She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over
several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black
silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped
before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus
carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. “Holy Virgin! what can this mean?” exclaimed Annette. “This is surely the picture
they told me of at Venice.”

“What picture?” said Emily. “Why a picture—a picture,” replied Annette,
hesitatingly—“but I never could make out exactly what it was about,
either.”

“Remove the veil, Annette.”

“What! I, ma’amselle!—I! not for the world!” Emily, turning round, saw
Annette’s countenance grow pale. “And pray, what have you heard of this
picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?” said she. “Nothing,
ma’amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.”

“Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light,
Annette, while I lift the veil.” Annette took the light, and
immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily’s call to stay,
who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length
followed her. “What is the reason of this, Annette?” said Emily, when
she overtook her, “what have you heard concerning that picture, which
makes you so unwilling to stay when I bid you?”

“I don’t know what is the reason, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “nor
anything about the picture, only I have heard there is something very
dreadful belonging to it—and that it has been covered up in black _ever
since_—and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years—and it
somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni
came to the possession of it—and—”

“Well, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, “I perceive it is as you say—that
you know nothing about the picture.”

“No, nothing, indeed, ma’amselle, for they made me promise never to
tell:—but—”

“Well,” rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between
her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the
consequence, “I will enquire no further—”

“No, pray, ma’am, do not.”

“Lest you should tell all,” interrupted Emily. Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity
of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some further
perplexity, once more at the top of the marble staircase, where Annette
left Emily, while she went to call one of the servants of the castle to
show them to the chamber, for which they had been seeking. While she was absent, Emily’s thoughts returned to the picture; an
unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked
her enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming
hints, which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her
curiosity was entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her
questions might easily be answered. She was now, however, inclined to
go back to the apartment and examine the picture; but the loneliness of
the hour and of the place, with the melancholy silence that reigned
around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the
mystery attending this picture, to prevent her. She determined,
however, when daylight should have reanimated her spirits, to go
thither and remove the veil. As she leaned from the corridor, over the
staircase, and her eyes wandered round, she again observed, with
wonder, the vast strength of the walls, now somewhat decayed, and the
pillars of solid marble, that rose from the hall, and supported the
roof. A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her
chamber, which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end
of the corridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, through
which they had been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room made Emily
unwilling that Annette should leave her immediately, and the dampness
of it chilled her with more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant
of the castle, to bring some wood and light a fire. “Aye, lady, it’s many a year since a fire was lighted here,” said
Caterina. “You need not tell us that, good woman,” said Annette; “every room in
the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here;
for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.” Emily waved her hand for
Caterina to fetch the wood. “I wonder, ma’am, why they call this the double chamber?” said Annette,
while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and
spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too,
had its walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture
was very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that she
had seen in the castle. One of the high casements, which she opened,
overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid in darkness. In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to
restrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She
wished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle,
but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to mention
family concerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette’s
thoughts were engaged upon another subject: she dearly loved the
marvellous, and had heard of a circumstance, connected with the castle,
that highly gratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention
it, her inclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every
instant on the point of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange
circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe
punishment; but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much severer,
and she feared to incur it by offending him. Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a
while, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady had
enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad
reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern manners
of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she had been
when she first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to which
she had been accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her
particularly sensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse
as this no apprehension had prepared her to support. To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her
spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As she
walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and,
perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she
brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it,
and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow staircase
that wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to what
it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediately
with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she
wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone.