# German Stories/The Sisters

Translation of "Die Verwandtschaft mit der Geisterwelt" from Gespensterbuch volume 1 (1810).
THE SISTERS.
It happened once at Manheim, in the year 175—, late in the month of October, that there had been a frightful tempest through the night. The roads were become almost impassable from the rain, and three young ladies, who had been for some time inseparable companions in the public gardens, found themselves debarred of their usual promenade. Amelia and Maria, however, would by no means be prevented from making their appearance, at the hour appointed, in the house of their friend Florentine, for she had through the last fortnight been so reserved, melancholy, and nervous, that they had no doubt the storm must have alarmed and disturbed her exceedingly. Indeed, there had ​been wind, rain, hail, and thunder, enough to banish sleep from the couch of every inhabitant in the town.
Just as they expected, Florentine came to receive them, evidently in great agitation, and embraced them, even with more than usual affection. “A fine morning for our excursion!” said Amelia, trying to assume a tone of pleasantry; “How have you got through that awful night?” “Not very tranquilly, as you may suppose,” said Florentine; “this house, you are aware, is none of the best; the situation too is exposed; and I thought every moment it would have been blown down about our ears.” “It is well then that you are not to remain in it long,” said Maria, smiling rather archly. “Aye, very true!” replied Florentine, “to-morrow is the day fixed for the Count’s return from Italy. His last letter was dated from Berne. He is in hopes that our marriage will take place immediately, and that we shall set out directly afterwards for his grand castle near Hanover.”
“He is only in hopes then?” said Maria; “you pronounced these words, too, in a tone so mysterious, that I could almost think you in​tended to disappoint him.—“Not I indeed!” answered. Florentine, “but how many hopes of this life are, unawares, blighted in the bud!” “Dearest Florentine!” said Maria, again embracing her, “for a long time already, my sister and I have been perplexing ourselves in vain, to find out what could have thus destroyed the wonted high spirits of our beloved friend? To say the truth, we have tormented ourselves with the thought, that perhaps some family considerations might have constrained you to this marriage with the Count, and that it is quite against your own wishes.” “Family considerations!” answered Florentine; alas! you forget that I am now quite alone in the world. Our race is almost extinct,—for I am the only branch that is not already mouldering in the ancestral vaults. Besides, have I not confessed to you, that I love the Count with my whole heart! Or, did you think that I had lost all regard for truth, when, about a month ago, I gave you such a brilliant description of his character? “Nay, how can we know what to believe?” said Maria. “Is it not an obvious and unaccountable contradiction, that a betrothed bride, as you are, possessed too of beauty, fortune, and talents; ​moreover, who has not to encounter the pain of leaving a beloved domestic circle, should, in spite of all this, look forward with visible apprehension and melancholy to her marriage day!”
Florentine gave a hand to each of her friends. “You are, indeed, too good, and too anxious about me,” said she; “I ought to be ashamed of having so long kept up that mysterious reserve of which you complain. At this moment, indeed, I am not well enough to enter on any explanations;—but, some time to-day I shall speak with you more composedly, and all will be cleared up. For the present, I beseech you, let us choose some other subject.” The violent nervous excitement which Florentine betrayed made her friends readily comply with this suggestion,—and, as usual on such occasions, they had again recourse to the weather. Amelia began to describe, as humorously as she could, all the effects and varieties of last night’s tempest, till Maria interposed in rather a serious tone—“In truth, I must confess, that for my own part, I thought frequently there was somewhat far more than usual or natural in the disturbances of that storm. Many times it seemed to me as if the window of ​our bed-room was opened and shut again. I could have believed that some one had come in, and was drawing nearer and nearer to my bed. I heard the sound of measured steps on the floor,—tramp,—tramp,—so that I shivered with terror, and hid myself, as fast as possible, under the bed-clothes.” “Oh!” cried Amelia “don’t speak of this, I beseech you! I dare not tell how often I myself have heard such noises, though I have never in my life, seen any thing more than ordinary!” “So much the better;—God grant that you never may!” The solemn tone, and disquietude of eye, with which these words were pronounced, alarmed her friends. “Have you then ever seen an apparition?” said Amelia. “Not exactly,—not in the sense in which you have put the question,” replied Florentine, “and yet,——however, you must for a while suspend your curiosity. In the evening, if I live,—I mean if I should be better then,—I shall tell you all.”
