The medical man had got him to bed with the assistance of
Sir John's valet, had given him a quieting draught, and ordered that he
should not be disturbed for the present. It was better that I should not
enter the room; she begged that I would kindly comfort and reassure
Constance, who was much upset, while she herself returned to her guests. I led Constance to my bedroom, where there was a bright fire burning,
and calmed her as best I could. Her interest in my brother was evidently
very real and unaffected, and while not admitting her partiality for him
in words, she made no effort to conceal her sentiments from me. I kissed
her tenderly, and bade her narrate the circumstances of John's attack. It seemed that after supper they had gone upstairs into the music-room,
and he had himself proposed that they should walk thence into the
picture-gallery, where they would better he able to see the lightning,
which was then particularly vivid. The picture-gallery at Royston is a
very long, narrow, and rather low room, running the whole length of the
south wing, and terminating in a large Tudor oriel or flat bay window
looking east. In this oriel they had sat for some time watching the
flashes, and the wintry landscape revealed for an instant and then
plunged into outer blackness. The gallery itself was not illuminated,
and the effect of the lightning was very fine. There had been an unusually bright flash accompanied by that single
reverberating peal of thunder which I had previously noticed. Constance
had spoken to my brother, but he had not replied, and in a moment she
saw that he had swooned. She summoned aid without delay, but it was some
short time before consciousness had been restored to him. She had concluded this narrative, and sat holding my hand in hers. We
were speculating on the cause of my brother's illness, thinking it might
be due to over-exertion, or to sitting in a chilly atmosphere as the
picture-gallery was not warmed, when Mrs. Temple knocked at the door and
said that John was now more composed and desired earnestly to see me. On entering my brother's bedroom I found him sitting up in bed wearing a
dressing-gown. Parnham, his valet, who was arranging the fire, left the
room as I came in. A chair stood at the head of the bed and I sat down
by him. He took my hand in his and without a word burst into tears. "Sophy," he said, "I am so unhappy, and I have sent for you to tell you
of my trouble, because I know you will be forbearing to me. An hour
ago all seemed so bright. I was sitting in the picture-gallery with
Constance, whom I love dearly. We had been watching the lightning, till
the thunder had grown fainter and the storm seemed past. I was just
about to ask her to become my wife when a brighter flash than all the
rest burst on us, and I saw--I saw, Sophy, standing in the gallery as
close to me as you are now--I saw--that man I told you about at Oxford;
and then this faintness came on me." "Whom do you mean?" I said, not understanding what he spoke of, and
thinking for a moment he referred to someone else. "Did you see Mr. Gaskell?" "No, it was not he; but that dead man whom I saw rising from my wicker
chair the night you went away from Oxford." You will perhaps smile at my weakness, my dear Edward, and indeed I had
at that time no justification for it; but I assure you that I have not
yet forgotten, and never shall forget, the impression of overwhelming
horror which his words produced upon me. It seemed as though a fear
which had hitherto stood vague and shadowy in the background, began now
to advance towards me, gathering more distinctness as it approached. There was to me something morbidly terrible about the apparition of this
man at such a momentous crisis in my brother's life, and I at once
recognised that unknown form as being the shadow which was gradually
stealing between John and myself. Though I feigned incredulity as best
I might, and employed those arguments or platitudes which will always be
used on such occasions, urging that such a phantom could only exist in a
mind disordered by physical weakness, my brother was not deceived by my
words, and perceived in a moment that I did not even believe in them
myself. "Dearest Sophy," he said, with a much calmer air, "let us put aside all
dissimulation. I _know_ that what I have to-night seen, and that what I
saw last summer at Oxford, are _not_ phantoms of my brain; and I believe
that you too in your inmost soul are convinced of this truth. Do not,
therefore, endeavour to persuade me to the contrary. If I am not to
believe the evidence of my senses, it were better at once to admit my
madness--and I know that I am not mad. Let us rather consider what such
an appearance can portend, and who the man is who is thus presented. I cannot explain to you why this appearance inspires me with so great
a revulsion. I can only say that in its presence I seem to be brought
face to face with some abysmal and repellent wickedness. It is not that
the form he wears is hideous. Last night I saw him exactly as I saw him
at Oxford--his face waxen pale, with a sneering mouth, the same lofty
forehead, and hair brushed straight up so as almost to appear standing
on end. He wore the same long coat of green cloth and white waistcoat. He seemed as if he had been standing listening to what we said, though
we had not seen him till this bright flash of lightning made him
manifest. You will remember that when I saw him at Oxford his eyes were
always cast down, so that I never knew their colour. This time they were
wide open; indeed he was looking full at us, and they were a light brown
and very brilliant." I saw that my brother was exciting himself, and was still weak from his
recent swoon. I knew, too, that any ordinary person of strong mind would
say at once that his brain wandered, and yet I had a dreadful conviction
all the while that what he told me was the truth. All I could do was to
beg him to calm himself, and to reflect how vain such fancies must be. "We must trust, dear John," I said, "in God. I am sure that so long as
we are not living in conscious sin, we shall never be given over to any
evil power; and I know my brother too well to think that he is doing
anything he knows to be evil. If there be evil spirits, as we are taught
there are, we are taught also that there are good spirits stronger than
they, who will protect us." So I spoke with him a little while, until he grew calmer; and then we
talked of Constance and of his love for her. He was deeply pleased to
hear from me how she had shown such obvious, signs of interest in his
illness, and sincere affection for him. In any case, he made me promise
that I would never mention to her either what he had seen this night or
last summer at Oxford. It had grown late, and the undulating beat of the dances, which had
been distinctly sensible in his room--even though we could not hear
any definite noise--had now ceased.