The summer was spent by us in the company of Mrs. Temple and Constance,
partly at Royston and partly at Worth Maltravers. John had again
hired the cutter-yacht _Palestine_, and the whole party made several
expeditions in her. Constance was entirely devoted to her lover; her
life seemed wrapped up in his; she appeared to have no existence except
in his presence.
I can scarcely enumerate the reasons which prompted such thoughts, but
during these months I sometimes found myself wondering if John still
returned her affection as ardently as I knew had once been the case.
I can certainly call to mind no single circumstance which could justify
me in such a suspicion. He performed punctiliously all those thousand
little acts of devotion which are expected of an accepted lover; he
seemed to take pleasure in perfecting any scheme of enjoyment to amuse
her; and yet the impression grew in my mind that he no longer felt the
same heart-whole love to her that she bore him, and that he had himself
shown six months earlier. I cannot say, my dear Edward, how lively was
the grief that even the suspicion of such a fact caused me, and I
continually rebuked myself for entertaining for a moment a thought so
unworthy, and dismissed it from my mind with reprobation. Alas! ere long
it was sure again to make itself felt. We had all seen the Stradivarius
violin; indeed it was impossible for my brother longer to conceal it
from us, as he now played continually on it. He did not recount to us
the story of its discovery, contenting himself with saying that he had
become possessed of it at Oxford. We imagined naturally that he had
purchased it; and for this I was sorry, as I feared Mr. Thoresby, his
guardian, who had given him some years previously an excellent violin by
Pressenda, might feel hurt at seeing his present so unceremoniously laid
aside. None of us were at all intimately acquainted with the fancies of
fiddle-collectors, and were consequently quite ignorant of the enormous
value that fashion attached to so splendid an instrument. Even had
we known, I do not think that we should have been surprised at John
purchasing it; for he had recently come of age, and was in possession of
so large a fortune as would amply justify him in such an indulgence had
he wished to gratify it. No one, however, could remain unaware of the
wonderful musical qualities of the instrument. Its rich and melodious
tones would commend themselves even to the most unmusical ear, and
formed a subject of constant remark. I noticed also that my brother's
knowledge of the violin had improved in a very perceptible manner, for
it was impossible to attribute the great beauty and power of his present
performance entirely to the excellence of the instrument he was using.
He appeared more than ever devoted to the art, and would shut himself
up in his room alone for two or more hours together for the purpose of
playing the violin--a habit which was a source of sorrow to Constance,
for he would never allow her to sit with him on such occasions, as she
naturally wished to do.
So the summer fled. I should have mentioned that in July, after going up
to complete the _viva-voce_ part of their examination, both Mr. Gaskell
and John received information that they had obtained "first-classes."
The young men had, it appears, done excellently well, and both had
secured a place in that envied division of the first-class which was
called "above the line." John's success proved a source of much pleasure
to us all, and mutual congratulations were freely exchanged. We were
pleased also at Mr. Gaskell's high place, remembering the kindness which
he had shown us at Oxford in the previous year. I desired to send him
my compliments and felicitations when he should next be writing to him.
I did not doubt that my brother would return Mr. Gaskell's
congratulations, which he had already received: he said, however, that
his friend had given no address to which he could write, and so the
matter dropped.
On the 1st of September John and Constance Temple were married. The
wedding took place at Royston, and by John's special desire (with which
Constance fully agreed) the ceremony was of a strictly private and
unpretentious nature. The newly married pair had determined to spend
their honeymoon in Italy, and left for the Continent in the forenoon.
Mrs. Temple invited me to remain with her for the present at Royston,
which I was very glad to do, feeling deeply the loss of a favourite
brother, and looking forward with dismay to six weeks of loneliness
which must elapse before I should again see him and my dearest
Constance.
We received news of our travellers about a fortnight afterwards, and
then heard from them at frequent intervals. Constance wrote in the best
of spirits, and with the keenest appreciation. She had never travelled
in Switzerland or Italy before and all was enchantingly novel to her.
They had journeyed through Basle to Lucerne, spending a few days in that
delightful spot, and thence proceeding by the Simplon Pass to Lugano and
the Italian lakes. Then we heard that they had gone further south than
had been at first contemplated; they had reached Rome, and were
intending to go on to Naples.