Maria here twitched her sister by the sleeve, and the latter directly understood the signal. They both concluded that Florentine would willingly be left alone, and, anxious as they felt on account of her evident low spirits, it was not like​ly that the prolonged intrusion of their company would now do her any service. In taking her shawl from the table, Maria made a discovery, that proved more than ever her friend’s state of mind. She found a large prayer book open, in which Florentine had been reading,—and on glancing at the rubric—she saw, “Hymns for the dying, and prayers for the dead.” An ice-cold shuddering shook her frame as she read these words, and the friends parted with tears and sobs, even though their separation was to be for so short a time—almost as if they were never to meet again in this world.
At last, however, the wished-for evening interview drew on,—and the two sisters were delighted to find that Florentine was able to receive them with perfect cheerfulness, as if every painful impression of the morning had been forgotten. “You must excuse all my folly, at your last kind kind visit,” said she, “for in truth I had been quite worn out by want of sleep, and the constant alarm of that terrible night. Besides, I thought that I was on the very brink of the grave,—I could not banish this apprehension,—therefore, after you had gone, I wrote out my last will and ​testament, which is, by this time, deposited safely in the Council Chamber with the Magistrates. However, since dinner time, I have had two hours of sound sleep, and feel myself so much recovered, that I could almost laugh at all my terrors of the morning.” “But, my dearest Florentine,” said Maria, “who in all the world would be led to fancies like these,—who would think of approaching death, or the nesessity of writing one’s last will, merely on account of a sleepless night, and a thunder storm?” “Nay, nay,” answered Florentine, “this would indeed be very absurd; and I by no means wish you to suppose that the tempest alone caused my distress of mind. My feelings were indeed wound up already to a point which rendered any farther excitement unnecessary and superfluous. But it is time for me to give over speaking in riddles, and to fulfil my promise. You must be prepared to hear details which are not a little extraordinary,—perhaps almost incredible. In the first place, however, let us order a blazing fire,—for if my stories alone are enough to freeze the blood, it is better that the cold damp air of this room should not add its influence.”
While the servants kindled the fire, and laid ​some billets of wood on the hearth for keeping it up, Maria and her sister expressed their satisfaction and delight at finding such an improvement in Florentine’s state of mind and spirits; the latter also assured them that she was relieved, beyond measure by the resolution she had taken to share with them that load of mysterious, apprehension to which she had been so long subjected. So, when the servants had retired, and they took their places round the fire, she began as follows:
“You were both well acquainted with my dear sister Seraphina, but yet,—there was not one individual, but myself, who had been in reality admitted to her confidence. Therefore, before I come to the story of which she is the proper heroine, it will be requisite that I should tell you somewhat more than you could have guessed of her true character. Even in her, earliest infancy Seraphina appeared quite different from all other children. She was a year younger than me; yet when we were placed in the nursery with all our playthings around us, and I was quite lost to myself and all the world in the amusement which they afforded, she would sit, even for hours together, with her eyes fixed on ​the ground, and no one could guess what really attracted her attention. In short, she took no sort of interest either in the amusements or the tasks of other children,—but our father and mother did not give themselves much concern about this matter. They concluded, indeed, that Seraphina’s abstraction was owing merely to a bluntness of perception and feelings, which would always prove a formidable obstacle against her acquisition of those accomplishments suited to her rank. It was proposed, therefore, to send her to a convent, where the sisters devoted their leisure hours to the instruction of young ladies; when, unexpectedly, an old clergyman, who had long been employed to give lessons in our family, assured Seraphina’s friends that he had never, in all his life, met with any child whose mind was more susceptible and powerful than hers. From henceforward, then, our house was constantly beset with masters for languages, drawing, dancing, music, and so forth; but it was soon found, that, among so many pursuits, there was only one in which Seraphina would make any progress. The grammarians, painters, and dancing-masters, shrugged their shoulders, and declared that their ​attendance was in vain; while, on the other hand, the musicians were nonplussed for a very different reason,—for Seraphina soon excelled, in this art, all her instructors. More especially, her voice was so exquisite, that not one of our opera-singers could compare with her.
