Her father, it seems, had commanded
her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another
nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very
fond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she
never told me so. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the
Marquis, for I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful,
look so calm and sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of
a sudden, grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my
lady. This afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained,
and she used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a
good humour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be
stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all
in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her
in the ante-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her. I
used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady was
greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among the
many chevaliers, that visited at the château, there was one, that I
always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet
so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or
said. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis
was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head,
that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never
could learn for certain.”

“What was the chevalier’s name, Dorothée?” said Emily. “Why that I will not tell even to you, ma’amselle, for evil may come of
it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness
was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been
privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was
afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man;
but this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I
was saying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the
chevalier I spoke of had been at the château, and, at last, his ill
treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any
visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was her
constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never
complained. “After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken
ill, and I thought her long fretting had made her so,—but, alas! I fear
it was worse than that.”

“Worse! Dorothée,” said Emily, “can that be possible?”

“I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will
only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis—”

“Hush, Dorothée, what sounds were those?” said Emily. Dorothée changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they
heard, on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness. “I have surely heard that voice before!” said Emily, at length. “I have often heard it, and at this same hour,” said Dorothée,
solemnly, “and, if spirits ever bring music—that is surely the music of
one!”

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had
formerly heard at the time of her father’s death, and, whether it was
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that she
was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much
affected, that she had nearly fainted. “I think I once told you, madam,” said Dorothée, “that I first heard
this music, soon after my lady’s death! I well remember the night!”—
“Hark! it comes again!” said Emily, “let us open the window, and
listen.”

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into
distance, and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the
woods, whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while
every other feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade,
which, however, allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in
the garden below. As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe upon
the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothée, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative. “I was saying, ma’amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that
music. It was one night, soon after my lady’s death, that I had sat up
later than usual, and I don’t know how it was, but I had been thinking
a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately
witnessed. The château was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a
good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the
mournful things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low
spirited, for I felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened
often, wishing to hear a sound in the château, for you know,
ma’amselle, when one can hear people moving, one does not so much mind,
about one’s fears. But all the servants were gone to bed, and I sat,
thinking and thinking, till I was almost afraid to look round the room,
and my poor lady’s countenance often came to my mind, such as I had
seen her when she was dying, and, once or twice, I almost thought I saw
her before me,—when suddenly I heard such sweet music! It seemed just
at my window, and I shall never forget what I felt. I had not power to
move from my chair, but then, when I thought it was my dear lady’s
voice, the tears came to my eyes. I had often heard her sing, in her
life-time, and to be sure she had a very fine voice; it had made me cry
to hear her, many a time, when she has sat in her oriel, of an evening,
playing upon her lute such sad songs, and singing so. O! it went to
one’s heart! I have listened in the ante-chamber, for the hour
together, and she would sometimes sit playing, with the window open,
when it was summer time, till it was quite dark, and when I have gone
in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed to know what hour it was. But, as
I said, madam,” continued Dorothée, “when first I heard the music, that
came just now, I thought it was my late lady’s, and I have often
thought so again, when I have heard it, as I have done at intervals,
ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone by, but still it has
returned.”

“It is extraordinary,” observed Emily, “that no person has yet
discovered the musician.”

“Aye, ma’amselle, if it had been anything earthly it would have been
discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and
if they had, what good could it do?—for spirits, _you know_, ma’am, can
take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and,
the next perhaps, in a quite different place!”

“Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,” said Emily, “and acquaint
me with the manner of her death.”

“I will, ma’am,” said Dorothée, “but shall we leave the window?”

“This cool air refreshes me,” replied Emily, “and I love to hear it
creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape.