John spent nearly the whole of this summer vacation at Worth Maltravers.
He had been anxious to pay a visit to Royston; but the continued and
serious illness of Mrs. Temple's sister had called her and Constance to
Scotland, where they remained until the death of their relative allowed
them to return to Derbyshire in the late autumn. John and I had been
brought up together from childhood. When he was at Eton we had always
spent the holidays at Worth, and after my dear mother's death, when we
were left quite alone, the bonds of our love were naturally drawn still
closer. Even after my brother went to Oxford, at a time when most young
men are anxious to enjoy a new-found liberty, and to travel or to visit
friends in their vacation, John's ardent affection for me and for Worth
Maltravers kept him at home; and he was pleased on most occasions to
make me the partner of his thoughts and of his pleasures. This long
vacation of 1842 was, I think, the happiest of our lives. In my case I
know it was so, and I think it was happy also for him; for none could
guess that the small cloud seen in the distance like a man's hand was
afterwards to rise and darken all his later days. It was a summer of
brilliant and continued sunshine; many of the old people said that they
could never recollect so fine a season, and both fruit and crops were
alike abundant. John hired a small cutter-yacht, the _Palestine_, which
he kept in our little harbour of Encombe, and in which he and I made
many excursions, visiting Weymouth, Lyme Regis, and other places of
interest on the south coast.
In this summer my brother confided to me two secrets,--his love
for Constance Temple, which indeed was after all no secret, and the
history of the apparition which he had seen. This last filled me with
inexpressible dread and distress. It seemed cruel and unnatural that any
influence so dark and mysterious should thus intrude on our bright life,
and from the first I had an impression which I could not entirely shake
off, that any such appearance or converse of a disembodied spirit must
portend misfortune, if not worse, to him who saw or heard it. It never
occurred to me to combat or to doubt the reality of the vision; he
believed that he had seen it, and his conviction was enough to convince
me. He had meant, he said, to tell no one, and had given a promise to
Mr. Gaskell to that effect; but I think that he could not bear to keep
such a matter in his own breast, and within the first week of his
return he made me his confidant. I remember, my dear Edward, the look
everything wore on that sad night when he first told me what afterwards
proved so terrible a secret. We had dined quite alone, and he had been
moody and depressed all the evening. It was a chilly night, with some
fret blowing up from the sea. The moon showed that blunted and deformed
appearance which she assumes a day or two past the full, and the
moisture in the air encircled her with a stormy-looking halo. We had
stepped out of the dining-room windows on to the little terrace looking
down towards Smedmore and Encombe. The glaucous shrubs that grow in
between the balusters were wet and dripping with the salt breath of the
sea, and we could hear the waves coming into the cove from the west.
After standing a minute I felt chill, and proposed that we should go
back to the billiard-room, where a fire was lit on all except the
warmest nights. "No," John said, "I want to tell you something, Sophy,"
and then we walked on to the old boat summer-house. There he told me
everything. I cannot describe to you my feelings of anguish and horror
when he told me of the appearance of the man. The interest of the tale
was so absorbing to me that I took no note of time, nor of the cold
night air, and it was only when it was all finished that I felt how
deadly chill it had become. "Let us go in, John," I said; "I am cold and
feel benumbed."
But youth is hopeful and strong, and in another week the impression had
faded from our minds, and we were enjoying the full glory of midsummer
weather, which I think only those know who have watched the blue sea
come rippling in at the foot of the white chalk cliffs of Dorset.
I had felt a reluctance even so much as to hear the air of the
_Gagliarda_, and though he had spoken to me of the subject on more than
one occasion, my brother had never offered to play it to me. I knew that
he had the copy of Graziani's suites with him at Worth Maltravers,
because he had told me that he had brought it from Oxford; but I had
never seen the book, and fancied that he kept it intentionally locked
up. He did not, however, neglect the violin, and during the summer
mornings, as I sat reading or working on the terrace, I often heard him
playing to himself in the library. Though he had never even given me any
description of the melody of the _Gagliarda_, yet I felt certain that he
not infrequently played it. I cannot say how it was; but from the moment
that I heard him one morning in the library performing an air set in a
curiously low key, it forced itself upon my attention, and I knew, as it
were by instinct, that it must be the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita."
He was using a _sordino_ and playing it very softly; but I was not
mistaken. One wet afternoon in October, only a week before the time of
his leaving us to return to Oxford for the autumn term, he walked into
the drawing-room where I was sitting, and proposed that we should play
some music together. To this I readily agreed. Though but a mediocre
performer, I have always taken much pleasure in the use of the
pianoforte, and esteemed it an honour whenever he asked me to play with
him, since my powers as a musician were so very much inferior to his.
After we had played several pieces, he took up an oblong music-book
bound in white vellum, placed it upon the desk of the pianoforte, and
proposed that we should play a suite by Graziani. I knew that he meant
the "Areopagita," and begged him at once not to ask me to play it. He
rallied me lightly on my fears, and said it would much please him to
play it, as he had not heard the pianoforte part since he had left
Oxford three months ago. I saw that he was eager to perform it, and
being loath to disoblige so kind a brother during the last week of his
stay at home, I at length overcame my scruples and set out to play it.
But I was so alarmed at the possibility of any evil consequences
ensuing, that when we commenced the _Gagliarda_ I could scarcely find
my notes. Nothing in any way unusual, however, occurred; and being
reassured by this, and feeling an irresistible charm in the music, I
finished the suite with more appearance of ease. My brother, however,
was, I fear, not satisfied with my performance, and compared it, very
possibly, with that of Mr. Gaskell, to which it was necessarily much
inferior, both through weakness of execution and from my insufficient
knowledge of the principles of the _basso continuo_. We stopped playing,
and John stood looking out of the window across the sea, where the sky
was clearing low down under the clouds. The sun went down behind
Portland in a fiery glow which cheered us after a long day's rain. I had
taken the copy of Graziani's suites off the desk, and was holding it on
my lap turning over the old foxed and yellow pages. As I closed it a
streak of evening sunlight fell across the room and lighted up a coat
of arms stamped in gilt on the cover. It was much faded and would
ordinarily have been hard to make out; but the ray of strong light
illumined it, and in an instant I recognised the same shield which Mr.
Gaskell had pictured to himself as hanging on the musicians' gallery of
his phantasmal dancing-room. My brother had often recounted to me this
effort of his friend's imagination, and here I saw before me the same
florid foreign blazon, a cherub's head blowing on three lilies on a gold
field. This discovery was not only of interest, but afforded me much
actual relief; for it accounted rationally for at least one item of the
strange story. Mr. Gaskell had no doubt noticed at some time this shield
stamped on the outside of the book, and bearing the impression of it
unconsciously in his mind, had reproduced it in his imagined revels.
I said as much to my brother, and he was greatly interested, and after
examining the shield agreed that this was certainly a probable solution
of that part of the mystery. On the 12th of October John returned to
Oxford.