The next morning, my maid brought me a hurried note written in pencil by
my brother. It contained only a few lines, saying that he found that his
continued sojourn at Royston was not beneficial to his health, and had
determined to return to Italy. If we wished to write, letters would
reach him at the Villa de Angelis: his valet Parnham was to follow him
thither with his baggage as soon as it could be got together. This was
all; there was no word of adieu even to his wife.
We found that he had never gone to bed that night. But in the early
morning he had himself saddled his horse _Sentinel_ and ridden in to
Derby, taking the early mail thence to London. His resolve to leave
Royston had apparently been arrived at very suddenly, for so far as we
could discover, he had carried no luggage of any kind. I could not help
looking somewhat carefully round his room to see if he had taken the
Stradivarius violin. No trace of it or even of its case was to be seen,
though it was difficult to imagine how he could have carried it with him
on horseback. There was, indeed, a locked travelling-trunk which Parnham
was to bring with him later, and the instrument might, of course, have
been in that; but I felt convinced that he had actually taken it with
him in some way or other, and this proved afterwards to have been the
case.
I shall draw a veil, my dear Edward, over the events which immediately
followed your father's departure. Even at this distance of time the
memory is too inexpressibly bitter to allow me to do more than briefly
allude to them.
A fortnight after John's departure, we left Royston and removed to
Worth, wishing to get some sea-air, and to enjoy the late summer of the
south coast. Your mother seemed entirely to have recovered from her
confinement, and to be enjoying as good health as could be reasonably
expected under the circumstances of her husband's indisposition. But
suddenly one of those insidious maladies which are incidental to women
in her condition seized upon her. We had hoped and believed that all
such period of danger was already happily past; but, alas! it was not
so, and within a few hours of her first seizure all realised how serious
was her case. Everything that human skill can do under such conditions
was done, but without avail. Symptoms of blood-poisoning showed
themselves, accompanied with high fever, and within a week she was in
her coffin.
Though her delirium was terrible to watch, yet I thank God to this
day, that if she was to die, it pleased Him to take her while in an
unconscious condition. For two days before her death she recognised
no one, and was thus spared at least the sadness of passing from life
without one word of kindness or even of reconciliation from her unhappy
husband.
The communication with a place so distant as Naples was not then to be
made under fifteen or twenty days, and all was over before we could hope
that the intelligence even of his wife's illness had reached John. Both
Mrs. Temple and I remained at Worth in a state of complete prostration,
awaiting his return. When more than a month had passed without his
arrival, or even a letter to say that he was on his way, our anxiety
took a new turn, as we feared that some accident had befallen him, or
that the news of his wife's death, which would then be in his hands,
had so seriously affected him as to render him incapable of taking any
action. To repeated subsequent communications we received no answer;
but at last, to a letter which I wrote to Parnham, the servant replied,
stating that his master was still at the Villa de Angelis, and in a
condition of health little differing from that in which he left Royston,
except that he was now slightly paler if possible and thinner. It was
not till the end of November that any word came from him, and then he
wrote only one page of a sheet of note-paper to me in pencil, making no
reference whatever to his wife's death, but saying that he should not
return for Christmas, and instructing me to draw on his bankers for any
moneys that I might require for household purposes at Worth.
I need not tell you the effect that such conduct produced on Mrs.
Temple and myself; you can easily imagine what would have been your own
feelings in such a case. Nor will I relate any other circumstances which
occurred at this period, as they would have no direct bearing upon my
narrative. Though I still wrote to my brother at frequent intervals, as
not wishing to neglect a duty, no word from him ever came in reply.
About the end of March, indeed, Parnham returned to Worth Maltravers,
saying that his master had paid him a half-year's wages in advance,
and then dispensed with his services. He had always been an excellent
servant, and attached to the family, and I was glad to be able to offer
him a suitable position with us at Worth until his master should return.
He brought disquieting reports of John's health, saying that he was
growing visibly weaker. Though I was sorely tempted to ask him many
questions as to his master's habits and way of life, my pride forbade me
to do so. But I heard incidentally from my maid that Parnham had told
her Sir John was spending money freely in alterations at the Villa de
Angelis, and had engaged Italians to attend him, with which his English
valet was naturally much dissatisfied.
So the spring passed and the summer was well advanced.
On the last morning of July I found waiting for me on the
breakfast-table an envelope addressed in my brother's hand. I opened
it hastily. It only contained a few words, which I have before me as I
write now. The ink is a little faded and yellow, but the impression it
made is yet vivid as on that summer morning.
"MY DEAREST SOPHY," it began,--"Come to me here at once, if possible,
or it may be too late. I want to see you. They say that I am ill, and
too weak to travel to England.
"Your loving brother,
"JOHN."
There was a great change in the style, from the cold and conventional
notes that he had hitherto sent at such long intervals; from the stiff
"Dear Sophia" and "Sincerely yours" to which, I grieve to say, I had
grown accustomed. Even the writing itself was altered. It was more the
bold boyish hand he wrote when first he went to Oxford, than the smaller
cramped and classic character of his later years. Though it was a little
matter enough, God knows, in comparison with his grievous conduct, yet
it touched me much that he should use again the once familiar "Dearest
Sophy," and sign himself "my loving brother." I felt my heart go out
towards him; and so strong is woman's affection for her own kin, that I
had already forgotten any resentment and reprobation in my great pity
for the poor wanderer, lying sick perhaps unto death and alone in a
foreign land.
I took his note at once to Mrs. Temple. She read it twice or thrice,
trying to take in the meaning of it. Then she drew me to her and,
kissing me, said, "Go to him at once, Sophy. Bring him back to Worth;
try to bring him back to the right way."
I ordered my things to be packed, determining to drive to Southampton
and take train thence to London; and at the same time Mrs. Temple gave
instructions that all should be prepared for her own return to Royston
within a few days. I knew she did not dare to see John after her
daughter's death.
I took my maid with me, and Parnham to act as courier. At London we
hired a carriage for the whole journey, and from Calais posted direct to
Naples. We took the short route by Marseilles and Genoa, and travelled
for seventeen days without intermission, as my brother's note made me
desirous of losing no time on the way. I had never been in Italy before;
but my anxiety was such that my mind was unable to appreciate either
the beauty of the scenery or the incidents of travel. I can, in fact,
remember nothing of our journey now, except the wearisome and
interminable jolting over bad roads and the insufferable heat. It was
the middle of August in an exceptionally warm summer, and after passing
Genoa the heat became almost tropical. There was no relief even at
night, for the warm air hung stagnant and suffocating, and the inside of
my travelling coach was often like a furnace.
We were at last approaching the conclusion of our journey, and had left
Rome behind us. The day that we set out from Aversa was the hottest that
I have ever felt, the sun beating down with an astonishing power even
in the early hours, and the road being thick with a white and blinding
dust. It was soon after midnight that our carriage began rattling over
the great stone blocks with which the streets of Naples are paved. The
suburbs that we at first passed through were, I remember, in darkness
and perfect quiet; but after traversing the heart of the city and
reaching the western side, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst
of an enormous and very dense crowd. There were lanterns everywhere,
and interminable lanes of booths, whose proprietors were praising
their wares with loud shouts; and here acrobats, jugglers, minstrels,
black-vested priests, and blue-coated soldiers mingled with a vast crowd
whose numbers at once arrested the progress of the carriage. Though it
was so late of a Sunday night, all seemed here awake and busy as at
noonday. Oil-lamps with reeking fumes of black smoke flung a glare over
the scene, and the discordant cries and chattering conversation united
in so deafening a noise as to make me turn faint and giddy, wearied as I
already was with long travelling. Though I felt that intense eagerness
and expectation which the approaching termination of a tedious journey
inspires, and was desirous of pushing forward with all imaginable
despatch, yet here our course was sadly delayed. The horses could only
proceed at the slowest of foot-paces, and we were constantly brought
to a complete stop for some minutes before the post-boy could force
a passage through the unwilling crowd. This produced a feeling of
irritation, and despair of ever reaching my destination; and the mirth
and careless hilarity of the people round us chafed with bitter contrast
on my depressed spirits. I inquired from the post-boy what was the
origin of so great a commotion, and understood him to say in reply that
it was a religious festival held annually in honour of "Our Lady of
the Grotto." I cannot, however, conceive of any truly religious person
countenancing such a gathering, which seemed to me rather like the
unclean orgies of a heathen deity than an act of faith of Christian
people. This disturbance occasioned us so serious a delay, that as we
were climbing the steep slope leading up to Posilipo it was already
three in the morning and the dawn was at hand.
After mounting steadily for a long time we began to rapidly descend, and
just as the sun came up over the sea we arrived at the Villa de Angelis.
I sprang from the carriage, and passing through a trellis of vines,
reached the house. A man-servant was in waiting, and held the door open
for me; but he was an Italian, and did not understand me when I asked
in English where Sir John Maltravers was. He had evidently, however,
received instructions to take me at once to my brother, and led the way
to an inner part of the house. As we proceeded I heard the sound of a
rich alto voice singing very sweetly to a mandoline some soothing or
religious melody. The servant pulled aside a heavy curtain and I found
myself in my brother's room. An Italian youth sat on a stool near the
door, and it was he who had been singing. At a few words from John,
addressed to him in his own language, he set down his mandoline and left
the room, pulling to the curtain and shutting a door behind it.
The room looked directly on to the sea: the villa was, in fact, built
upon rocks at the foot of which the waves lapped. Through two folding
windows which opened on to a balcony the early light of the summer
morning streamed in with a rosy flush. My brother sat on a low couch
or sofa, propped up against a heap of pillows, with a rug of brilliant
colours flung across his feet and legs. He held out his arms to me, and
I ran to him; but even in so brief an interval I had perceived that he
was terribly weak and wasted.
All my memories of his past faults had vanished and were dead in that
sad aspect of his worn features, and in the conviction which I felt,
even from the first moment, that he had but little time longer to remain
with us. I knelt by him on the floor, and with my arms round his neck,
embraced him tenderly, not finding any place for words, but only sobbing
in great anguish. Neither of us spoke, and my weariness from long travel
and the strangeness of the situation caused me to feel that paralysing
sensation of doubt as to the reality of the scene, and even of my own
existence, which all, I believe, have experienced at times of severe
mental tension. That I, a plain English girl, should be kneeling here
beside my brother in the Italian dawn; that I should read, as I
believed, on his young face the unmistakable image and superscription
of death; and reflect that within so few months he had married, had
wrecked his home, that my poor Constance was no more;--these things
seemed so unrealisable that for a minute I felt that it must all be a
nightmare, that I should immediately wake with the fresh salt air of
the Channel blowing through my bedroom window at Worth, and find I had
been dreaming. But it was not so; the light of day grew stronger and
brighter, and even in my sorrow the panorama of the most beautiful spot
on earth, the Bay of Naples, with Vesuvius lying on the far side, as
seen then from these windows, stamped itself for ever on my mind. It was
unreal as a scene in some brilliant dramatic spectacle, but, alas! no
unreality was here. The flames of the candles in their silver sconces
waxed paler and paler, the lines and shadows on my brother's face grew
darker, and the pallor of his wasted features showed more striking in
the bright rays of the morning sun.