All sorts of images of ill presented
themselves to my imagination: I thought the baby must be ill with croup,
and that she was listening for some stertorous breath of anguish; and
then the dread came over me that perhaps her sorrows had been too much
for her, and that reason had left her seat. At that thought the marrow
froze in my bones. "Hush," she said again; and just at that moment, as I strained my ears,
I thought I caught upon the sleeping air a distant and very faint
murmur. "Oh, what is it, Constance?" I said. "You will drive me mad;" and while
I spoke the murmur seemed to resolve itself into the vibration, felt
almost rather than heard, of some distant musical instrument. I stepped
past her into the passage. All was deadly still, but I could perceive
that music was being played somewhere far away; and almost at the same
minute my ears recognised faintly but unmistakably the _Gagliarda_ of
the "Areopagita." I have already mentioned that for some reason which I can scarcely
explain, this melody was very repugnant to me. It seemed associated in
some strange and intimate way with my brother's indisposition and moral
decline. Almost at the moment that I had heard it first two years ago,
peace seemed to have risen up and left our house, gathering her skirts
about her, as we read that the angels left the Temple at the siege of
Jerusalem. And now it was even more detestable to my ears, recalling as
it did too vividly the cruel events of the preceding evening. "John must be sitting up playing," I said. "Yes," she answered; "but why is he in this part of the house, and why
does he always play _that_ tune?" It was if some irresistible attraction drew us towards the music. Constance took my hand in hers and we moved together slowly down the
passage. The wind had risen, and though there was a bright moon, her
beams were constantly eclipsed by driving clouds. Still there was light
enough to guide us, and I extinguished the candle. As we reached the end
of the passage the air of the _Gagliarda_ grew more and more distinct. Our passage opened on to a broad landing with a balustrade, and from one
side of it ran out the picture-gallery which you know. I looked at Constance significantly. It was evident that John was
playing in this gallery. We crossed the landing, treading carefully and
making no noise with our naked feet, for both of us had been too excited
even to think of putting on shoes. We could now see the whole length of the gallery. My poor brother sat in
the oriel window of which I have before spoken. He was sitting so as to
face the picture of Adrian Temple, and the great windows of the oriel
flung a strong light on him. At times a cloud hid the moon, and all was
plunged in darkness; but in a moment the cold light fell full on him,
and we could trace every feature as in a picture. He had evidently not
been to bed, for he was fully dressed, exactly as he had left us in the
drawing-room five hours earlier when Constance was weeping over his
thoughtless words. He was playing the violin, playing with a passion and
reckless energy which I had never seen, and hope never to see again. Perhaps he remembered that this spot was far removed from the rest
of the house, or perhaps he was careless whether any were awake and
listening to him or not; but it seemed to me that he was playing with
a sonorous strength greater than I had thought possible for a single
violin. There came from his instrument such a volume and torrent of
melody as to fill the gallery so full, as it were, of sound that it
throbbed and vibrated again. He kept his eyes fixed on something at the
opposite side of the gallery; we could not indeed see on what, but I
have no doubt at all that it was the portrait of Adrian Temple. His gaze
was eager and expectant, as though he were waiting for something to
occur which did not. I knew that he had been growing thin of late, but this was the first
time I had realised how sunk were the hollows of his eyes and how
haggard his features had become. It may have been some effect of
moonlight which I do not well understand, but his fine-cut face, once so
handsome, looked on this night worn and thin like that of an old man. He never for a moment ceased playing. It was always one same dreadful
melody, the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita," and he repeated it time
after time with the perseverance and apparent aimlessness of an
automaton. He did not see us, and we made no sign, standing afar off in silent
horror at that nocturnal sight. Constance clutched me by the arm: she
was so pale that I perceived it even in the moonlight. "Sophy," she
said, "he is sitting in the same place as on the first night when he
told me how he loved me." I could answer nothing, my voice was frozen
in me. I could only stare at my brother's poor withered face, realising
then for the first time that he must be mad, and that it was the
haunting of the _Gagliarda_ that had made him so. We stood there I believe for half an hour without speech or motion, and
all the time that sad figure at the end of the gallery continued its
performance. Suddenly he stopped, and an expression of frantic despair
came over his face as he laid down the violin and buried his head in his
hands. I could bear it no longer. "Constance," I said, "come back to
bed. We can do nothing," So we turned and crept away silently as we had
come. Only as we crossed the landing Constance stopped, and looked back
for a minute with a heart-broken yearning at the man she loved. He had
taken his hands from his head, and she saw the profile of his face clear
cut and hard in the white moonlight. It was the last time her eyes ever looked upon it. She made for a moment as if she would turn back and go to him, but her
courage failed her, and we went on. Before we reached her room we heard
in the distance, faintly but distinctly, the burden of the _Gagliarda_. CHAPTER XII


The next morning, my maid brought me a hurried note written in pencil by
my brother. It contained only a few lines, saying that he found that his
continued sojourn at Royston was not beneficial to his health, and had
determined to return to Italy. If we wished to write, letters would
reach him at the Villa de Angelis: his valet Parnham was to follow him
thither with his baggage as soon as it could be got together. This was
all; there was no word of adieu even to his wife. We found that he had never gone to bed that night. But in the early
morning he had himself saddled his horse _Sentinel_ and ridden in to
Derby, taking the early mail thence to London. His resolve to leave
Royston had apparently been arrived at very suddenly, for so far as we
could discover, he had carried no luggage of any kind. I could not help
looking somewhat carefully round his room to see if he had taken the
Stradivarius violin. No trace of it or even of its case was to be seen,
though it was difficult to imagine how he could have carried it with him
on horseback.