After the first few weeks we neither of us received any more letters
from John. It was always Constance who wrote, and even her letters
grew very much less frequent than had at first been the case. This was
perhaps natural, as the business of travel no doubt engrossed their
thoughts. But ere long we both perceived that the letters of our dear
girl were more constrained and formal than before. It was as if she was
writing now rather to comply with a sense of duty than to give vent to
the light-hearted gaiety and naïve enjoyment which breathed in every
line of her earlier communications. So at least it seemed to us, and
again the old suspicion presented itself to my mind, and I feared that
all was not as it should be.
Naples was to be the turning-point of their travels, and we expected
them to return to England by the end of October. November had arrived,
however, and we still had no intimation that their return journey had
commenced or was even decided on. From John there was no word, and
Constance wrote less often than ever. John, she said, was enraptured
with Naples and its surroundings; he devoted himself much to the violin,
and though she did not say so, this meant, I knew, that she was often
left alone. For her own part, she did not think that a continued
residence in Italy would suit her health; the sudden changes of
temperature tried her, and people said that the airs rising in the
evening from the bay were unwholesome.
Then we received a letter from her which much alarmed us. It was written
from Naples and dated October 25. John, she said, had been ailing of
late with nervousness and insomnia. On Wednesday, two days before the
date of her letter, he had suffered all day from a strange restlessness,
which increased after they had retired for the evening. He could not
sleep and had dressed again, telling her he would walk a little in the
night air to compose himself. He had not returned till near six in the
morning, and then was so deadly pale and seemed so exhausted that she
insisted on his keeping to his bed till she could get medical advice.
The doctors feared that he had been attacked by some strange form of
malarial fever, and said he needed much care. Our anxiety was, however,
at least temporarily relieved by the receipt of later tidings which
spoke of John's recovery; but November drew to a close without any
definite mention of their return having reached us.
That month is always, I think, a dreary one in the country. It has
neither the brilliant tints of October, nor the cosy jollity of
mid-winter with its Christmas joys to alleviate it. This year it was
more gloomy than usual. Incessant rain had marked its close, and the
Roy, a little brook which skirted the gardens not far from the house,
had swollen to unusual proportions. At last one wild night the flood
rose so high as to completely cover the garden terraces, working havoc
in the parterres, and covering the lawns with a thick coat of mud.
Perhaps this gloominess of nature's outer face impressed itself in a
sense of apprehension on our spirits, and it was with a feeling of more
than ordinary pleasure and relief that early in December we received a
letter dated from Laon, saying that our travellers were already well
advanced on their return journey, and expected to be in England a week
after the receipt by us of this advice. It was, as usual, Constance who
wrote. John begged, she said, that Christmas might be spent at Worth
Maltravers, and that we would at once proceed thither to see that all
was in order against their return. They reached Worth about the middle
of the month, and were, I need not say, received with the utmost
affection by Mrs. Temple and myself.
In reply to our inquiries John professed that his health was completely
restored; but though we could indeed discern no other signs of any
special weakness, we were much shocked by his changed appearance. He had
completely lost his old healthy and sunburnt complexion, and his face,
though not thin or sunken, was strangely pale. Constance assured us
that though in other respects he had apparently recovered, he had never
regained his old colour from the night of his attack of fever at Naples.
I soon perceived that her own spirits were not so bright as was
ordinarily the case with her; and she exhibited none of the eagerness to
narrate to others the incidents of travel which is generally observable
in those who have recently returned from a journey. The cause of this
depression was, alas! not difficult to discover, for John's former
abstraction and moodiness seemed to have returned with an increased
force. It was a source of infinite pain to Mrs. Temple, and perhaps
even more so to me, to observe this sad state of things. Constance
never complained, and her affection towards her husband seemed only to
increase in the face of difficulties. Yet the matter was one which could
not be hid from the anxious eyes of loving kinswomen, and I believe that
it was the consciousness that these altered circumstances could not
but force themselves upon our notice that added poignancy to my poor
sister's grief. While not markedly neglecting her, my brother had
evidently ceased to take that pleasure in her company which might
reasonably have been expected in any case under the circumstances of
a recent marriage, and a thousand times more so when his wife was so
loving and beautiful a creature as Constance Temple. He appeared little
except at meals, and not even always at lunch, shutting himself up for
the most part in his morning-room or study and playing continually on
the violin. It was in vain that we attempted even by means of his music
to win him back to a sweeter mood. Again and again I begged him to allow
me to accompany him on the pianoforte, but he would never do so, always
putting me off with some excuse. Even when he sat with us in the
evening, he spoke little, devoting himself for the most part to reading.
