The summer was spent by us in the company of Mrs. Temple and Constance, partly at Royston and partly at Worth Maltravers.  John had again hired the cutter-yacht Palestine, and the whole party made several expeditions in her.  Constance was entirely devoted to her lover; her life seemed wrapped up in his; she appeared to have no existence except in his presence.

I can scarcely enumerate the reasons which prompted such thoughts, but during these months I sometimes found myself wondering if John still returned her affection as ardently as I knew had once been the case.  I can certainly call to mind no single circumstance which could justify me in such a suspicion.  He performed punctiliously all those thousand little acts of devotion which are expected of an accepted lover; he seemed to take pleasure in perfecting any scheme of enjoyment to amuse her; and yet the impression grew in my mind that he no longer felt the same heart-whole love to her that she bore him, and that he had himself shown six months earlier.  I cannot say, my dear Edward, how lively was the grief that even the suspicion of such a fact caused me, and I continually rebuked myself for entertaining for a moment a thought so unworthy, and dismissed it from my mind with reprobation.  Alas! ere long it was sure again to make itself felt.  We had all seen the Stradivarius violin; indeed it was impossible for my brother longer to conceal it from us, as he now played continually on it.  He did not recount to us the story of its discovery, contenting himself with saying that he had become possessed of it at Oxford.  We imagined naturally that he had purchased it; and for this I was sorry, as I feared Mr. Thoresby, his guardian, who had given him some years previously an excellent violin by Pressenda, might feel hurt at seeing his present so unceremoniously laid aside.  None of us were at all intimately acquainted with the fancies of fiddle-collectors, and were consequently quite ignorant of the enormous value that fashion attached to so splendid an instrument.  Even had we known, I do not think that we should have been surprised at John purchasing it; for he had recently come of age, and was in possession of so large a fortune as would amply justify him in such an indulgence had he wished to gratify it.  No one, however, could remain unaware of the wonderful musical qualities of the instrument.  Its rich and melodious tones would commend themselves even to the most unmusical ear, and formed a subject of constant remark.  I noticed also that my brother’s knowledge of the violin had improved in a very perceptible manner, for it was impossible to attribute the great beauty and power of his present performance entirely to the excellence of the instrument he was using.  He appeared more than ever devoted to the art, and would shut himself up in his room alone for two or more hours together for the purpose of playing the violina habit which was a source of sorrow to Constance, for he would never allow her to sit with him on such occasions, as she naturally wished to do.

So the summer fled.  I should have mentioned that in July, after going up to complete the viva-voce part of their examination, both Mr. Gaskell and John received information that they had obtained “first-classes.”  The young men had, it appears, done excellently well, and both had secured a place in that envied division of the first-class which was called “above the line.”  John’s success proved a source of much pleasure to us all, and mutual congratulations were freely exchanged.  We were pleased also at Mr. Gaskell’s high place, remembering the kindness which he had shown us at Oxford in the previous year.  I desired to send him my compliments and félicitations when he should next be writing to him.  I did not doubt that my brother would return Mr. Gaskell’s congratulations, which he had already received:  he said, however, that his friend had given no address to which he could write, and so the matter dropped.

On the 1st of September John and Constance Temple were married.  The wedding took place at Royston, and by John’s special desire (with which Constance fully agreed) the ceremony was of a strictly private and unpretentious nature.  The newly married pair had determined to spend their honeymoon in Italy, and left for the Continent in the forenoon.

Mrs. Temple invited me to remain with her for the present at Royston, which I was very glad to do, feeling deeply the loss of a favourite brother, and looking forward with dismay to six weeks of loneliness which must elapse before I should again see him and my dearest Constance.

We received news of our travellers about a fortnight afterwards, and then heard from them at frequent intervals.  Constance wrote in the best of spirits, and with the keenest appreciation.  She had never travelled in Switzerland or Italy before and all was enchantingly novel to her.  They had journeyed through Basle to Lucerne, spending a few days in that delightful spot, and thence proceeding by the Simplon Pass to Lugano and the Italian lakes.  Then we heard that they had gone further south than had been at first contemplated; they had reached Rome, and were intending to go on to Naples.