“My, father perceived, therefore, that his plans for this extraordinary child’s education were at one time too confined, at another too excursive—in short, that, for the future, he must allow her to follow the bent of her own disposition. Consequently, Seraphina took an opportunity of requesting, that she might be allowed to take instructions in a science, which, probably, no one would ever have thought of recommending to her, namely, that of astronomy. It is impossible to, conceive with what impassioned eagerness she seized upon, and studied every work that treated of the stars, or with what rapture she received the telescopes of which my father made her a present at Christmas, when she was in her thirteenth year. But, in a short time, astronomy was not sufficient to satisfy her imagination. She revived the old and forgotten study of astrology; and, many times, to the great vexation of her ​friends, she was found absorbed over horoscopes which she had herself drawn, after attentively surveying the stars. My mother died not long after Seraphina had begun these extraordinary employments, and, on her death-bed, she wished, with her last blessing, to warn her daughter against them; but weakness had increased rapidly, and she was unable to speak as she intended. It was hoped, that, in time, such absurd studies would lose their influence on Seraphina’s mind; but, on the contrary, as she advanced to womanhood, she seemed to persevere in them even more than ever.
“You are aware, my dear friends, how much she was admired at court—how graceful was her figure—how glossy and luxuriant her hair—above all, how unequalled in beauty were her large blue eyes, which oftentimes shone, indeed, with a kind of supernatural lustre, that the beholders felt in their very hearts, but which no poet could ever adequately describe. Many offers of marriage were made to her in vain;—and, for the most part, you know, her time was spent either in seclusion, or with me alone for her companion. She had a great dislike for fine dresses, and outward ​show of any kind, avoiding, as much as possible, all occasions where such parade would have been required of her. It was but among those who were quite ignorant of her real character, that such conduct could have been ascribed to affectation.
“Seraphina was in her fifteenth year, when, by mere accident, I made the discovery of a phenomenon in her existence, which filled me with such terror, that through my whole life I have never thoroughly recovered from the impression of that adventure. I had been out making some visits, and on my return, found Seraphina standing at the window of my father’s study, seemingly absorbed in deep reverie, and with her eyes fixed like those of a marble statue. I had been so accustomed to those moods of silent abstraction, that though I wished her to speak, I did not like to disturb her,—but looked from the window into the garden, where, to my utter astonishment, I saw my father walking, and with him—the identical Seraphina, who now stood motionless beside me. ‘Heaven have mercy!” cried I aloud, and ready to faint,—but at that moment the form, that had till now stood like a lifeless statue, began to move. I looked again to the garden, and saw that my father was ​alone, and was gazing around him, as if perplexed by the absence of his companion.
“I dared not alarm Seraphina by asking her many questions, but she, on the other hand, was exceedingly anxious to know the cause of my agitation. I evaded the subject as well as I could, but asked if she had been long in the study? ‘Nay, Florentine,’ said she with a smile, ‘what means this? You should know best how to answer that inquiry. I came hither after you, and had been walking in the garden. At least I think so—but am not very sure.’
“This half-consciousness of what had just taken place would not alone have surprised me, as she had often be so absent as to forget all that passed around her. But just then my father came into the room. ‘Seraphina,’ said he rather sternly, ‘tell me how you got out of my sight all of a sudden? You know I was just about to answer what you had said,—when I found that you had disappeared in the shrubbery. I sought you there in vain—and now you are in the house before me!’ ‘It is very strange!’ answered she, ‘and, for my own part, I know not how all this has happened!’ From that hour, I was forced to believe ​the assertions of people, who had insisted, that at the very time when we knew that Seraphina was sitting at home, and in our own presence, she had been seen elsewhere. Besides, I recollected, that, during her childhood, she often used to speak of being carried away from this earth; whether in dreams or supernaturally was unexplained, and that she had been with angels in Heaven; to which circumstance were attributed her disregard and indifference, when her young companions wished her to join in their usual plays.
