These
messages I never dared to give him, fearing to agitate him, or retard
his recovery by diverting his thoughts into channels which must
necessarily be of a painful character. That he should never even mention
her name, or that of Lady Maltravers, led me to wonder sometimes if one
of those curious freaks of memory which occasionally accompany a severe
illness had not entirely blotted out from his mind the recollection of
his marriage and of his wife's death. He was unable to consider any
affairs of business, and the management of the estate remained as it
had done for the last two years in the hands of our excellent agent,
Mr. Baker. But one evening in the early part of December he sent Raffaelle about
nine o'clock, saying he wished to speak to me. I went to his room, and
without any warning he began at once, "You never show me my boy now,
Sophy; he must be grown a big child, and I should like to see him." Much startled by so unexpected a remark, I replied that the child was
at Royston under the care of Mrs. Temple, but that I knew that if it
pleased him to see Edward she would be glad to bring him down to Worth. He seemed gratified with this idea, and begged me to ask her to do so,
desiring that his respects should be at the same time conveyed to her. I
almost ventured at that moment to recall his lost wife to his thoughts,
by saying that his child resembled her strongly; for your likeness at
that time, and even now, my dear Edward, to your poor mother was very
marked. But my courage failed me, and his talk soon reverted to an
earlier period, comparing the mildness of the month to that of the first
winter which he spent at Eton. His thoughts, however, must, I fancy,
have returned for a moment to the days when he first met your mother,
for he suddenly asked, "Where is Gaskell? Why does he never come to see
me?" This brought quite a new idea to my mind. I fancied it might do my
brother much good to have by him so sensible and true a friend as I knew
Mr. Gaskell to be. The latter's address had fortunately not slipped from
my memory, and I put all scruples aside and wrote by the next mail to
him, setting forth my brother's sad condition, saying that I had heard
John mention his name, and begging him on my own account to be so good
as to help us if possible and come to us in this hour of trial. Though
he was so far off as Westmorland, Mr. Gaskell's generosity brought
him at once to our aid, and within a week he was installed at Worth
Maltravers, sleeping, in the library, where we had arranged a bed at
his own desire, so that he might be near his sick friend. His presence was of the utmost assistance to us all. He treated John
at once with the tenderness of a woman and the firmness of a clever
and strong man. They sat constantly together in the mornings, and Mr.
Gaskell told me John had not shown with him the same reluctance to talk
freely of his married life as he had discovered with me. The tenor of
his communications I cannot guess, nor did I ever ask; but I knew that
Mr. Gaskell was much affected by them. John even amused himself now at times by having Mr. Baker into his rooms
of a morning, that the management of the estate might be discussed with
his friend; and he also expressed his wish to see the family solicitor,
as he desired to draw his will. Thinking that any diversion of this
nature could not but be beneficial to him, we sent to Dorchester for our
solicitor, Mr. Jeffreys, who together with his clerk spent three nights
at Worth, and drew up a testament for my brother. So time went on, and the year was drawing to a close. It was Christmas Eve, and I had gone to bed shortly after twelve
o'clock, having an hour earlier bid good night to John and Mr. Gaskell. The long habit of watching with, or being in charge of an invalid at
night, had made my ears extraordinarily quick to apprehend even the
slightest murmur. It must have been, I think, near three in the morning
when I found myself awake and conscious of some unusual sound. It was
low and far off, but I knew instantly what it was, and felt a choking
sensation of fear and horror, as if an icy hand had gripped my throat,
on recognising the air of the _Gagliarda_. It was being played on the
violin, and a long way off, but I knew that tune too well to permit of
my having any doubt on the subject. Any trouble or fear becomes, as you will some day learn, my dear nephew,
immensely intensified and exaggerated at night. It is so, I suppose,
because our nerves are in an excited condition, and our brain not
sufficiently awake to give a due account of our foolish imaginations. I
have myself many times lain awake wrestling in thought with difficulties
which in the hours of darkness seemed insurmountable, but with the dawn
resolved themselves into merely trivial inconveniences. So on this
night, as I sat up in bed looking into the dark, with the sound of that
melody in my ears, it seemed as if something too terrible for words had
happened; as though the evil spirit, which we had hoped was exorcised,
had returned with others sevenfold more wicked than himself, and taken
up his abode again with my lost brother. The memory of another night
rushed to my mind when Constance had called me from my bed at Royston,
and we had stolen together down the moonlit passages with the lilt of
that wicked music vibrating on the still summer air. Poor Constance! She
was in her grave now; yet _her_ troubles at least were over, but here,
as by some bitter irony, instead of carol or sweet symphony, it was the
_Gagliarda_ that woke me from my sleep on Christmas morning. I flung my dressing-gown about me, and hurried through the corridor and
down the stairs which led to the lower storey and my brother's room. As I opened my bedroom door the violin ceased suddenly in the middle
of a bar. Its last sound was not a musical note, but rather a horrible
scream, such as I pray I may never hear again. It was a sound such as a
wounded beast might utter. There is a picture I have seen of Blake's,
showing the soul of a strong wicked man leaving his body at death. The
spirit is flying out through the window with awful staring eyes, aghast
at the desolation into which it is going. If in the agony of dissolution
such a lost soul could utter a cry, it would, I think, sound like the
wail which I heard from the violin that night. Instantly all was in absolute stillness. The passages were silent and
ghostly in the faint light of my candle; but as I reached the bottom
of the stairs I heard the sound of other footsteps, and Mr. Gaskell met
me. He was fully dressed, and had evidently not been to bed. He took me
kindly by the hand and said, "I feared you might be alarmed by the sound
of music. John has been walking in his sleep; he had taken out his
violin and was playing on it in a trance. Just as I reached him
something in it gave way, and the discord caused by the slackened
strings roused him at once. He is awake now and has returned to bed.