I have endeavoured to condense into a connected story the facts learnt
piecemeal from Sir John in conversation. To a certain extent they
supplied, if not an explanation, at least an account of the change
that had come over my friend. But only to a certain extent; there the
explanation broke down and I was left baffled. I could imagine that a
life of unwholesome surroundings and disordered studies might in time
produce such a loss of mental tone as would lead in turn to moral
_acolasia_, sensual excess, and physical ruin. But in Sir John's case
the cause was not adequate; he had, so far as I know, never wholly given
the reins to sensuality, and the change was too abrupt and the breakdown
of body and mind too complete to be accounted for by such events as
those of which he had spoken. I had, too, an uneasy feeling, which grew upon me the more I saw of him,
that while he spoke freely enough on certain topics, and obviously meant
to give a complete history of his past life, there was in reality
something in the background which he always kept from my view. He was,
it seemed, like a young man asked by an indulgent father to disclose
his debts in order that they may be discharged, who, although he knows
his parent's leniency, and that any debt not now disclosed will be
afterwards but a weight upon his own neck, yet hesitates for very shame
to tell the full amount, and keeps some items back. So poor Sir John
kept something back from me his friend, whose only aim was to afford him
consolation and relief, and whose compassion would have made me listen
without rebuke to the narration of the blackest crimes. I cannot say how
much this conviction grieved me. I would most willingly have given my
all, my very life, to save my friend and Miss Maltravers's brother; but
my efforts were paralysed by the feeling that I did not know what I had
to combat, that some evil influence was at work on him which continually
evaded my grasp. Once or twice it seemed as though he were within an
ace of telling me all; once or twice, I believe, he had definitely made
up his mind to do so; but then the mood changed, or more probably his
courage failed him. It was on one of these occasions that he asked me, somewhat suddenly,
whether I thought that a man could by any conscious act committed in the
flesh take away from himself all possibility of repentance and ultimate
salvation. Though, I trust, a sincere Christian, I am nothing of a
theologian, and the question touching on a topic which had not occurred
to my mind since childhood, and which seemed to savour rather of
medieval romance than of practical religion, took me for a moment aback. I hesitated for an instant, and then replied that the means of salvation
offered man were undoubtedly so sufficient as to remove from one truly
penitent the guilt of any crime however dark. My hesitation had been but
momentary; but Sir John seemed to have noticed it, and sealed his lips
to any confession, if he had indeed intended to make any, by changing
the subject abruptly. This question naturally gave me food for serious
reflection and anxiety. It was the first occasion on which he appeared
to me to be undoubtedly suffering from definite hallucination, and I was
aware that any illusions connected with religion are generally most
difficult to remove. At the same time, anything of this sort was the
more remarkable in Sir John's case, as he had, so far as I knew, for a
considerable time entirely abandoned the Christian belief. Unable to elicit any further information from him, and being thus thrown
entirely upon my own resources, I determined that I would read through
again the whole of Temple's diaries. The task was a very distasteful
one, as I have already explained, but I hoped that a second reading
might perhaps throw some light on the dark misgiving that was troubling
Sir John. I read the manuscript again with the closest attention. Nothing, however, of any importance seemed to have escaped me on the
former occasions, and I had reached nearly the end of the second volume
when a comparatively slight matter arrested my attention. I have said
that the pages were all carefully numbered, and the events of each day
recorded separately; even where Temple had found nothing of moment to
notice on a given day, he had still inserted the date with the word
_nil_ written against it. But as I sat one evening in the library at
Worth after Sir John had gone to bed, and was finally glancing through
the days of the months in Temple's diary to make sure that all were
complete, I found one day was missing. It was towards the end of the
second volume, and the day was the 23d of October in the year 1752. A
glance at the numbering of the pages revealed the fact that three leaves
had been entirely removed, and that the pages numbered 349 to 354 were
not to be found. Again I ran through the diaries to see whether there
were any leaves removed in other places, but found no other single page
missing. All was complete except at this one place, the manuscript
beautifully written, with scarcely an error or erasure throughout. A
closer examination showed that these leaves had been cut out close to
the back, and the cut edges of the paper appeared too fresh to admit of
this being done a century ago. A very short reflection convinced me, in
fact, that the excision was not likely to have been Temple's, and that
it must have been made by Sir John. My first intention was to ask him at once what the lost pages had
contained, and why they had been cut out. The matter might be a mere
triviality which he could explain in a moment. But on softly opening his
bedroom door I found him sleeping, and Parnham (whom the strong light
always burnt in the room rendered more wakeful) informed me that his
master had been in a deep sleep for more than an hour. I knew how
sorely his wasted energies needed such repose, and stepped back to the
library without awaking him. A few minutes before, I had been feeling
sleepy at the conclusion of my task, but now all wish for sleep was
suddenly banished and a painful wakefulness took its place. I was under
a species of mental excitement which reminded me of my feelings some
years before at Oxford on the first occasion of our ever playing the
_Gagliarda_ together, and an idea struck me with the force of intuition
that in these three lost leaves lay the secret of my friend's ruin. I turned to the context to see whether there was anything in the entries
preceding or following the lacuna that would afford a clue to the
missing passage. The record of the few days immediately preceding the
23d of October was short and contained nothing of any moment whatever. Adrian and Jocelyn were alone together at the Villa de Angelis. The
entry on the 22d was very unimportant and apparently quite complete,
ending at the bottom of page 348. Of the 23d there was, as I have said,
no record at all, and the entry for the 24th began at the top of page
355.