After the first few weeks we neither of us received any more letters from John.  It was always Constance who wrote, and even her letters grew very much less frequent than had at first been the case.  This was perhaps natural, as the business of travel no doubt engrossed their thoughts.  But ere long we both perceived that the letters of our dear girl were more constrained and formal than before.  It was as if she was writing now rather to comply with a sense of duty than to give vent to the light-hearted gaiety and naïve enjoyment which breathed in every line of her earlier communications.  So at least it seemed to us, and again the old suspicion presented itself to my mind, and I feared that all was not as it should be.

Naples was to be the turning-point of their travels, and we expected them to return to England by the end of October.  November had arrived, however, and we still had no intimation that their return journey had commenced or was even decided on.  From John there was no word, and Constance wrote less often than ever.  John, she said, was enraptured with Naples and its surroundings; he devoted himself much to the violin, and though she did not say so, this meant, I knew, that she was often left alone.  For her own part, she did not think that a continued residence in Italy would suit her health; the sudden changes of temperature tried her, and people said that the airs rising in the evening from the bay were unwholesome.

Then we received a letter from her which much alarmed us.  It was written from Naples and dated October 25.  John, she said, had been ailing of late with nervousness and insomnia.  On Wednesday, two days before the date of her letter, he had suffered all day from a strange restlessness, which increased after they had retired for the evening.  He could not sleep and had dressed again, telling her he would walk a little in the night air to compose himself.  He had not returned till near six in the morning, and then was so deadly pale and seemed so exhausted that she insisted on his keeping to his bed till she could get medical advice.  The doctors feared that he had been attacked by some strange form of malarial fever, and said he needed much care.  Our anxiety was, however, at least temporarily relieved by the receipt of later tidings which spoke of John’s recovery; but November drew to a close without any definite mention of their return having reached us.

That month is always, I think, a dreary one in the country.  It has neither the brilliant tints of October, nor the cosy jollity of mid-winter with its Christmas joys to alleviate it.  This year it was more gloomy than usual.  Incessant rain had marked its close, and the Roy, a little brook which skirted the gardens not far from the house, had swollen to unusual proportions.  At last one wild night the flood rose so high as to completely cover the garden terraces, working havoc in the parterres, and covering the lawns with a thick coat of mud.  Perhaps this gloominess of nature’s outer face impressed itself in a sense of apprehension on our spirits, and it was with a feeling of more than ordinary pleasure and relief that early in December we received a letter dated from Laon, saying that our travellers were already well advanced on their return journey, and expected to be in England a week after the receipt by us of this advice.  It was, as usual, Constance who wrote.  John begged, she said, that Christmas might be spent at Worth Maltravers, and that we would at once proceed thither to see that all was in order against their return.  They reached Worth about the middle of the month, and were, I need not say, received with the utmost affection by Mrs. Temple and myself.

In reply to our inquiries John professed that his health was completely restored; but though we could indeed discern no other signs of any special weakness, we were much shocked by his changed appearance.  He had completely lost his old healthy and sunburnt complexion, and his face, though not thin or sunken, was strangely pale.  Constance assured us that though in other respects he had apparently recovered, he had never regained his old colour from the night of his attack of fever at Naples.

I soon perceived that her own spirits were not so bright as was ordinarily the case with her; and she exhibited none of the eagerness to narrate to others the incidents of travel which is generally observable in those who have recently returned from a journey.  The cause of this depression was, alas! not difficult to discover, for John’s former abstraction and moodiness seemed to have returned with an increased force.  It was a source of infinite pain to Mrs. Temple, and perhaps even more so to me, to observe this sad state of things.  Constance never complained, and her affection towards her husband seemed only to increase in the face of difficulties.  Yet the matter was one which could not be hid from the anxious eyes of loving kinswomen, and I believe that it was the consciousness that these altered circumstances could not but force themselves upon our notice that added poignancy to my poor sister’s grief.  While not markedly neglecting her, my brother had evidently ceased to take that pleasure in her company which might reasonably have been expected in any case under the circumstances of a recent marriage, and a thousand times more so when his wife was so loving and beautiful a creature as Constance Temple.  He appeared little except at meals, and not even always at lunch, shutting himself up for the most part in his morning-room or study and playing continually on the violin.  It was in vain that we attempted even by means of his music to win him back to a sweeter mood.  Again and again I begged him to allow me to accompany him on the pianoforte, but he would never do so, always putting me off with some excuse.  Even when he sat with us in the evening, he spoke little, devoting himself for the most part to reading.  His books were almost always Greek or Latin, so that I am ignorant of the subjects of his study; but he was content that either Constance or I should play on the pianoforte, saying that the melody, so far from distracting his attention, helped him rather to appreciate what he was reading.  Constance always begged me to allow her to take her place at the instrument on these occasions, and would play to him sometimes for hours without receiving a word of thanks, being eager even in this unreciprocated manner to testify her love and devotion to him.

Christmas Day, usually so happy a season, brought no alleviation of our gloom.  My brother’s reserve continually increased, and even his longest-established habits appeared changed.  He had been always most observant of his religious duties, attending divine service with the utmost regularity whatever the weather might be, and saying that it was a duty a landed proprietor owed as much to his tenantry as himself to set a good example in such matters.  Ever since our earliest years he and I had gone morning and afternoon on Sundays to the little church of Worth, and there sat together in the Maltravers chapel where so many of our name had sat before us.  Here their monuments and achievements stood about us on every side, and it had always seemed to me that with their name and property we had inherited also the obligation to continue those acts of piety, in the practice of which so many of them had lived and died.  It was, therefore, a source of surprise and great grief to me when on the Sunday after his return my brother omitted all religious observances, and did not once attend the parish church.  He was not present with us at breakfast, ordering coffee and a roll to be taken to his private sitting-room.  At the hour at which we usually set out for church I went to his room to tell him that we were all dressed and waiting for him.  I tapped at the door, but on trying to enter found it locked.  In reply to my message he did not open the door, but merely begged us to go on to church, saying he would possibly follow us later.  We went alone, and I sat anxiously in our seat with my eyes fixed on the door, hoping against hope that each late comer might be John, but he never came.  Perhaps this will appear to you, Edward, a comparatively trivial circumstance (though I hope it may not), but I assure you that it brought tears to my eyes.  When I sat in the Maltravers chapel and thought that for the first time my dear brother had preferred in an open way his convenience or his whim to his duty, and had of set purpose neglected to come to the house of God, I felt a bitter grief that seemed to rise up in my throat and choke me.  I could not think of the meaning of the prayers nor join in the singing:  and all the time that Mr. Butler, our clergyman, was preaching, a verse of a little piece of poetry which I learnt as a girl was running in my head:

  “How easy are the paths of ill;
     How steep and hard the upward ways;
  A child can roll the stone down hill
    That breaks a giant’s arm to raise.”

It seemed to me that our loved one had set his foot upon the downward slope, and that not all the efforts of those who would have given their lives to save him could now hold him back.

It was even worse on Christmas Day.  Ever since we had been confirmed John and I had always taken the Sacrament on that happy morning, and after service he had distributed the Maltravers dole in our chapel.  There are given, as you know, on that day to each of twelve old men L5 and a green coat, and a like sum of money with a blue cloth dress to as many old women.  These articles of dress are placed on the altar-tomb of Sir Esmoun de Maltravers, and have been thence distributed from days immemorial by the head of our house.  Ever since he was twelve years old it had been my pride to watch my handsome brother doing this deed of noble charity, and to hear the kindly words he added with each gift.

Alas! alas! it was all different this Christmas.  Even on this holy day my brother did not approach either the altar or the house of God.  Till then Christmas had always seemed to me to be a day given us from above, that we might see even while on earth a faint glimpse of that serenity and peaceful love which will hereafter gild all days in heaven.  Then covetous men lay aside their greed and enemies their rancour, then warm hearts grow warmer, and Christians feel their common brotherhood.  I can scarcely imagine any man so lost or guilty as not to experience on that day some desire to turn back to the good once more, as not to recognise some far-off possibility of better things.  It was thoughts free and happy such as these that had previously come into my heart in the service of Christmas Day, and been particularly associated with the familiar words that we all love so much.  But that morning the harmonies were all jangled:  it seemed as though some evil spirit was pouring wicked thoughts into my ear; and even while children sang “Hark the herald angels,” I thought I could hear through it all a melody which I had learnt to loathe, the Gagliarda of the “Areopagita.”

