Beyond turning his head sharply for a moment to
look round, Mr. Gaskell took no notice of the sound; and my brother,
ashamed to betray any foolish interest or excitement, continued the
_Gagliarda_, with its repeat. At its conclusion Mr. Gaskell stopped
before proceeding to the minuet, and turning the stool on which he was
sitting round towards the room, observed, "How very strange,
Johnnie,"--for these young men were on terms of sufficient intimacy to
address each other in a familiar style,--"How very strange! I thought I
heard some one sit down in that chair when we began the _Gagliarda_. I
looked round quite expecting to see some one had come in. Did you hear
nothing?" "It was only the chair creaking," my brother answered, feigning an
indifference which he scarcely felt. "Certain parts of the wicker-work
seem to be in accord with musical notes and respond to them; let us
continue with the _Minuetto_." Thus they finished the suite, Mr. Gaskell demanding a repetition of the
_Gagliarda_, with the air of which he was much pleased. As the clocks
had already struck eleven, they determined not to play more that night;
and Mr. Gaskell rose, blew out the sconces, shut the piano, and put the
music aside. My brother has often assured me that he was quite prepared
for what followed, and had been almost expecting it; for as the books
were put away, a creaking of the wicker chair was audible, exactly
similar to that which he had heard when he stopped playing on the
previous night. There was a moment's silence; the young men looked
involuntarily at one another, and then Mr. Gaskell said, "I cannot
understand the creaking of that chair; it has never done so before, with
all the music we have played. I am perhaps imaginative and excited with
the fine airs we have heard to-night, but I have an impression that I
cannot dispel that something has been sitting listening to us all this
time, and that now when the concert is ended it has got up and gone." There was a spirit of raillery in his words, but his tone was not so
light as it would ordinarily have been, and he was evidently ill at
ease. "Let us try the _Gagliarda_ again," said my brother; "it is the
vibration of the opening notes which affects the wicker-work, and we
shall see if the noise is repeated." But Mr. Gaskell excused himself
from trying the experiment, and after some desultory conversation, to
which it was evident that neither was giving any serious attention, he
took his leave and returned to New College. CHAPTER II


I shall not weary you, my dear Edward, by recounting similar experiences
which occurred on nearly every occasion that the young men met in the
evenings for music. The repetition of the phenomenon had accustomed them
to expect it. Both professed to be quite satisfied that it was to be
attributed to acoustical affinities of vibration between the wicker-work
and certain of the piano wires, and indeed this seemed the only
explanation possible. But, at the same time, the resemblance of the
noises to those caused by a person sitting down in or rising from a
chair was so marked, that even their frequent recurrence never failed to
make a strange impression on them. They felt a reluctance to mention the
matter to their friends, partly from a fear of being themselves laughed
at, and partly to spare from ridicule a circumstance to which each
perhaps, in spite of himself, attached some degree of importance. Experience soon convinced them that the first noise as of one sitting
down never occurred unless the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita" was
played, and that this noise being once heard, the second only followed
it when they ceased playing for the evening. They met every night,
sitting later with the lengthening summer evenings, and every night,
as by some tacit understanding, played the "Areopagita" suite before
parting. At the opening bars of the _Gagliarda_ the creaking of the
chair occurred spontaneously with the utmost regularity. They seldom
spoke even to one another of the subject; but one night, when John was
putting away his violin after a long evening's music without having
played the "Areopagita," Mr. Gaskell, who had risen from the pianoforte,
sat down again as by a sudden impulse and said--

"Johnnie, do not put away your violin yet. It is near twelve o'clock
and I shall get shut out, but I cannot stop to-night without playing the
_Gagliarda_. Suppose that all our theories of vibration and affinity are
wrong, suppose that there really comes here night by night some strange
visitant to hear us, some poor creature whose heart is bound up in that
tune; would it not be unkind to send him away without the hearing of
that piece which he seems most to relish? Let us not be ill-mannered,
but humour his whim; let us play the _Gagliarda_." They played it with more vigour and precision than usual, and the now
customary sound of one taking his seat at once ensued. It was that night
that my brother, looking steadfastly at the chair, saw, or thought he
saw, there some slight obscuration, some penumbra, mist, or subtle
vapour which, as he gazed, seemed to struggle to take human form. He
ceased playing for a moment and rubbed his eyes, but as he did so all
dimness vanished and he saw the chair perfectly empty. The pianist
stopped also at the cessation of the violin, and asked what ailed him. "It is only that my eyes were dim," he answered. "We have had enough for to-night," said Mr. Gaskell; "let us stop. I shall be locked out." He shut the piano, and as he did so the clock
in New College tower struck twelve. He left the room running, but was
late enough at his college door to be reported, admonished with a fine
against such late hours, and confined for a week to college; for being
out after midnight was considered, at that time at least, a somewhat
serious offence. Thus for some days the musical practice was compulsorily intermitted,
but resumed on the first evening after Mr. Gaskell's term of confinement
was expired. After they had performed several suites of Graziani, and
finished as usual with the "Areopagita," Mr. Gaskell sat for a time
silent at the instrument, as though thinking with himself, and then
said--

"I cannot say how deeply this old-fashioned music affects me. Some would
try to persuade us that these suites, of which the airs bear the names
of different dances, were always written rather as a musical essay and
for purposes of performance than for persons to dance to, as their names
would more naturally imply. But I think these critics are wrong at least
in some instances. It is to me impossible to believe that such a melody,
for instance, as the _Giga_ of Corelli which we have played, was not
written for actual purposes of dancing. One can almost hear the beat
of feet upon the floor, and I imagine that in the time of Corelli the
practice of dancing, while not a whit inferior in grace, had more of the
tripudistic or beating character than is now esteemed consistent with a
correct ball-room performance.