Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?
It pauses now; and now, with rising knell1,
Flings to the hollow gale2 its sullen3 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 accomplishment4 of his wishes, no sense of decency5 restrained the expression of his resentment6. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, and watched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, by the corpse7 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 compassion8. Sometimes, however, she could not avoid musing9 upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to her aunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth10 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 lamentation12, than reproach.
In her pious13 cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only avoided the chamber14, where the remains15 of his wife were laid, but that part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended16 a contagion17 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 apprehension18 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 rites19, that she determined20 to be deterred21 by no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She would otherwise have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to the cold vault22, to which they were to be carried by men, whose air and countenances24 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, shuddering25 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, descended26 through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault of the chapel27 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 dismal28 hooting29 of the night-birds, that roosted among the ivyed battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the chapel, and passed between the mouldering30 pillars of the aisles31, the bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;— saw the corpse of her aunt carried down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at the bottom to receive it — all her fortitude32 was lost in emotions of inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who was cold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summit of the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on the pillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then, the gloom around her awakening33 other fears, and a sense of what she considered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance34, she descended to the vaults35, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that pierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that was opened to receive the corpse, again appalled36 her.
After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni’s men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burial service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerable figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn and affecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in which they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. The fierce features and wild dress of the condottieri, bending with their torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending38, were contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk39, wrapt in long black garments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened40 by piety41, and the few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon Annette; her face half averted42, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell over her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance23 fixed43 in grief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed untimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrown between the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken ground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently interred44, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that alone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenes more horrible, than even that, which was pictured at the grave of the misguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.
When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrained by the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led the way to the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted safely to his convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and even horror. When they reached the court, the monk gave her his blessing46, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette, lighting47 another, preceded Emily to her apartment. The appearance of the friar and the expression of tender compassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest supplication48, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a monastery49, situated50 among the mountains at a few miles distance. The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him by refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate at the funeral, who, with the meek51 spirit of a christian52, had overcome his reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the wish of performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel was built on consecrated53 ground, had not objected to commit to it the remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.
Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion54, and in a state of mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed. She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to permit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she could scarcely dare to conjecture55; but it was too certain that he did so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly56 given to her departure allowed her little hope, that he would now consent to it. But the horror, which his presence inspired, made her defer57, from day to day, the mention of this subject; and at last she was awakened58 from her inactivity only by a message from him, desiring her attendance at a certain hour. She began to hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authority he had usurped59 over her; till she recollected61, that the estates, which had occasioned so much contention62, were now hers, and she then feared Montoni was about to employ some stratagem63 for obtaining them, and that he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought, instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latent powers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which she would willingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved, that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt’s sake also she determined to preserve these estates, since they would afford that competency, by which she hoped to secure the comfort of their future lives. As she thought of this, she indulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with affectionate generosity64, she might tell him they were his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features — the affectionate regard, which spoke65 at once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the first time since her aunt’s death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni was over.
With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino and another officer, and both were standing67 near a table, covered with papers, which he appeared to be examining.
‘I sent for you, Emily,’ said Montoni, raising his head, ‘that you might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting68 with my friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to this paper:’ he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly69 over some lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it, and was going to write — when the design of Montoni came upon her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected70 to laugh at her scruples71, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, that her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively72 refused to sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered73 in affecting to ridicule74 this refusal; but, when he perceived by her steady perseverance75, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, and bade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had been willing to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in an affair, where his will was justice, and where she should find it law; and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her to the practice of her duty.
‘I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,’ he added, ‘am the heir of all she possessed76; the estates, therefore, which she refused to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld77, and, for your own sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to you in my hearing — that these estates would be yours, if she died without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power to withhold78 them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow79, when I say, that you possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have none of those contemptible80 foibles, that frequently mark the female character — such as avarice81 and the love of power, which latter makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If I understand your disposition82 and your mind, you hold in sovereign contempt these common failings of your sex.’
Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew him too well, to believe he would condescend83 to such flattery, unless he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.
‘Judging as I do,’ resumed Montoni, ‘I cannot believe you will oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish to conquer, or be avaricious84 of any property, when you have not justice on your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, you shall be allowed a safe conveyance85 to France, within a short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of your error.’
Emily calmly said,
‘I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be misled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray my right.’
‘I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,’ rejoined Montoni, sternly. ‘You speak boldly, and presumptuously86, upon a subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon the conceit87 of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, it seems, you are not exempt88, claims some allowance; but, if you persist in this strain — you have every thing to fear from my justice.’
‘From your justice, Signor,’ rejoined Emily, ‘I have nothing to fear- -I have only to hope.’
Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to say. ‘I find that you are weak enough,’ he resumed, ‘to credit the idle assertion I alluded89 to! For your own sake I lament11 this; as to me, it is of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and I must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering as you are compelling me to prepare for you.’
‘You may find, perhaps, Signor,’ said Emily, with mild dignity, ‘that the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.’
‘You speak like a heroine,’ said Montoni, contemptuously; ‘we shall see whether you can suffer like one.’
Emily was silent, and he left the room.
Recollecting90, that it was for Valancourt’s sake she had thus resisted, she now smiled complacently91 upon the threatened sufferings, and retired92 to the spot, which her aunt had pointed66 out as the repository of the papers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described; and, since she knew of no better place of concealment93, than this, returned them, without examining their contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a perusal94.
To her own solitary95 chamber she once more returned, and there thought again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she might expect from opposition96 to his will. But his power did not appear so terrible to her imagination, as it was wont97 to do: a sacred pride was in her heart, that taught it to swell98 against the pressure of injustice99, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own superiority to Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now, she had only feared.
As she sat musing, a peal100 of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on going to the casement101, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several gentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment102 that made her remain at the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at the table of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of a mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a very painful surmise103 arose, concerning her character. But the thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the fascinating manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable, when she remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost instantly.
On Annette’s appearance, however, she enquired104, concerning these strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn.
‘They are just come, ma’amselle,’ said Annette, ‘with two Signors from Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.— But what can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark105 mad to come freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seem merry enough, I am sure.’
‘They were taken prisoners, perhaps?’ said Emily.
‘Taken prisoners!’ exclaimed Annette; ‘no, indeed, ma’amselle, not they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three times, to the Signor’s you know, ma’amselle, and it was said, but I did not believe a word of it — it was said, that the Signor liked her better than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.’
Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject, and spoke of distant France.
‘Ah, ma’amselle! we shall never see it more!’ said Annette, almost weeping.—‘I must come on my travels, forsooth!’
Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she scarcely herself indulged.
‘How — how, ma’amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too?’ said Annette, sobbing106. ‘I— I— am sure, if Ludovico had been in France, I would never have left it.’
‘Why do you lament quitting France, then?’ said Emily, trying to smile, ‘since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.’
‘Ah, ma’amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful107 castle, serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!’
‘Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish with pleasure.’
Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense of her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again to lament the irresistible108 force of circumstances over the taste and powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As she mused45 upon the book before her, she involuntarily exclaimed, ‘Are these, indeed, the passages, that have so often given me exquisite109 delight? Where did the charm exist?— Was it in my mind, or in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,’ said she, pausing. ‘But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power.’
Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration of her own situation.
In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni’s associates, she walked for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was the wild uproar110 of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and seemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conduct of Montoni.
As she listened, she thought she distinguished111 female voices mingling112 with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld113 herself in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates, amid scenes of vice37, from which her soul recoiled114 in horror. It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to her imagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence, and her resolution shook with dread115. She thought she understood all the horrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an encounter with such remorseless vengeance116, as he could inflict117. The disputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever he should again call upon her, that she might regain118 safety and freedom; but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge119 her into the distractions120 of doubt.
She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy121 twilight122 through the painted casements123, and deepened the gloom of the oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of the corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by the glimmering125 window, that terminated it.
Along the vaulted126 halls and passages below, peals127 of laughter echoed faintly, at intervals128, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to render the succeeding stillness more dreary129. Emily, however, unwilling130 to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, where she had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacle so horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe131, this remembrance suddenly recurred132. It now brought with it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.— It might be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the gloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur133 in her ear.
When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she demanded who detained her.
‘It is I,’ replied the voice —‘Why are you thus alarmed?’
She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light, that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did not permit her to distinguish the features.
‘Whoever you are,’ said Emily, in a trembling voice, ‘for heaven’s sake let me go!’
‘My charming Emily,’ said the man, ‘why will you shut yourself up in this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with me to the cedar134 parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament135 of the party;— you shall not repent136 the exchange.’
Emily disdained137 to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate138 herself.
‘Promise, that you will come,’ he continued, ‘and I will release you immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled139 terror and indignation, while she still struggled for liberty —‘who are you, that have the cruelty thus to insult me?’
‘Why call me cruel?’ said the man, ‘I would remove you from this dreary solitude140 to a merry party below. Do you not know me?’
Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who were with Montoni when she attended him in the morning. ‘I thank you for the kindness of your intention,’ she replied, without appearing to understand him, ‘but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leave me.’
‘Charming Emily!’ said he, ‘give up this foolish whim141 for solitude, and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part of it; you, only, are worthy142 of my love.’ He attempted to kiss her hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate herself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by terror and by the exertion143 she had made, while she heard his voice, and his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raise herself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by not hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the private stair-case, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened only on the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secure it, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that Montoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her his protection, and she repented144 of the rashness, that had made her brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly145 impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night, to give up all claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her to depart from Udolpho.
When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed, though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case.
Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions146 for her; but, not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in uncertainty147, as to the cause of this unusual absence.
Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step approached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolate148 couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned149, was propitious150 to the musing sorrow of her mind.
While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant music, to which she listened attentively151, and, soon perceiving this to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to come from a lower room.
In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full of pathos152, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet and peculiar153 tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It stole over her mind, amidst the anguish154 of her present suffering, like a celestial155 strain, soothing156, and re-assuring her;—‘Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter’s ear, when he awakens157 from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.’*
(* Ossian. [A. R.])
But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the taste and simplicity158 of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To this well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her heart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life — all rose to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded her — that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect159, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings.
Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity160, and she withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the fishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely161 forgotten it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then heard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted162, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that revived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of Valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets163, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;— who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at that time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled164 to believe that he was the author of the sonnets.
As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did not recollect60 to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the instrument, now ceased.
She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring165, she called from the casement, ‘Is that song from Gascony?’ Her anxious attention was not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent. Her impatience166 increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard and recognized, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive167 of prudence168, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; but the surmise, that led to this reflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable, that he was here a prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that time engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted169 in some attempt to reach her. Had he even recollected Emily’s voice, he would have feared, in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who guarded his prison.
What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she dreaded170;— dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she was anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with the fear.
She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen, and one high mountain in the east to glimmer124 with the morning; when, wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she found it utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt and apprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose from the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace the room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence to her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of this anxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, and conclude her present state of torturing suspense171.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
knell
|
|
| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
gale
|
|
| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sullen
|
|
| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
accomplishment
|
|
| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
decency
|
|
| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
resentment
|
|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
corpse
|
|
| n.尸体，死尸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
musing
|
|
| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
labyrinth
|
|
| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
lament
|
|
| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
lamentation
|
|
| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
apprehended
|
|
| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
contagion
|
|
| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
apprehension
|
|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
rites
|
|
| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
deterred
|
|
| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
countenances
|
|
| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
shuddering
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
chapel
|
|
| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
hooting
|
|
| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
mouldering
|
|
| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
aisles
|
|
| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
fortitude
|
|
| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
awakening
|
|
| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
reluctance
|
|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
vaults
|
|
| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
appalled
|
|
| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
monk
|
|
| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
softened
|
|
| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
piety
|
|
| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
averted
|
|
| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
interred
|
|
| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
mused
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
blessing
|
|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
lighting
|
|
| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
supplication
|
|
| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
monastery
|
|
| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
meek
|
|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
consecrated
|
|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
seclusion
|
|
| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
conjecture
|
|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
defer
|
|
| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
awakened
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
usurped
|
|
| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
recollected
|
|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
contention
|
|
| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
stratagem
|
|
| n.诡计，计谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
generosity
|
|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
transacting
|
|
| v.办理（业务等）( transact的现在分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
unintelligibly
|
|
| 难以理解地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
scruples
|
|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
persevered
|
|
| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
ridicule
|
|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
perseverance
|
|
| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
withheld
|
|
| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
withhold
|
|
| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
bestow
|
|
| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
contemptible
|
|
| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
avarice
|
|
| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
condescend
|
|
| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
avaricious
|
|
| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
conveyance
|
|
| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
presumptuously
|
|
| adv.自以为是地，专横地，冒失地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
conceit
|
|
| n.自负，自高自大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
exempt
|
|
| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
recollecting
|
|
| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
complacently
|
|
| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
concealment
|
|
| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
perusal
|
|
| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
swell
|
|
| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
peal
|
|
| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
casement
|
|
| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
surmise
|
|
| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
enquired
|
|
| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
stark
|
|
| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
sobbing
|
|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
frightful
|
|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
uproar
|
|
| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
mingling
|
|
| adj.混合的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
beheld
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
recoiled
|
|
| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
inflict
|
|
| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
regain
|
|
| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
distractions
|
|
| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
casements
|
|
| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
glimmer
|
|
| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
glimmering
|
|
| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
vaulted
|
|
| adj.拱状的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
peals
|
|
| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
awe
|
|
| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
recurred
|
|
| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
cedar
|
|
| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
ornament
|
|
| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
repent
|
|
| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
disdained
|
|
| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
liberate
|
|
| v.解放，使获得自由，释出，放出；vt.解放，使获自由 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
whim
|
|
| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
exertion
|
|
| n.尽力，努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
apprehensions
|
|
| 疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
uncertainty
|
|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
desolate
|
|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
reigned
|
|
| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
propitious
|
|
| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
pathos
|
|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
celestial
|
|
| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
soothing
|
|
| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
awakens
|
|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
retrospect
|
|
| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
tranquillity
|
|
| n. 平静, 安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
darted
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
sonnets
|
|
| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
scrupled
|
|
| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
enquiring
|
|
| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
prudence
|
|
| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
intercepted
|
|
| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |