A month later Mrs. Temple wrote to John warning him of the state in
which Constance now found herself, and begging him to return at least
for a few weeks in order that he might be present at the time of her
confinement. Though it would have been in the last degree unkind, or
even inhuman, that a request of this sort should have been refused, yet
I will confess to you that my brother's recent strangeness had prepared
me for behaviour on his part however wild; and it was with a feeling of
extreme relief that I heard from Mrs. Temple a little later that she had
received a short note from John to say that he was already on his return
journey. I believe Mrs. Temple herself felt as I did in the matter,
though she said nothing.
When he returned we were all at Royston, whither Mrs. Temple had taken
Constance to be under Dr. Dobie's care. We found John's physical
appearance changed for the worse. His pallor was as remarkable as
before, but he was visibly thinner; and his strange mental abstraction
and moodiness seemed little if any abated. At first, indeed, he greeted
Constance kindly or even affectionately. She had been in a terrible
state of anxiety as to the attitude he would assume towards her, and
this mental strain affected prejudicially her very delicate bodily
condition. His kindness, of an ordinary enough nature indeed, seemed
to her yearning heart a miracle of condescending love, and she was
transported with the idea that his affection to her, once so sincere,
was indeed returning. But I grieve to say that his manner thawed only
for a very short time, and ere long he relapsed into an attitude of
complete indifference. It was as if his real, true, honest, and loving
character had made one more vigorous effort to assert itself,--as
though it had for a moment broken through the hard and selfish crust
that was forming around him; but the blighting influence which was at
work proved seemingly too strong for him to struggle against, and
riveted its chains again upon him with a weight heavier than before.
That there was some malefic influence, mental or physical, thus working
on him, no one who had known him before could for a moment doubt. But
while Mrs. Temple and I readily admitted this much, we were entirely
unable even to form a conjecture as to its nature. It is true that
Mrs. Temple's fancy suggested that Constance had some rival in his
affections; but we rejected such a theory almost before it was proposed,
feeling that it was inherently improbable, and that, had it been true,
we could not have remained entirely unaware of the circumstances which
had conduced to such a state of things. It was this inexplicable nature
of my brother's affliction that added immeasurably to our grief. If we
could only have ascertained its cause we might have combated it; but
as it was, we were fighting in the dark, as against some enemy who was
assaulting us from an obscurity so thick that we could not see his form.
Of any mental trouble we thus knew nothing, nor could we say that my
brother was suffering from any definite physical ailment, except that
he was certainly growing thinner.
Your birth, my dear Edward, followed very shortly. Your poor mother
rallied in an unusually short time, and was filled with rapture at the
new treasure which was thus given as a solace to her afflictions. Your
father exhibited little interest at the event, though he sat nearly half
an hour with her one evening, and allowed her even to stroke his hair
and caress him as in time long past. Although it was now the height of
summer he seldom left the house, sitting much and sleeping in his own
room, where he had a field-bed provided for him, and continually
devoting himself to the violin.
One evening near the end of July we were sitting after dinner in the
drawing-room at Royston, having the French windows looking on to the
lawn open, as the air was still oppressively warm. Though things were
proceeding as indifferently as before, we were perhaps less cast down
than usual, for John had taken his dinner with us that evening. This was
a circumstance now, alas! sufficiently uncommon, for he had nearly all
his meals served for him in his own rooms. Constance, who was once more
downstairs, sat playing at the pianoforte, performing chiefly melodies
by Scarlatti or Bach, of which old-fashioned music she knew her husband
to be most fond. A later fashion, as you know, has revived the
cultivation of these composers, but at the time of which I write their
works were much less commonly known. Though she was more than a passable
musician, he would not allow her to accompany him; indeed he never now
performed at all on the violin before us, reserving his practice
entirely for his own chamber. There was a pause in the music while
coffee was served. My brother had been sitting in an easy-chair apart
reading some classical work during his wife's performance, and taking
little notice of us. But after a while he put down his book and said,
"Constance, if you will accompany me, I will get my violin and play a
little while." I cannot say how much his words astonished us. It was
so simple a matter for him to say, and yet it filled us all with an
unspeakable joy. We concealed our emotion till he had left the room to
get his instrument, then Constance showed how deeply she was gratified
by kissing first her mother and then me, squeezing my hand but saying
nothing. In a minute he returned, bringing his violin and a music-book.