“My father, however, would never believe any of these rumours,—nor would he now listen to what I told him privately of Seraphina being visible at one and the same moment in the library and the garden. ‘Say no more, I command you,’ he exclaimed, ‘I have heard quite enough of those wonders and miracles with which, your own imagination so amply supplies you. It is true, indeed, that Seraphina’s character is extraordinary. She is by no means like other young people of the same age and rank; but, as to her appearing in different places at one moment, or her intercourse with supernatural beings, and the world of spirits, I shall certainly ​never be persuaded into the belief of such absurdity.’ Alas! my father did not reflect, that when we poor mortals speak of our own future conduct and feelings the word never is one which may not be used rashly!
“About a year and a half afterwards, there took place another adventure, which was well calculated to overturn all his usual opinions. One Sunday, Seraphina and I were both reminded of a visit, for which we had been engaged long before; but, though she always regretted our separation, even for a short interval, yet she would give up my society, when, as on the present occasion, it must be retained at the expence of going to a crowded party. Even the preliminary task of dressing for such an assembly, was to her an insupportable torment, for she recollected all the while, that this trouble was for no other purpose but to bring her amidst a circle of people, whose shallow intellects, and affected politeness, were in the utmost degree repulsive and disgusting. Besides, she never failed, at these large parties, to meet with individuals, whose physiognomies were such, that she could not speak to them without shud​dering, and even whose presence, for a short time, made her really ill for several days afterwards.
“On this occasion, when the hour approached she wished that I should go without her, when my father, suspecting what would happen, came into our room, and insisted that she should alter her intentions. ‘One cannot renounce the world altogether,’ said he, ‘and there are some invitations, which it is our indispensable duty to accept.’ In fine, he gave an absolute command that Seraphina should dress as quickly as possible, and go with me. I had just before sent away my waiting-maid, so that my sister herself took the light, and went up stairs for her ball dress, which hung in a narrow closet, or rather press, adjoining a large room on the floor above.
“She staid a longer time than could have been required for an errand of this kind, and when she at last returned, her whole appearance was so much changed, that I could not help uttering a scream of terror. My father, too, exclaimed in a tone of anxiety and compassion—‘Child—child! What, in all the world, has happened to you?’ She had not been absent above a quarter of an hour, yet the expression of ​her features was completely altered; there never was much colour in her cheeks, but now they were of an ashy paleness, and even her lips were of a deathlike hue. Almost unconscious of what I did, I ran to embrace her; I could not speak; only my looks implored that she would explain what misfortune had happened to her. For a long time, however, she lay in my arms, silent and motionless, and it was but the kind and affectionate expression of her bright blue eyes, by which we could know that her attention was not wholly withdrawn from this world.
“‘It was a sudden illness that seized me,’ she said at length—‘one of my old nervous attacks; but I am much better already, and shall be quite well soon.’ ‘Then she inquired if my father still wished that she should go to the party, but, under present circumstances, he, of course, allowed that this would be hazardous, insisting, however, that I should go, though I urged, as much as I dared, that my attendance would be indispensable for Seraphina; yet, in the end, I was obliged to set out, though, to part from her at such a time grieved me to the heart. I had ordered the carriage, at an early hour, to bring me away, yet ​my disquietude was so great, that I could not wait for it, and at last determined, on walking home, attended by a friend’s servant, who could scarcely keep pace with me, for, indeed, I ran all the way.
