“for I trust that whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moonlight night, walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the body?”
Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell fast upon her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to speak, and at length said in a low voice, “I hope we shall be permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently hope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,” continued he, while he wiped the tears from his daughter’s eyes, “it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!” Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, “But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the relations we have loved in this; I must believe this.” “Then do believe it,” replied St. Aubert, “severe, indeed, would be the pangs of separation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again!” He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.
La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped it, saying, “We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.”
“No,” said St. Aubert, “this is a light I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day; this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I hear?”
“It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the woods were haunted.” “They certainly are haunted,” said St. Aubert with a smile, “but I believe it is by mortals.” “I have sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep,” rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, “almost under my window, and I never heard any music like it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say it often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, and outlived the warning.”
Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its contagion.
“Well, but, my good friend,” said St. Aubert, “has nobody had courage to follow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who is the musician.” “Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.”
“What turret?” asked St. Aubert with quickness, “I see none.”
“Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full upon it;—up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the château it belongs to is hid among the trees.”
“Yes, my dear sir,” said Emily, pointing, “don’t you see something glitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall upon.”
“O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the château belong to?”
“The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,” replied La Voisin, emphatically.
“Ah!” said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, “are we then so near Le-Blanc!” He appeared much agitated.
“It used to be the Marquis’s favourite residence,” resumed La Voisin, “but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many years. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into other hands.” St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the last words. “Dead!” he exclaimed, “Good God! when did he die?”
“He is reported to have died about five weeks since,” replied La Voisin. “Did you know the Marquis, sir?”
“This is very extraordinary!” said St. Aubert without attending to the question. “Why is it so, my dear sir?” said Emily, in a voice of timid curiosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had succeeded to the estates. “I have forgot his title, monsieur,” said La Voisin; “but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his coming hither.”
“The château is shut up then, still?”
“Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard by.”
“The château is spacious, I suppose,” said Emily, “and must be desolate for the residence of only two persons.”
“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would not pass one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.”
“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost from my childhood, sir,” replied his host.
“You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an altered voice.
“Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides me who remember her.”
“Yes—” said St. Aubert, “and I am one of those.”
“Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She deserved a better fate.”
Tears stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a voice almost stifled by the violence of his emotions—“it is enough, my friend.”
Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but St. Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he, “let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now heard.”
“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!” They were all silent;
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.
MILTON.
In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. “This is strange!” said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. “Very strange!” said Emily. “It is so,” rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.
After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard that music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine summer’s night, much like