One evening near the end of July we were sitting after dinner in the
drawing-room at Royston, having the French windows looking on to the
lawn open, as the air was still oppressively warm. Though things were
proceeding as indifferently as before, we were perhaps less cast down
than usual, for John had taken his dinner with us that evening. This was
a circumstance now, alas! sufficiently uncommon, for he had nearly all
his meals served for him in his own rooms. Constance, who was once more
downstairs, sat playing at the pianoforte, performing chiefly melodies
by Scarlatti or Bach, of which old-fashioned music she knew her husband
to be most fond. A later fashion, as you know, has revived the
cultivation of these composers, but at the time of which I write their
works were much less commonly known. Though she was more than a passable
musician, he would not allow her to accompany him; indeed he never now
performed at all on the violin before us, reserving his practice
entirely for his own chamber. There was a pause in the music while
coffee was served. My brother had been sitting in an easy-chair apart
reading some classical work during his wife's performance, and taking
little notice of us. But after a while he put down his book and said,
"Constance, if you will accompany me, I will get my violin and play a
little while." I cannot say how much his words astonished us. It was
so simple a matter for him to say, and yet it filled us all with an
unspeakable joy. We concealed our emotion till he had left the room to
get his instrument, then Constance showed how deeply she was gratified
by kissing first her mother and then me, squeezing my hand but saying
nothing. In a minute he returned, bringing his violin and a music-book. By the soiled vellum cover and the shape I perceived instantly that it
was the book containing the "Areopagita." I had not seen it for near
two years, and was not even aware that it was in the house, but I
knew at once that he intended to play that suite. I entertained an
unreasoning but profound aversion to its melodies, but at that moment
I would have welcomed warmly that or any other music, so that he would
only choose once more to show some thought for his neglected wife. He
put the book open at the "Areopagita" on the desk of the pianoforte,
and asked her to play it with him. She had never seen the music before,
though I believe she was not unacquainted with the melody, as she had
heard him playing it by himself, and once heard, it was not easily
forgotten. They began the "Areopagita" suite, and at first all went well. The
tone of the violin, and also, I may say with no undue partiality,
my brother's performance, were so marvellously fine that though our
thoughts were elsewhere when, the music commenced, in a few seconds they
were wholly engrossed in the melody, and we sat spellbound. It was as
if the violin had become suddenly endowed with life, and was singing
to us in a mystical language more deep and awful than any human words. Constance was comparatively unused to the figuring of the _basso
continuo_, and found some trouble in reading it accurately, especially
in manuscript; but she was able to mask any difficulty she may have had
until she came to the _Gagliarda_. Here she confessed to me her thoughts
seemed against her will to wander, and her attention became too deeply
riveted on her husband's performance to allow her to watch her own. She made first one slight fault, and then growing nervous, another, and
another. Suddenly John stopped and said brusquely, "Let Sophy play,
I cannot keep time with you." Poor Constance! The tears came swiftly
to my own eyes when I heard him speak so thoughtlessly to her, and I was
almost provoked to rebuke him openly. She was still weak from her recent
illness; her nerves were excited by the unusual pleasure she felt in
playing once more with her husband, and this sudden shattering of her
hopes of a renewed tenderness proved more than she could bear: she put
her head between her hands upon the keyboard and broke into a paroxysm
of tears. We both ran to her; but while we were attempting to assuage her grief,
John shut his violin into its case, took the music-book under his arm,
and left the room without saying a word to any of us, not even to the
weeping girl, whose sobs seemed as though they would break her heart. We got her put to bed at once, but it was some hours before her
convulsive sobbing ceased. Mrs. Temple had administered to her a
soothing draught of proved efficacy, and after sitting with her till
after one o'clock, I left her at last dozing off to sleep, and myself
sought repose. I was quite wearied out with the weight of my anxiety,
and with the crushing bitterness of seeing my dearest Constance's
feelings so wounded. Yet in spite, or rather perhaps on account of my
trouble, my head had scarcely touched my pillow ere I fell into a deep
sleep. A room in the south wing had been converted for the nonce into a
nursery, and for the convenience of being near her infant Constance now
slept in a room adjoining. As this portion of the house was somewhat
isolated, Mrs. Temple had suggested that I should keep her daughter
company, and occupy a room in the same passage, only removed a few
doors, and this I had accordingly done. I was aroused from my sleep that
night by some one knocking gently on the door of my bedroom; but it was
some seconds before my thoughts became sufficiently awake to allow me to
remember where I was. There was some moonlight, but I lighted a candle,
and looking at my watch saw that it was two o'clock. I concluded that
either Constance or her baby was unwell, and that the nurse needed my
assistance. So I left my bed, and moving to the door, asked softly who
was there. It was, to my surprise, the voice of Constance that replied,
"O Sophy, let me in." In a second I had opened the door, and found my poor sister wearing only
her night-dress, and standing in the moonlight before me. She looked frightened and unusually pale in her white dress and with the
cold gleam of the moon upon her. At first I thought she was walking in
her sleep, and perhaps rehearsing again in her dreams the troubles which
dogged her waking footsteps. I took her gently by the arm, saying,
"Dearest Constance, come back at once to bed; you will take cold." She was not asleep, however, but made a motion of silence, and said in
a terrified whisper, "Hush; do you hear nothing?" There was something
so vague and yet so mysterious in the question and in her evident
perturbation that I was infected too by her alarm. I felt myself shiver,
as I strained my ear to catch if possible the slightest sound. But a
complete silence pervaded everything: I could hear nothing. "Can you hear it?" she said again.