“Arrived at home, however, my impatience to be with her again was not immediately gratified, for I found her apartment deserted. ‘Where is she?’ I demanded with vehemence. ‘Mademoiselle Seraphina,’ said the lacquey, ‘is in his Excellency’s cabinet.’—‘Alone, then?’—‘No—she is with his Excellency.’—I hastened to the study, and found the door locked against me; however, when they heard my voice, it was opened immediately, and they both came to meet me. Seraphina was in tears, and my father was agitated to a degree which I should have thought impossible in a state minister of his talents and experience. She at once understood my anxious looks, and took my arm, that we might retire together, but, before going, she was obliged to tranquillize my father, by an assurance that she would remember her promise, of which I knew not then the cause or purport. For some time after we had come into our own room, Seraphina seem​ed so much overpowered by conflicting emotions, that I was almost afraid to speak to her, but, at last, when I ventured to express my anxious wish to know what had happened above stairs, she said, ‘your curiosity must so far be gratified—at least I can explain to you part of this mystery—but not without making one explicit condition, to which, in the first place, you must agree solemnly. In short, you must swear to be satisfied with that which I disclose to you—not to misuse your influence over my heart, in order to bring out farther discoveries—nor even to express a desire of knowing that which I am bound to conceal from you!’—‘Well, then,—I do swear!’—‘And now, dearest Florentine,’ she continued, ‘forgive me, that, for the first time in my life, I should thus have thoughts in which you cannot share, and, for the first time, too, have looked on your mere promise as insufficient—but my father has compelled me to this course, and it was to this he alluded in that anxious tone, when we parted to-night.’—I only begged that she would come to an explanation within the prescribed limits, and at last she began:—
​“‘I cannot describe to you what an irresistible pressure of low spirits—almost of despair, had come over me, when I went for my ball-dress. When I had shut the door of this room, and was on my way up stairs, I could not help feeling as if I were to part from you, and from this life—yet that I had a long and dreary pilgrimage to go through,—many dark nights of suffering and sorrow,—before I could reach any home of rest. Certainly, the very air which I then inhaled was not the same element by which we are usually surrounded; indeed, I could scarcely breathe, and the pain of that conflict was such, that I felt cold drops, as if in the struggle with death, break out on my forehead. It is most certain, too, that I was not then alone on the staircase, though, for a long while, I did not venture to look round.
“You already know, Florentine, how fervently I prayed after our mother’s death,—but in vain,—that she would once more appear, and speak with me. Now I thought her ghost was moving behind me, and had come to punish and reprove me for my presumption in those prayers; yet it was a strange and foolish fancy, that she who was ever so good and kind, could thus have ​been offended by an affectionate daughter’s wish to see her again, especially, too, when many years were elapsed since that wish had been framed; and I felt so conscious of my own inconsistency, that at last I took courage, and looked for the ghost,—but whether my senses were too confused to discern objects, or that no one was there, I cannot tell. I did not perceive any thing unusual, yet as I advanced on the staircase, I heard of new, and always more distinctly, the sound of steps following close behind me. I came to the room-door on the corridor, however, but there my gown was held fast; I could proceed no farther, and sank down on the threshold in an agony of fear.
“‘In a few moments afterwards, I luckily discovered by the light of my candle, which had not been extinguished, that in this last accident there was nothing supernatural;—my dress had caught hold of an old chest of drawers, with rough brass handles, which had been placed in the corridor, to be removed on the following day. This gave me new courage; I felt indignant at my own folly, rose and went on to the clothes’ press; but think only, Florentine, what must have ​been my horror, when, just as I was about to lay my hand on the lock, the folding-doors opened of themselves without noise, my candle was extinguished, and precisely as if I had walked up to a mirror, I saw myself advancing from the closet. The figure was like a picture painted on a dark ground, visible by its own light, and giving out a kind of effulgence, by which other objects in the room were also to be distinguished. ‘Tremble not,—fear not!’ said a voice, ‘I am thine own spirit, thy second self, and am come to announce thy death, which is near at hand, and the fate which hangs over thy whole race!’ Thereafter, the spectre explained to me many events that are yet to come. I listened with a degree of calmness and reflection which is to myself wonderful, and, just as I had proposed a question on your account, feeling most anxious to receive an answer, the room became utterly dark, and all traces of the supernatural visitation were gone. ‘This, my dearest Florentine,’ concluded Seraphina, ‘is all that I am permitted to tell you.’
