Emily’s spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive; for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy her, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the solitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed would have been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured by this reflection, and by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded silently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of the woods, which ascended on the right, could not survey the sleeping beauty of the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary sensation of pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds, and was screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of the Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.
“There is the sea yonder,” said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emily was examining the twilight view, “yonder in the west, though we cannot see it.”
Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild and mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending, the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers among the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautiful was the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy grandeur of those, to which she had long been confined, and to the manners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost have fancied herself again at La Vallée, and, wondering why Montoni had sent her hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchanting a spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot, but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could safely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that had determined his choice.
She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of their destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to go. “Only to the wood of chestnuts in the valley yonder,” said he, “there, by the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.”
Emily’s spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly concluded, and saw the wood of chestnuts in an open part of the vale, on the margin of the stream.
In a short time they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived, between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage window. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees, crowding over it, excluded the moonbeams, but a long line of light, from the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface. Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call loudly at the door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what they wanted, immediately descended, let them into a neat rustic cot, and called up his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As this man conversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him. He was a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion, and had a shrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not of a character to win the ready confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, that might conciliate a stranger.
Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his authority here to be unquestionable. “I expected you an hour ago,” said the peasant, “for I have had Signor Montoni’s letter these three hours, and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare in the storm?”
“Ill enough,” replied Ugo, “ill enough and we are like to fare ill enough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine, and let us see what you have to eat.”
The peasant placed before them all that his cottage afforded—ham, wine, figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom tasted.
After taking refreshment, she was shown by the peasant’s wife to her little bedchamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni, to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers, pretending ignorance of his Excellenza’s intention in sending Emily hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of the circumstance. Perceiving that she could obtain no intelligence concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to repose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones of the future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of her new situation to banish sleep.
XXXII
Was nought around but images of rest,
Thomson
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
From poppies breath’d, and banks of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play’d,
And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen,
That, as they bicker’d through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chestnut intermixed with some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading branches appeared to the north and to the east the woody Apennines, rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with ancient forests of
