Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or
it is probable this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not
have affected her in the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal
her emotion from Dorothée, who, however, observing her countenance
change, enquired if she was ill.

“Let us go,” said Emily, faintly, “the air of these rooms is
unwholesome;” but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she
must pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had
appeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she
sat down on the side of the bed. Dorothée, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of
the melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot,
endeavoured to cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed,
she began to relate other particulars concerning it, and this without
reflecting, that it might increase Emily’s emotion, but because they
were particularly interesting to herself. “A little before my lady’s
death,” said she, “when the pains were gone off, she called me to her,
and stretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there—where the
curtain falls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the
time—death was in it!—I can almost fancy I see her now.—There she lay,
ma’amselle—her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpane
was not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was
laid out upon it.”

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have
seen the countenance of which Dorothée spoke. The edge of the white
pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes
wandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without
speaking, she caught Dorothée’s arm, who, surprised by the action, and
by the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily
to the bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly
lifted, and fall again. Emily attempted to go, but Dorothée stood fixed and gazing upon the
bed; and, at length, said—“It is only the wind, that waves it,
ma’amselle; we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the
lamp, too.—It is only the wind.”

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently
agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors,
stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had
occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the pall
moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a human
countenance rose above it. Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as
fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors
of all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached the
staircase, Dorothée threw open a chamber door, where some of the female
servants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived
of all presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the
occasion of her terror from the astonished servants; and, though
Dorothée, when she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright,
and was joined by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the
servants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder
of the night in a room so near to these terrific chambers. Dorothée having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began
to talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance,
that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her own
perceptions, had not those of Dorothée attested their truth. Having now
mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked the
housekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened,
by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorothée
replied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doors in
her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through the
castle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had
tried these doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. It was, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could have
got admittance into the apartments; and, if they could—it was very
improbable they should have chosen to sleep in a place so cold and
forlorn. Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, been
watched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them into the
rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in the
oriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed. Dorothée allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that,
on entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door,
and this, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by
any of the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have
excluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she
now persisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen
was nothing human, but some dreadful apparition. Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the
appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate
of the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and this
unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her
sufferings, affected Emily’s imagination with a superstitious awe, to
which, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not
have yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by
the housekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the
occurrence of this night, and to make light of the terror she had
already betrayed, that the Count might not be distressed by reports,
which would certainly spread alarm and confusion among his family. “Time,” she added, “may explain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let
us watch the event in silence.”

Dorothée readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had left
all the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courage
to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort,
so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to
the foot of the back staircase, and to wait there while Dorothée
ascended, whose resolution being reassured by this circumstance, she
consented to go, and they left Emily’s apartment together. No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and
galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back staircase, Dorothée’s
resolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen,
and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below, and,
scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber, she
fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, and
returned to Emily.