I could distinguish no words, but there was a dreamy sense of music in the air that seemed to grow ever louder and louder, as if coming nearer to us. We stood quite silent, and in another minute the two children appeared, coming straight towards us through an arched opening among the trees. Each had an arm round the other, and the setting sun shed a golden halo round their heads, like what one sees in pictures of saints. They were looking in our direction, but evidently did not see us, and I soon made out that Lady Muriel had for once passed into a condition familiar to me, that we were both of us “eerie,” and that, though we could see the children so plainly, we were quite invisible to them.
The song ceased just as they came into sight: but, to my delight, Bruno instantly said “Let’s sing it all again, Sylvie! It did sound so pretty!” And Sylvie replied “Very well. It’s you to begin, you know.”
So Bruno began, in the sweet childish treble I knew so well:—
“Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What’s the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?”
And now ensued quite the strangest of all the strange experiences that marked the wonderful year whose history I am writing—the experience of first hearing Sylvie’s voice in song. Her part was a very short one—only a few words—and she sang it timidly, and very low indeed, scarcely audibly, but the sweetness of her voice was simply indescribable; I have never heard any earthly music like it.
“ ’Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—
And the name of the secret is Love!”
On me the first effect of her voice was a sudden sharp pang that seemed to pierce through one’s very heart. (I had felt such a pang only once before in my life, and it had been from seeing what, at the moment, realised one’s idea of perfect beauty—it was in a London exhibition, where, in making my way through a crowd, I suddenly met, face to face, a child of quite unearthly beauty.) Then came a rush of burning tears to the eyes, as though one could weep one’s soul away for pure delight. And lastly there fell on me a sense of awe that was almost terror—some such feeling as Moses must have had when he heard the words “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.” The figures of the children became vague and shadowy, like glimmering meteors: while their voices rang together in exquisite harmony as they sang:—
“For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
By this time I could see them clearly once more. Bruno again sang by himself:—
“Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,
Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?
That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning
For the brotherly handgrip of peace?
Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills
Around us, beneath, and above?”
Sylvie sang more courageously, this time: the words seemed to carry her away, out of herself:—
“ ’Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes:
But the name of the secret is Love!”
And clear and strong the chorus rang out:—
“For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
Once more we heard Bruno’s delicate little voice alone:—
“Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?”
And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:—
“ ’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though ’tis sung, by the angels above,
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—
And the name of the secret is Love!”
And then Bruno joined in again with
“For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!”
“That are pretty!” the little fellow exclaimed, as the children passed us—so closely that we drew back a little to make room for them, and it seemed we had only to reach out a hand to touch them: but this we did not attempt.
“No use to try and stop them!” I said, as they passed away into the shadows. “Why, they could not even see us!”
“No use at all,” Lady Muriel echoed with a sigh. “One would like to meet them again, in living form! But I feel, somehow, that can never be. They have passed out of our lives!” She sighed again; and no more was said, till we came out into the main road, at a point near my lodgings.
“Well, I will leave you here,” she said. “I want to get back before dark: and I have a cottage-friend to visit, first. Good night, dear friend! Let us see you soon—and often!” she added, with an affectionate warmth that went to my very heart. “For those are few we hold as dear!”
“Good night!” I answered. “Tennyson said that of a worthier friend than me.”
“Tennyson didn’t know what he was talking about!” she saucily rejoined, with a touch of her old childish gaiety; and we parted.
