The Mysteries of Udolpho [173]
the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and, walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continued to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, and on her own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her, whom she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni's conduct had, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; but her gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in the pity thus awakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had received from her.
As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door, looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.
'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' said she. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'
'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.
'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo just now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. As to my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things to her.'--
'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'
'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if one must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk- -it would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls. But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture.'
'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'what makes you look so pale?--are you ill?'
'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this picture; return into the hall.'
'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl-- 'the lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to the furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as it were, whenever I think of it.'
'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless you guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery of superstition?'
Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette urged her request.
'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it veiled?'
'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I have seen it, and it is not veiled!'
The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled Emily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoining that part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several other portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb.
'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing. Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in the flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full of strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved. It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placid melancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.
'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' said Emily.
'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it is a long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.
'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest room in the castle. But
As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door, looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.
'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' said she. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'
'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.
'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo just now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. As to my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things to her.'--
'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'
'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if one must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk- -it would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls. But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture.'
'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.
'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'what makes you look so pale?--are you ill?'
'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this picture; return into the hall.'
'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl-- 'the lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to the furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as it were, whenever I think of it.'
'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless you guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery of superstition?'
Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette urged her request.
'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it veiled?'
'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I have seen it, and it is not veiled!'
The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled Emily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoining that part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several other portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb.
'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing. Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in the flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full of strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved. It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placid melancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.
'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' said Emily.
'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it is a long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.
'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest room in the castle. But