This restlessness, following on the repose of the day,
ought perhaps to have made me anxious, for I have since observed that
when death is very near an apprehensive unrest often sets in both with
men and animals. It seems as if they dreaded to resign themselves to
sleep, lest as they slumber the last enemy should seize them unawares. They try to fling off the bedclothes, they sometimes must leave their
beds and walk. So it was with poor John Maltravers on his last Christmas
Eve. I had sat with him grieving for his disquiet until he seemed to
grow more tranquil, and at length fell asleep. I was sleeping that night
in his room instead of Parnham, and tired with sitting up through the
previous night, I flung myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed. I had
scarcely dozed off, I think, before the sound of his violin awoke me. I found he had risen from his bed, had taken his favourite instrument,
and was playing in his sleep. The air was the _Gagliarda_ of the
"Areopagita" suite, which I had not heard since we had played it last
together at Oxford, and it brought back with it a crowd of far-off
memories and infinite regrets. I cursed the sleepiness which had
overcome me at my watchman's post, and allowed Sir John to play once
more that melody which had always been fraught with such evil for him;
and I was about to wake him gently when he was startled from sleep by a
strange accident. As I walked towards him the violin seemed entirely to
collapse in his hands, and, as a matter of fact, the belly then gave way
and broke under the strain of the strings. As the strings slackened, the
last note became an unearthly discord. If I were superstitious I should
say that some evil spirit then went out of the violin, and broke in his
parting throes the wooden tabernacle which had so long sheltered him. It
was the last time the instrument was ever used, and that hideous chord
was the last that Maltravers ever played. I had feared that the shock of waking thus suddenly from sleep would
have a very prejudicial effect upon the sleep-walker, but this seemed
not to be the case. I persuaded him to go back at once to bed, and in a
few minutes he fell asleep again. In the morning he seemed for the first
time distinctly better; there was indeed something of his old self in
his manner. It seemed as though the breaking of the violin had been an
actual relief to him; and I believe that on that Christmas morning his
better instincts woke, and that his old religious training and the
associations of his boyhood then made their last appeal. I was pleased
at such a change, however temporary it might prove. He wished to go to
church, and I determined that again I would subdue my curiosity and
defer the questions I was burning to put till after our return from
the morning service. Miss Maltravers had gone indoors to make some
preparation, Sir John was in his wheel-chair on the terrace, and I was
sitting by him in the sun. For a few moments he appeared immersed in
silent thought, and then bent over towards me till his head was close
to mine, and said, "Dear William, there is something I must tell you. I feel I cannot even go to church till I have told you all." His manner
shocked me beyond expression. I knew that he was going to tell me the
secret of the lost pages, but instead of wishing any longer to have my
curiosity satisfied, I felt a horrible dread of what he might say next. He took my hand in his and held it tightly, as a man who was about to
undergo severe physical pain and sought the consolation of a friend's
support. Then he went on--"You will be shocked at what I am going to
tell you; but listen, and do not give me up: You must stand by me and
comfort me and help me to turn again." He paused for a moment and
continued--"It was one night in October, when Constance and I were at
Naples. I took that violin and went by myself to the ruined villa on
the Scoglio di Venere." He had been speaking with difficulty. His hand
clutched mine convulsively, but still I felt it trembling, and I could
see the moisture standing thick on his forehead. At this point the
effort seemed too much for him and he broke off. "I cannot go on, I
cannot tell you, but you can read it for yourself. In that diary which
I gave you there are some pages missing." The suspense was becoming
intolerable to me, and I broke in, "Yes, yes, I know; you cut them out. Tell me where they are," He went on--"Yes, I cut them out lest they
should possibly fall into anyone's hands unaware. But before you read
them you must swear, as you hope for salvation, that you will never try
to do what is written in them. Swear this to me now, or I never can
let you see them." My eagerness was too great to stop now to discuss
trifles, and to humour him I swore as desired. He had been speaking with
a continual increasing effort; he cast a hurried and fearful glance
round as though he expected to see someone listening, and it was almost
in a whisper that he went on, "You will find them in--" His agitation
had become most painful to watch, and as he spoke the last words a
convulsion passed over his face, and speech failing him, he sank back on
his pillow. A strange fear took hold of me. For a moment I thought there
were others on the terrace beside myself, and turned round expecting to
see Miss Maltravers returned; but we were still alone. I even fancied
that just as Sir John spoke his last words I felt something brush
swiftly by me. He put up his hands, beating the air with a most painful
gesture, as though he were trying to keep off an antagonist who had
gripped him by the throat, and made a final struggle to speak. But the
spasm was too strong for him; a dreadful stillness followed, and he was
gone. There is little more to add; for Sir John's guilty secret, perished with
him. Though I was sure from his manner that the missing leaves were
concealed somewhere at Worth, and though as executor I caused the most
diligent search to be made, no trace of them was afterwards found; nor
did any circumstance ever transpire to fling further light upon the
matter. I must confess that I should have felt the discovery of these
pages as a relief; for though I dreaded what I might have had to read,
yet I was more anxious lest, being found at a later period and falling
into other hands, they should cause a recrudescence of that plague which
had blighted Sir John's life. Of the nature of the events which took place on that night at Naples
I can form no conjecture. But as certain physical sights have ere now
proved so revolting as to unhinge the intellect, so I can imagine that
the mind may in a state of extreme tension conjure up to itself some
form of moral evil so hideous as metaphysically to sear it: and this,
I believe, happened in the case both of Adrian Temple and of Sir John
Maltravers. It is difficult to imagine the accessories used to produce the mental
excitation in which alone such a presentment of evil could become
imaginable.