“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling kindly.
“Come, come,” said Montoni, impatiently, “enough of this. Leave the room, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.”
Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to soothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.
When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to amuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passed from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow of the precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was guarded by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, through which she had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her high admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of the country to be seen in such various points of view, that they appeared to form new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and battlements, its high-arched casements, and its slender watchtowers, perched upon the corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below, till the dark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared mountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among the Apennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible regions.
While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascending a winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and talked with much eagerness of gesticulation.—Emily perceived, that one of these men was Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to be receiving the directions of Montoni.
She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at a distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of the portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was arrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace, towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an opposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the extent and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the persons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and they had called up that object to her fancy:—she believed that she had seen Count Morano.
When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained, agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. At length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window, and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at which time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting.
Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni alone: but Emily’s alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of someone in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from the Count. In the next moment, Annette appeared.
“Ah! ma’amselle,” said she, “here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I am sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then he is so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!—And here is also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma’amselle?”
“I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.”
“Nay, ma’am, do guess once.”
“Well, then,” said Emily, with assumed composure, “it is—Count Morano, I suppose.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried Annette, “are you ill, ma’amselle? you are going to faint! let me get some water.”
Emily sunk into a chair. “Stay, Annette,” said she, feebly, “do not leave me—I shall soon be better; open the casement.—The Count, you say—he is come, then?”
“Who, I!—the Count! No, ma’amselle, I did not say so.”
“He is not come then?” said Emily eagerly.
“No, ma’amselle.”
“You are sure of it?”
“Lord bless me!” said Annette, “you recover very suddenly, ma’am! why, I thought you were dying, just now.”
“But the Count—you are sure, is not come?”
“O yes, quite sure of that, ma’amselle. Why, I was looking out through the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into the courtyard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this dismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to make the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty old bars for joy!—O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christian face in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the very horses that brought them.”
“Well, Annette, well, I am better now.”
“Yes, ma’amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall, for the Signor cannot hear us there—and droll stories—Ludovico’s come, ma’am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico, ma’am—a tall, handsome young man—Signor Cavigni’s lackey—who always wears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on one side, and—”
“No,” said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity.
“What, ma’amselle, don’t you remember Ludovico—who rowed the Cavaliero’s gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And who used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the Black-a-moors, too; and Charly—Charly—magne, yes, that was the name, all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moonlight nights at Venice? O! I have listened to him!—”
“I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,” said Emily; “for it seems his verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so,