By the soiled vellum cover and the shape I perceived instantly that it
was the book containing the "Areopagita." I had not seen it for near
two years, and was not even aware that it was in the house, but I
knew at once that he intended to play that suite. I entertained an
unreasoning but profound aversion to its melodies, but at that moment
I would have welcomed warmly that or any other music, so that he would
only choose once more to show some thought for his neglected wife. He
put the book open at the "Areopagita" on the desk of the pianoforte,
and asked her to play it with him. She had never seen the music before,
though I believe she was not unacquainted with the melody, as she had
heard him playing it by himself, and once heard, it was not easily
forgotten.
They began the "Areopagita" suite, and at first all went well. The
tone of the violin, and also, I may say with no undue partiality,
my brother's performance, were so marvellously fine that though our
thoughts were elsewhere when, the music commenced, in a few seconds they
were wholly engrossed in the melody, and we sat spellbound. It was as
if the violin had become suddenly endowed with life, and was singing
to us in a mystical language more deep and awful than any human words.
Constance was comparatively unused to the figuring of the _basso
continuo_, and found some trouble in reading it accurately, especially
in manuscript; but she was able to mask any difficulty she may have had
until she came to the _Gagliarda_. Here she confessed to me her thoughts
seemed against her will to wander, and her attention became too deeply
riveted on her husband's performance to allow her to watch her own.
She made first one slight fault, and then growing nervous, another, and
another. Suddenly John stopped and said brusquely, "Let Sophy play,
I cannot keep time with you." Poor Constance! The tears came swiftly
to my own eyes when I heard him speak so thoughtlessly to her, and I was
almost provoked to rebuke him openly. She was still weak from her recent
illness; her nerves were excited by the unusual pleasure she felt in
playing once more with her husband, and this sudden shattering of her
hopes of a renewed tenderness proved more than she could bear: she put
her head between her hands upon the keyboard and broke into a paroxysm
of tears.
We both ran to her; but while we were attempting to assuage her grief,
John shut his violin into its case, took the music-book under his arm,
and left the room without saying a word to any of us, not even to the
weeping girl, whose sobs seemed as though they would break her heart.
We got her put to bed at once, but it was some hours before her
convulsive sobbing ceased. Mrs. Temple had administered to her a
soothing draught of proved efficacy, and after sitting with her till
after one o'clock, I left her at last dozing off to sleep, and myself
sought repose. I was quite wearied out with the weight of my anxiety,
and with the crushing bitterness of seeing my dearest Constance's
feelings so wounded. Yet in spite, or rather perhaps on account of my
trouble, my head had scarcely touched my pillow ere I fell into a deep
sleep.
A room in the south wing had been converted for the nonce into a
nursery, and for the convenience of being near her infant Constance now
slept in a room adjoining. As this portion of the house was somewhat
isolated, Mrs. Temple had suggested that I should keep her daughter
company, and occupy a room in the same passage, only removed a few
doors, and this I had accordingly done. I was aroused from my sleep that
night by some one knocking gently on the door of my bedroom; but it was
some seconds before my thoughts became sufficiently awake to allow me to
remember where I was. There was some moonlight, but I lighted a candle,
and looking at my watch saw that it was two o'clock. I concluded that
either Constance or her baby was unwell, and that the nurse needed my
assistance. So I left my bed, and moving to the door, asked softly who
was there. It was, to my surprise, the voice of Constance that replied,
"O Sophy, let me in."
In a second I had opened the door, and found my poor sister wearing only
her night-dress, and standing in the moonlight before me.
She looked frightened and unusually pale in her white dress and with the
cold gleam of the moon upon her. At first I thought she was walking in
her sleep, and perhaps rehearsing again in her dreams the troubles which
dogged her waking footsteps. I took her gently by the arm, saying,
"Dearest Constance, come back at once to bed; you will take cold."
She was not asleep, however, but made a motion of silence, and said in
a terrified whisper, "Hush; do you hear nothing?" There was something
so vague and yet so mysterious in the question and in her evident
perturbation that I was infected too by her alarm. I felt myself shiver,
as I strained my ear to catch if possible the slightest sound. But a
complete silence pervaded everything: I could hear nothing.
"Can you hear it?" she said again. All sorts of images of ill presented
themselves to my imagination: I thought the baby must be ill with croup,
and that she was listening for some stertorous breath of anguish; and
then the dread came over me that perhaps her sorrows had been too much
for her, and that reason had left her seat. At that thought the marrow
froze in my bones.
"Hush," she said again; and just at that moment, as I strained my ears,
I thought I caught upon the sleeping air a distant and very faint
murmur.