His books were almost always Greek or Latin, so that I am ignorant of
the subjects of his study; but he was content that either Constance or
I should play on the pianoforte, saying that the melody, so far from
distracting his attention, helped him rather to appreciate what he was
reading. Constance always begged me to allow her to take her place at
the instrument on these occasions, and would play to him sometimes for
hours without receiving a word of thanks, being eager even in this
unreciprocated manner to testify her love and devotion to him.
Christmas Day, usually so happy a season, brought no alleviation of
our gloom. My brother's reserve continually increased, and even his
longest-established habits appeared changed. He had been always most
observant of his religious duties, attending divine service with the
utmost regularity whatever the weather might be, and saying that it was
a duty a landed proprietor owed as much to his tenantry as himself to
set a good example in such matters. Ever since our earliest years he
and I had gone morning and afternoon on Sundays to the little church of
Worth, and there sat together in the Maltravers chapel where so many of
our name had sat before us. Here their monuments and achievements stood
about us on every side, and it had always seemed to me that with their
name and property we had inherited also the obligation to continue those
acts of piety, in the practice of which so many of them had lived and
died. It was, therefore, a source of surprise and great grief to me
when on the Sunday after his return my brother omitted all religious
observances, and did not once attend the parish church. He was not
present with us at breakfast, ordering coffee and a roll to be taken to
his private sitting-room. At the hour at which we usually set out for
church I went to his room to tell him that we were all dressed and
waiting for him. I tapped at the door, but on trying to enter found it
locked. In reply to my message he did not open the door, but merely
begged us to go on to church, saying he would possibly follow us later.
We went alone, and I sat anxiously in our seat with my eyes fixed on the
door, hoping against hope that each late comer might be John, but he
never came. Perhaps this will appear to you, Edward, a comparatively
trivial circumstance (though I hope it may not), but I assure you that
it brought tears to my eyes. When I sat in the Maltravers chapel and
thought that for the first time my dear brother had preferred in an open
way his convenience or his whim to his duty, and had of set purpose
neglected to come to the house of God, I felt a bitter grief that seemed
to rise up in my throat and choke me. I could not think of the meaning
of the prayers nor join in the singing: and all the time that Mr.
Butler, our clergyman, was preaching, a verse of a little piece of
poetry which I learnt as a girl was running in my head:--
"How easy are the paths of ill;
How steep and hard the upward ways;
A child can roll the stone down hill
That breaks a giant's arm to raise."
It seemed to me that our loved one had set his foot upon the downward
slope, and that not all the efforts of those who would have given their
lives to save him could now hold him back.
It was even worse on Christmas Day. Ever since we had been confirmed
John and I had always taken the Sacrament on that happy morning, and
after service he had distributed the Maltravers dole in our chapel.
There are given, as you know, on that day to each of twelve old men £5
and a green coat, and a like sum of money with a blue cloth dress to as
many old women. These articles of dress are placed on the altar-tomb of
Sir Esmoun de Maltravers, and have been thence distributed from days
immemorial by the head of our house. Ever since he was twelve years old
it had been my pride to watch my handsome brother doing this deed of
noble charity, and to hear the kindly words he added with each gift.
Alas! alas! it was all different this Christmas. Even on this holy day
my brother did not approach either the altar or the house of God. Till
then Christmas had always seemed to me to be a day given us from above,
that we might see even while on earth a faint glimpse of that serenity
and peaceful love which will hereafter gild all days in heaven. Then
covetous men lay aside their greed and enemies their rancour, then warm
hearts grow warmer, and Christians feel their common brotherhood. I can
scarcely imagine any man so lost or guilty as not to experience on that
day some desire to turn back to the good once more, as not to recognise
some far-off possibility of better things. It was thoughts free and
happy such as these that had previously come into my heart in the
service of Christmas Day, and been particularly associated with the
familiar words that we all love so much. But that morning the harmonies
were all jangled: it seemed as though some evil spirit was pouring
wicked thoughts into my ear; and even while children sang "Hark the
herald angels," I thought I could hear through it all a melody which
I had learnt to loathe, the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita."
