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
wee