all the servants will lead merry
lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall,
for the Signor cannot hear us there—and droll stories—Ludovico’s come,
ma’am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico,
ma’am—a tall, handsome young man—Signor Cavigni’s lacquey—who always
wears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his
hat set on so smartly, all on one side, and—”

“No,” said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity. “What, ma’amselle, don’t you remember Ludovico—who rowed the
Cavaliero’s gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And who
used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the
Black-a-moors, too; and Charly—Charly—magne, yes, that was the name,
all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moonlight nights at
Venice? O! I have listened to him!—”

“I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,” said Emily; “for it seems his
verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep
the secret; never let him know it.”

“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.