Poor Constance! Though her veil was down, I could see her tears, and
knew her thoughts must be sadder even than mine: I drew her hand towards
me, and held it as I would a child's. After the service was over a new
trial awaited us. John had made no arrangement for the distribution of
the dole. The coats and dresses were all piled ready on Sir Esmoun's
tomb, and there lay the little leather pouches of money, but there was
no one to give them away. Mr. Butler looked puzzled, and approaching
us, said he feared Sir John was ill--had he made no provision for the
distribution? Pride kept back the tears which were rising fast, and
I said my brother was indeed unwell, that it would be better for Mr.
Butler to give away the dole, and that Sir John would himself visit the
recipients during the week. Then we hurried away, not daring to watch
the distribution of the dole, lest we should no longer be able to master
our feelings, and should openly betray our agitation.
From one another we no longer attempted to conceal our grief. It seemed
as though we had all at once resolved to abandon the farce of pretending
not to notice John's estrangement from his wife, or of explaining away
his neglectful and unaccountable treatment of her.
I do not think that three poor women were ever so sad on Christmas Day
before as were we on our return from church that morning. None of us had
seen my brother, but about five in the afternoon Constance went to his
room, and through the locked door begged piteously to see him. After a
few minutes he complied with her request and opened the door. The exact
circumstances of that interview she never revealed to me, but I knew
from her manner when she returned that something she had seen or heard
had both grieved and frightened her. She told me only that she had flung
herself in an agony of tears at his feet, and kneeling there, weary and
broken-hearted, had begged him to tell her if she had done aught amiss,
had prayed him to give her back his love. To all this he answered
little, but her entreaties had at least such an effect as to induce him
to take his dinner with us that evening. At that meal we tried to put
aside our gloom, and with feigned smiles and cheerful voices, from which
the tears were hardly banished, sustained a weary show of conversation
and tried to wile away his evil mood. But he spoke little; and when
Foster, my father's butler, put on the table the three-handled
Maltravers' loving-cup that he had brought up Christmas by Christmas for
thirty years, my brother merely passed it by without a taste. I saw by
Foster's face that the master's malady was no longer a secret even from
the servants.
I shall not harass my own feelings nor yours, my dear Edward, by
entering into further details of your father's illness, for such it was
obvious his indisposition had become. It was the only consolation, and
that was a sorry one, that we could use with Constance, to persuade her
that John's estrangement from her was merely the result or manifestation
of some physical infirmity. He obviously grew worse from week to week,
and his treatment of his wife became colder and more callous. We had
used all efforts to persuade him to take a change of air--to go to
Royston for a month, and place himself under the care of Dr. Dobie. Mrs.
Temple had even gone so far as to write privately to this physician,
telling him as much of the case as was prudent, and asking his advice.
Not being aware of the darker sides of my brother's ailment, Dr. Dobie
replied in a less serious strain than seemed to us convenient, but
recommended in any case a complete change of air and scene.
It was, therefore, with no ordinary pleasure and relief that we
heard my brother announce quite unexpectedly one morning in March that
he had made up his mind to seek change, and was going to leave almost
immediately for the Continent. He took his valet Parnham with him, and
quitted Worth one morning before lunch, bidding us an unceremonious
adieu, though he kissed Constance with some apparent tenderness. It was
the first time for three months, she confessed to me afterwards, that
he had shown her even so ordinary a mark of affection; and her wounded
heart treasured up what she hoped would prove a token of returning love.
He had not proposed to take her with him, and even had he done so, we
should have been reluctant to assent, as signs were not wanting that it
might have been imprudent for her to undertake foreign travel at that
period.
For nearly a month we had no word of him. Then he wrote a short note to
Constance from Naples, giving no news, and indeed, scarce speaking of
himself at all, but mentioning as an address to which she might write if
she wished, the Villa de Angelis at Posilipo. Though his letter was cold
and empty, yet Constance was delighted to get it, and wrote henceforth
herself nearly every day, pouring out her heart to him, and retailing
such news as she thought would cheer him.