“Ah—ma’amselle!—how can one keep such a secret as that?”
“Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.”
“O, but, ma’amselle, I forgot to ask—how did you sleep in this dreary old chamber last night?”—“As well as usual.”—“Did you hear no noises?”—“None.”—“Nor see anything?”—“Nothing.”—“Well, that is surprising!”—“Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these questions.”
“O, ma’amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.”
“If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell me what you know, without hurting your conscience.”
“O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many years.”
“It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,” said Emily, endeavouring to laugh away her apprehensions; “for I left the door open, last night, and found it fastened this morning.”
Annette turned pale, and said not a word.
“Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the morning, before I rose?”
“No, ma’am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don’t know: shall I go and ask, ma’amselle?” said Annette, moving hastily towards the corridor.
“Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have heard concerning this room, and whither that staircase leads.”
“I will go and ask it all directly, ma’am; besides, I am sure my lady wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma’am.”
She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily’s reply, whose heart, lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her to smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for, though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it, when apparent in other persons.
Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect; when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers were felt no longer.
Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheld from her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed herself by the intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstance of misfortune.
“How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,” said she, “and, because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness? Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here today, or tomorrow, if he comes at all?—and that he will come—it were weakness to doubt.”
To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes, she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and, at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the adjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate, where no footsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strange history of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to her recollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passed through the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhat agitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of terror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink.
Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but instantly let it fall—perceiving that what it had concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless on the floor.
When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely strength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrived there, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of future misfortune: she seated herself near the casement, because from thence she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people pass, and these, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. When her spirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she should mention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and important motives urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of the relief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of its interest. But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such a communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of her aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to observe a profound silence on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then alone,
