The Mysteries of Udolpho

(* This poem and that entitled THE TRAVELLER in vol. ii, have already

appeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])

Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below

stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,

from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his

wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for

them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years

before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly

related. 'So many years ago, Signora,' added Maddelina, 'that I know

nothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my

mother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to

have had.'

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful

interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character

of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely

doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,

that she had been committed into his hands for some desperate

purpose. 'Did you ever hear how many years it is,' said Emily, who was

considering of Signora Laurentini's disappearance from Udolpho, 'since

your father performed the services you spoke of?'

'It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,'

replied Maddelina, 'and that is about eighteen years ago.'

This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to

disappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that

mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This

horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina

quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of

all around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her

relief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she

ceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had

sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the

contemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which

even in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her

little package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,

whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose

beauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy.

Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the

western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,

and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk

amidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened

thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every

circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might

assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,

becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had

heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of grief

and momentary regret.