“‘Good Heaven!’ cried I, ‘your death, then, is near at hand?’ For that thought at the moment completely overpowered every other in my ​mind. Seraphina only nodded her assent, but, at the same time, made a sign, that, even on this point, I must not venture any farther questions. My father, she added, had given her his promise, that, when the proper time came, he would himself afford me the needful explanations.—‘When the proper time comes!’ I repeated in a half reproachful tone,—for after I had been told so much, and must undergo, in consequence, such grief and agitation, it seemed to me already full time that I should hear all the rest. I begged an interview with my father that same evening, and acquainted him with what had past, but to my request for more information, he remained inexorable. He said also that Seraphina’s adventure might, after all, have been but the natural effect of a highly excited and disordered imagination. But, as on the third day afterwards, my sister was indeed taken ill, and was confined to bed, his disbelief seemed nearly quite overcome, and though I had not yet learned that her dying day had been prophesied, I perceived too well from her deadly paleness, and the looks with which she regarded us, that her last moments were fast approaching. In the evening we were sitting be​side her, and she had been for some time engaged in prayer, when suddenly she inquired, ‘Has the clock not yet struck nine?’ ‘Not yet—but it is near the hour, answered my father.’ ‘Well then,—you will not forget me,’ said Seraphina, grasping my hand, ‘Ere long we shall meet again!’ Just as the clock began to strike nine, she sank back on her pillow and expired!
“All this I have repeated from the account given me by my father, for I was so completely overcome by the agony of my own feelings, that during that dreadful day of Seraphina’s illness, I knew not what passed around me. It was not till after her death, that I awoke again to self-consciousness—to resume my part in a world which now appeared to me like a desert. Besides, I could not help reproaching myself, that the state into which I was brought by my anxiety and horror, must have made me appear to Seraphina, as if I were wanting in due attention to her in her last moments. Even to this hour I never can think of that scene, without shuddering. After the day of her funeral, my father sat with me here in this room at the same hour of the evening. ‘You must be aware, Florentine,’ said he, ​‘that the time is not yet arrived to explain to you the farther prophecies of the apparition, as it has been called.’ I did not urge for any explanations—but could not help adding, ‘And yet, after a share of those prophecies, whatever they were, has been so frightfully fulfilled, can you speak of the apparition as if it were a delusion?’ ‘Alas! my dear child, answered my father, ‘you know not what a mysterious and dangerous companion every mortal has in his own imagination, and Seraphina will not be the last victim of this enemy!’ We were sitting, as I have said, in this room, just as we are now placed near the fire, which was nearly burned out, and I was about to answer what he had said, when I perceived that his looks were directed towards the door, with an expression of anxious and fearful attention. I could not discern any reason for this;—however, in the next minute, the door opened suddenly—though we heard no steps, nor did any one appear——’”
Here Florentine paused, as if overcome by her recollections, and Amelia, with a loud scream, started up from her chair. Her friends inquired what had disturbed her,—but she seemed afraid ​to answer, and would by no means return to her chair—of which the back was turned to the door. At length, looking round the room with a pale timid expression, she confessed that, just as Florentine had pronounced the last words “nor did any one appear,”—she had felt on her neck the pressure of an ice-cold hand. “There indeed we had no proof of delusive imagination;” exclaimed Maria, “as the ice-cold hand, it was no other than mine, for I had been leaning on your chair, and when, as I thought, Florentine was about to tell us of another ghost, I felt an impulse to cling, as if for protection, to some being that I knew was living and corporeal. But, what happened then?” “It was strange enough!” continued Florentine, “I started when the door opened, drew nearer to my father, and asked him whether he did not perceive a kind of effulgence coming from the door? It was not the gleam of the moon—nor of a candle, nor lamp—but I thought of what Seraphina had described of the figure seen by its own light, and believed that the spectre was again there. My father answered me with a calmness which I thought was affected—for his voice faltered, ‘Well, Florentine, if ​I did see the light of which you speak, might not this too be the delusion of our own disordered senses? We have both suffered deeply in the loss of that beloved and gentle being,—nor can it be wondered at, if our imaginations were even in the same state of excitement with her own. Besides, that a door should open, though no one enters, can be explained very naturally, and has happened a thousand times ere now.’ ‘On such occasions, one generally closes it again,’ said I, without, however, feeling courage to carry my suggestion into effect. ‘That is very easily done,’ said my father,—he rose and walked a few paces—trembled visibly, and turned back. ‘After all, we had best leave it open,’ added he, ‘for the room has for some time been much too warm.’ Of the light, as I have said, I can give no exact description, nor can compare it with aught that I have seen before, nor since—but had my sister’s ghost entered, I should have flown with open arms to meet her. It was the mysterious and awful uncertainty of that effulgence, that made me look on it with horror. Soon afterwards, several of our servants came with candles to arrange the ​supper-table, and nothing more occurred that was extraordinary.