"Oh, what is it, Constance?" I said. "You will drive me mad;" and while
I spoke the murmur seemed to resolve itself into the vibration, felt
almost rather than heard, of some distant musical instrument. I stepped
past her into the passage. All was deadly still, but I could perceive
that music was being played somewhere far away; and almost at the same
minute my ears recognised faintly but unmistakably the _Gagliarda_ of
the "Areopagita."
I have already mentioned that for some reason which I can scarcely
explain, this melody was very repugnant to me. It seemed associated in
some strange and intimate way with my brother's indisposition and moral
decline. Almost at the moment that I had heard it first two years ago,
peace seemed to have risen up and left our house, gathering her skirts
about her, as we read that the angels left the Temple at the siege of
Jerusalem. And now it was even more detestable to my ears, recalling as
it did too vividly the cruel events of the preceding evening.
"John must be sitting up playing," I said.
"Yes," she answered; "but why is he in this part of the house, and why
does he always play _that_ tune?"
It was if some irresistible attraction drew us towards the music.
Constance took my hand in hers and we moved together slowly down the
passage. The wind had risen, and though there was a bright moon, her
beams were constantly eclipsed by driving clouds. Still there was light
enough to guide us, and I extinguished the candle. As we reached the end
of the passage the air of the _Gagliarda_ grew more and more distinct.
Our passage opened on to a broad landing with a balustrade, and from one
side of it ran out the picture-gallery which you know.
I looked at Constance significantly. It was evident that John was
playing in this gallery. We crossed the landing, treading carefully and
making no noise with our naked feet, for both of us had been too excited
even to think of putting on shoes.
We could now see the whole length of the gallery. My poor brother sat in
the oriel window of which I have before spoken. He was sitting so as to
face the picture of Adrian Temple, and the great windows of the oriel
flung a strong light on him. At times a cloud hid the moon, and all was
plunged in darkness; but in a moment the cold light fell full on him,
and we could trace every feature as in a picture. He had evidently not
been to bed, for he was fully dressed, exactly as he had left us in the
drawing-room five hours earlier when Constance was weeping over his
thoughtless words. He was playing the violin, playing with a passion and
reckless energy which I had never seen, and hope never to see again.
Perhaps he remembered that this spot was far removed from the rest
of the house, or perhaps he was careless whether any were awake and
listening to him or not; but it seemed to me that he was playing with
a sonorous strength greater than I had thought possible for a single
violin. There came from his instrument such a volume and torrent of
melody as to fill the gallery so full, as it were, of sound that it
throbbed and vibrated again. He kept his eyes fixed on something at the
opposite side of the gallery; we could not indeed see on what, but I
have no doubt at all that it was the portrait of Adrian Temple. His gaze
was eager and expectant, as though he were waiting for something to
occur which did not.
I knew that he had been growing thin of late, but this was the first
time I had realised how sunk were the hollows of his eyes and how
haggard his features had become. It may have been some effect of
moonlight which I do not well understand, but his fine-cut face, once so
handsome, looked on this night worn and thin like that of an old man.
He never for a moment ceased playing. It was always one same dreadful
melody, the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita," and he repeated it time
after time with the perseverance and apparent aimlessness of an
automaton.
He did not see us, and we made no sign, standing afar off in silent
horror at that nocturnal sight. Constance clutched me by the arm: she
was so pale that I perceived it even in the moonlight. "Sophy," she
said, "he is sitting in the same place as on the first night when he
told me how he loved me." I could answer nothing, my voice was frozen
in me. I could only stare at my brother's poor withered face, realising
then for the first time that he must be mad, and that it was the
haunting of the _Gagliarda_ that had made him so.
We stood there I believe for half an hour without speech or motion, and
all the time that sad figure at the end of the gallery continued its
performance. Suddenly he stopped, and an expression of frantic despair
came over his face as he laid down the violin and buried his head in his
hands. I could bear it no longer. "Constance," I said, "come back to
bed. We can do nothing," So we turned and crept away silently as we had
come. Only as we crossed the landing Constance stopped, and looked back
for a minute with a heart-broken yearning at the man she loved. He had
taken his hands from his head, and she saw the profile of his face clear
cut and hard in the white moonlight.
It was the last time her eyes ever looked upon it.
She made for a moment as if she would turn back and go to him, but her
courage failed her, and we went on. Before we reached her room we heard
in the distance, faintly but distinctly, the burden of the _Gagliarda_.