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.