stole on silence, except a faint,
faint chorus of distant voices, that arose from within the castle. “What voices are those?” said Emily, as she fearfully listened. “It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,” replied Annette. “Good God!” thought Emily, “can this man’s heart be so gay, when he has
made another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet suffered to
feel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own sufferings, may my heart
never, never be hardened against those of others!”

She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near
which she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the lower
chamber, but those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she perceived
a person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this
circumstance revived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had
vainly sought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only
soldiers’ accoutrements. Emily, however, determined to attempt the
outer door of the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and,
if it was unfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt. The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily,
becoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would have
sent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left alone,
for it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red, that still
lingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed day. The strong
interest, however, which Barnardine’s message had awakened, overcame
other apprehensions, and still detained her. While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his
absence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and
presently saw a man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily hastily
enquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he would tell
her quickly, “for I am chilled with this evening air,” said she. “You must dismiss your maid, lady,” said the man in a voice, the deep
tone of which shocked her, “what I have to tell is to you only.”

Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little
distance. “Now, my friend, what would you say?”

He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,—

“That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the
Signor’s ears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make you
tell a syllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this affair, and,
if it was known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, perhaps, might
answer it. But I was concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to tell
you.” He paused.—

Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her discretion,
and entreated him to dispatch. “Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you were about Signora
Montoni, and how much you wished to know what was become of her.”

“Most true,” said Emily eagerly, “and you can inform me. I conjure you
tell me the worst, without hesitation.” She rested her trembling arm
upon the wall. “I can tell you,” said Barnardine, and paused.—

Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties. “I _can_ tell you,” resumed Barnardine,—“but—”

“But what?” exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution. “Here I am, ma’amselle,” said Annette, who, having heard the eager
tone, in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards her. “Retire!” said Barnardine, sternly; “you are not wanted;” and, as Emily
said nothing, Annette obeyed. “I _can_ tell you,” repeated the porter,—“but I know not how—you were
afflicted before.—”

“I am prepared for the worst, my friend,” said Emily, in a firm and
solemn voice. “I can support any certainty better than this suspense.”

“Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.—You know, I
suppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It is
none of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe you
know it was so.”

“Well,” said Emily, “proceed.”

“The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I saw
all, and heard all,—a great deal more than people thought for; but it
was none of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the Signor
sent for me. ‘Barnardine,’ says he, ‘you are—an honest man, I think I
can trust you.’ I assured his _Excellenza_ that he could. ‘Then,’ says
he, as near as I can remember, ‘I have an affair in hand, which I want
you to assist me in.’—Then he told me what I was to do; but that I
shall say nothing about—it concerned only the Signora.”

“O Heavens!” exclaimed Emily—“what have you done?”

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent. “What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!” cried Emily,
chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting spirits. “It was a fiend,” said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. They were
now both silent;—Emily had not courage to enquire further, and
Barnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said, “It
is of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, but he
would be obeyed. What signified my refusing?