Poor Constance!  Though her veil was down, I could see her tears, and knew her thoughts must be sadder even than mine:  I drew her hand towards me, and held it as I would a child’s.  After the service was over a new trial awaited us.  John had made no arrangement for the distribution of the dole.  The coats and dresses were all piled ready on Sir Esmoun’s tomb, and there lay the little leather pouches of money, but there was no one to give them away.  Mr. Butler looked puzzled, and approaching us, said he feared Sir John was illhad he made no provision for the distribution?  Pride kept back the tears which were rising fast, and I said my brother was indeed unwell, that it would be better for Mr. Butler to give away the dole, and that Sir John would himself visit the recipients during the week.  Then we hurried away, not daring to watch the distribution of the dole, lest we should no longer be able to master our feelings, and should openly betray our agitation.

From one another we no longer attempted to conceal our grief.  It seemed as though we had all at once resolved to abandon the farce of pretending not to notice John’s estrangement from his wife, or of explaining away his neglectful and unaccountable treatment of her.

I do not think that three poor women were ever so sad on Christmas Day before as were we on our return from church that morning.  None of us had seen my brother, but about five in the afternoon Constance went to his room, and through the locked door begged piteously to see him.  After a few minutes he complied with her request and opened the door.  The exact circumstances of that interview she never revealed to me, but I knew from her manner when she returned that something she had seen or heard had both grieved and frightened her.  She told me only that she had flung herself in an agony of tears at his feet, and kneeling there, weary and broken-hearted, had begged him to tell her if she had done aught amiss, had prayed him to give her back his love.  To all this he answered little, but her entreaties had at least such an effect as to induce him to take his dinner with us that evening.  At that meal we tried to put aside our gloom, and with feigned smiles and cheerful voices, from which the tears were hardly banished, sustained a weary show of conversation and tried to wile away his evil mood.  But he spoke little; and when Foster, my father’s butler, put on the table the three-handled Maltravers’ loving-cup that he had brought up Christmas by Christmas for thirty years, my brother merely passed it by without a taste.  I saw by Foster’s face that the master’s malady was no longer a secret even from the servants.

I shall not harass my own feelings nor yours, my dear Edward, by entering into further details of your father’s illness, for such it was obvious his indisposition had become.  It was the only consolation, and that was a sorry one, that we could use with Constance, to persuade her that John’s estrangement from her was merely the result or manifestation of some physical infirmity.  He obviously grew worse from week to week, and his treatment of his wife became colder and more callous.  We had used all efforts to persuade him to take a change of airto go to Royston for a month, and place himself under the care of Dr. Dobie.  Mrs. Temple had even gone so far as to write privately to this physician, telling him as much of the ease as was prudent, and asking his advice.  Not being aware of the darker sides of my brother’s ailment, Dr. Dobie replied in a less serious strain than seemed to us convenient, but recommended in any case a complete change of air and scene.

It was, therefore, with no ordinary pleasure and relief that we heard my brother announce quite unexpectedly one morning in March that he had made up his mind to seek change, and was going to leave almost immediately for the Continent.  He took his valet Parnham with him, and quitted Worth one morning before lunch, bidding us an unceremonious adieu, though he kissed Constance with some apparent tenderness.  It was the first time for three months, she confessed to me afterwards, that he had shown her even so ordinary a mark of affection; and her wounded heart treasured up what she hoped would prove a token of returning love.  He had not proposed to take her with him, and even had he done so, we should have been reluctant to assent, as signs were not wanting that it might have been imprudent for her to undertake foreign travel at that period.

For nearly a month we had no word of him.  Then he wrote a short note to Constance from Naples, giving no news, and indeed, scarce speaking of himself at all, but mentioning as an address to which she might write if she wished, the Villa de Angelis at Posilipo.  Though his letter was cold and empty, yet Constance was delighted to get it, and wrote henceforth herself nearly every day, pouring out her heart to him, and retailing such news as she thought would cheer him.