“The lapse of time could not efface or diminish our remembrance of Seraphina, but had its usual influence in lessening the impression of that evening’s adventure. Not long afterwards, I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with my dear friends Amelia and Maria, in whose society I have agreeably spent many an hour that would otherwise have been lost in painful reflections; and as to the remaining prophecies, whose fulfilment yet hung over us, I endeavoured to banish them as much as possible from my mind. You remember how beautiful and delightful that month of April was, after we first met together. It happened once, that, after walking beyond the usual hour, you had returned home, but still the evening was so pleasant, that I lingered alone in the gardens adjoining to our house. The pure blue sky above—the glowing tints of the west—and fragrant air, were so enchanting, that I quite forgot how the time past, till a bat came oftentimes whirling and chirping round my head, and served as a monitor that I ought to have been with​in doors. At that moment, too, the thought came painfully into my mind,—ever since my sister’s death, if I chanced to stay abroad till a late hour, my father used to send one of the servants with a warm cloak or shawl, but now it seemed as if I were quite forgotten. At that idea, I felt a chillness in every limb, which the evening, though now become cool, could not have produced. By chance I was gazing at a walk shaded by fruit trees, now in full blossom, which had been a favourite haunt of Seraphina’s, and methought I beheld there gleams of the same light which had alarmed us on the night after her funeral. I ran thither, in hopes that she herself might appear to me, but was disappointed,—the light vanished, and I returned quickly homewards.
“On entering the house, I found here also much that was unusual and perplexing. I had supposed that supper would have been kept waiting on my account, but it seemed not even to have been thought of—on the contrary, the servants were all running to and fro, in the utmost confusion, packing up clothes, furniture, books, and papers. ‘What means all this—who is go​ing to travel?’ said I.—‘Good Heaven! do you not know?’ said my father’s chasseur, ‘his Excellency—you, Mademoiselle, and all of us.’—‘At what time, then, and whither?’—‘This very evening,—to the country.’—‘And for what reason?’ The man shrugged his shoulders without speaking, and I went on to my father’s study. ‘Seraphina’s second prophecy,’ said he, ‘has now been fulfilled; and this was of all the most improbable. I have been disgraced and deposed.’—‘And this, too, she had anticipated?’—‘Precisely so; but I concealed it from you of course. As for the rest, I submit willingly to this change of fortune, and leave my place as minister to one who may use more art, and remain longer in favour. I shall go to my house in the country,—and live only for your sake, and that of my own faithful tenants and adherents.’ Distressed to the heart, as I should have otherwise been by this misfortune, my father’s equanimity and decision of character tranquillized my feelings,—We set out at midnight, for he would not remain here an hour longer than was absolutely requisite. During the journey, he continued perfectly cheerful, and, on ​arriving at the castle, found so much there to arrange, which had long been, of necessity, delayed and neglected, that his active mind was at no loss for a proper sphere of exertion. Notwithstanding this, however, he was attacked, after some time, by an illness, which, from the commencement, the physicians declared to be dangerous. He followed the regimen which they prescribed, and avoided encountering too much fatigue either of mind or body,—yet without entertaining, himself, any hopes of recovery. ‘Seraphina,’ he now said, ‘was correct in two of her prophecies—for the third time, also, there is no doubt, that she will prove in the right!’ I was dreadfully agitated when I discovered, that, according to his own belief, death would soon overtake him. A change, every day for the worse, became obvious—he was confined to bed, and one evening desired to speak with me alone. ‘Experience,’ said he, in a feeble struggling voice, ‘has at length put an end to my disbelief. The ninth hour of this night is, according to Seraphina’s divination, to be the hour of my death; and, therefore, my dear child, I have a few ​words of admonishment to address to you. Remain, if it be possible, even as you now are, unmarried, and with your affections disengaged. It seems that Fate has determined on the final extinction of our family. More it is needless to say at present. But if you should ever meet with a lover worthy of your regard, remember, before your marriage-day, to examine and read the sealed paper which I now give to you. It is my decided command, however, that you shall not look into it unless these circumstances occur, because you would otherwise occasion to yourself needless disquietude.’ At these words, to which I listened with sobs and tears, he drew from under his pillow, and gave to me a small sealed packet, which I took, and have preserved according to his injunctions, but I thought little then of what might be its contents. Every other feeling was overpowered in my affliction. He died peacefully, while I was supporting him, precisely as the clock struck nine. On the evening after his funeral, the same unearthly radiance was seen in my chamber.
“You know that, being unable to support a ​life of solitude in the country, I came in a short time back to the capital, that I might enjoy the society of my two beloved friends. You are aware how long I remained inconsolable, but your ceaseless endeavours had succeeded in restoring me to cheerfulness, and I joined, like others of my own age, in the diversions of the beau monde. My father had, indeed, advised me to avoid marriage, but had made this no positive condition. Count Bruno paid his addresses, and appeared to me, in every respect, so amiable, that I could not help returning his affection. I believe, however, that my father had overlooked one effect, which, of necessity, followed his entrusting me with that mysterious packet; for if I never resolved on marriage, it was impossible that I could ever break the seal, or know what Seraphina had divined regarding me. As I had accepted the Count’s proposal, and our nuptials were even fixed, there could be no reason for longer delay. I examined the paper, therefore, and shall now read to you its contents, which are as follows.
‘Seraphina, no doubt, informed you, that when she wished to question the apparition about your ​future destiny, the light and the figure had suddenly vanished. That supernatural being, who, as I have reason to think, was the ghost of an unfortunate ancestress, had already announced that you must die at the ninth hour, three days before that appointed for your wedding. Seraphina intended to put the question, whether, by avoiding every such engagement, your life could be saved? Alas, no answer to this question can now be obtained, yet it is my conviction, that, on the path to the altar, you can only arrive at your own destruction. However, I left you no positive injunctions against marriage, because I knew not, if, by this means, your death could have been averted. Think what you ought to do, if it be not already too late. Should it be possible for my spirit to return to the world, I shall hover near you, when these lines are first read.’”
Florentine folded up the letter in silence, and a long pause of painful reflection occurred, before another word was uttered by any one. At length she resumed, “From the day on which I perused this letter, must be dated that change in my disposition, for which you, my dear friends, have some​times reproached me. The time of our intended nuptials was fixed by the Count’s letters from Berne, before I consulted the warning—but say, would not any one in my situation be rendered miserable,—even sunk in despondency by the thought, that death inevitably awaits her with the approach of that event to which she had looked forward as the source of her greatest happiness? Now, then, I have told you all;—for, to-morrow, the Count will certainly arrive. In two days afterwards we are to meet publicly at the altar of St Mary’s church.”
“So, then—this very day,”—cried Amelia, turning deadly pale, and looking at a small clock on the secretaire, which was even now on the stroke of nine. “Yes, indeed,” said Florentine, “yet I feel myself so much recovered—so much more cheerful than I have been for a long time, that methinks death cannot so soon overtake me. I have rather been impressed, through this evening, with a belief that my so fondly cherished wish may be fulfilled—that my beloved sister will appear to me, and announce that the fearful prophecy has for once been revoked. Dearest Se​raphina—thou wert so suddenly, so untimely taken from me, before I could prove how much I loved thee!—Oh might it be granted me but to see thee once more!”
Motionless with anxiety and terror, Amelia and Maria gazed on the clock, which now began to strike. The last glimmering flame of the wood-fire died away—and the room was for a moment dark. “Welcome—Oh welcome!” cried Florentine in a tone of rapture, and rose with her arms extended, advancing to the door which then opened. Amidst a radiance like that of the full moon in the midnight sky,—the apparition of Seraphina appeared. Florentine flew into her embrace. “Thine for ever!” These words were heard, but no one knew who had pronounced them, or if both sisters had spoken at one moment.
Immediately the servants rushed into the apartment, for they had been alarmed by a sound as if all the glass and porcelain in the house had been broken with one great crash. They found their beloved mistress lifeless on the threshold, and all attempts to restore her proved in vain. The ​physicians ascribed her death to natural causes—but Amelia and Maria thought far differently, and never, through their lives, forgot the horror of that night.
END OF VOLUME FIRST.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY JOHN STARK.
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