Mrs. Temple knocked at the door as
she went to bed and inquired how he did, giving him at the same time
a kind message of sympathy from Constance, which afforded him much
gratification. After she had left I prepared also to retire; but before
going he begged me to take a prayer-book lying on the table, and to read
aloud a collect which he pointed out. It was that for the second Sunday
in Lent, and evidently well known to him. As I read it the words seemed
to bear a new and deeper significance, and my heart repeated with
fervour the petition for protection from those "evil thoughts which may
assault and hurt the soul." I bade him good night and went away very
sorrowful. Parnham, at John's request, had arranged to sleep on a sofa
in his master's bedroom. I rose betimes the next morning and inquired at my brother's room how
he was. Parnham reported that he had passed a restless night, and on
entering a little later I found him in a high fever, slightly delirious,
and evidently not so well as when I saw him last. Mrs. Temple, with much
kindness and forethought, had begged Dr. Empson to remain at Royston for
the night, and he was soon in attendance on his patient. His verdict
was sufficiently grave: John was suffering from a sharp access of
brain-fever; his condition afforded cause for alarm; he could not answer
for any turn his sickness might take. You will easily imagine how much
this intelligence affected me; and Mrs. Temple and Constance shared my
anxiety and solicitude. Constance and I talked much with one another
that morning. Unaffected anxiety had largely removed her reserve, and
she spoke openly of her feelings towards my brother, not concealing her
partiality for him. I on my part let her understand how welcome to me
would be any union between her and John, and how sincerely I should
value her as a sister. It was a wild winter's morning, with some snow falling and a high wind. The house was in the disordered condition which is generally observable
on the day following a ball or other important festivity. I roamed
restlessly about, and at last found my way to the picture-gallery,
which had formed the scene of John's adventure on the previous night. I had never been in this part of the house before, as it contained no
facilities for heating, and so often remained shut in the winter months. I found a listless pleasure in admiring the pictures which lined the
walls, most of them being portraits of former members of the family,
including the famous picture of Sir Ralph Temple and his family,
attributed to Holbein. I had reached the end of the gallery and sat
down in the oriel watching the snow-flakes falling sparsely, and the
evergreens below me waving wildly in the sudden rushes of the wind. My
thoughts were busy with the events of the previous evening,--with John's
illness, with the ball,--and I found myself humming the air of a waltz
that had caught my fancy. At last I turned away from the garden scene
towards the gallery, and as I did so my eyes fell on a remarkable
picture just opposite to me. It was a full-length portrait of a young man, life-size, and I had
barely time to appreciate even its main features when I knew that I had
before me the painted counterfeit of my brother's vision. The discovery
caused me a violent shock, and it was with an infinite repulsion that
I recognised at once the features and dress of the man whom John had
seen rising from the chair at Oxford. So accurately had my brother's
imagination described him to me, that it seemed as if I had myself seen
him often before. I noted each feature, comparing them with my brother's
description, and finding them all familiar and corresponding exactly. He was a man still in the prime of life. His features were regular and
beautifully modelled; yet there was something in his face that inspired
me with a deep aversion, though his brown eyes were open and brilliant. His mouth was sharply cut, with a slight sneer on the lips, and his
complexion of that extreme pallor which had impressed itself deeply on
my brother's imagination and my own. After the first intense surprise had somewhat subsided, I experienced
a feeling of great relief, for here was an extraordinary explanation
of my brother's vision of last night. It was certain that the flash
of lightning had lit up this ill-starred picture, and that to his
predisposed fancy the painted figure had stood forth as an actual
embodiment. That such an incident, however startling, should have been
able to fling John into a brain-fever, showed that he must already have
been in a very low and reduced state, on which excitement would act much
more powerfully than on a more robust condition of health. A similar
state of weakness, perturbed by the excitement of his passion for
Constance Temple, might surely also have conjured up the vision which
he thought he saw the night of our leaving Oxford in the summer. These thoughts, my dear Edward, gave me great relief; for it seemed
a comparatively trivial matter that my brother should be ill, even
seriously ill, if only his physical indisposition could explain away the
supernatural dread which had haunted us for the past six months. The
clouds were breaking up. It was evident that John had been seriously
unwell for some months; his physical weakness had acted on his brain;
and I had lent colour to his wandering fancies by being alarmed by them,
instead of rejecting them at once or gently laughing them away as I
should have done. But these glad thoughts took me too far, and I was
suddenly brought up by a reflection that did not admit of so simple an
explanation. If the man's form my brother saw at Oxford were merely an
effort of disordered imagination, how was it that he had been able to
describe it exactly like that represented in this picture? He had never
in his life been to Royston, therefore he could have no image of the
picture impressed unconsciously on or hidden away in his mind. Yet his
description had never varied. It had been so close as to enable me to
produce in my fancy a vivid representation of the man he had seen; and
here I had before me the features and dress exactly reproduced. In the
presence of a coincidence so extraordinary reason stood confounded, and
I knew not what to think. I walked nearer to the picture and scrutinised
it closely. The dress corresponded in every detail with that which my brother had
described the figure as wearing at Oxford: a long cut-away coat of green
cloth with an edge of gold embroidery, a white satin waistcoat with
sprigs of embroidered roses, gold-lace at the pocket-holes, buff silk
knee-breeches, and low down on the finely modelled neck a full cravat
of rich lace. The figure was posed negligently against a fluted stone
pedestal or short column on which the left elbow leant, and the right
foot was crossed lightly over the left.