"Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tiresome, and there will be
Anthony's children putting your nose out of joint. You will want some one to
love you best of all, and you must have children of your own to love. I can't
have you withering away into an old maid. I hate old maids. They make me dismal
to look at them. I never see Sharp without shuddering. My little black-eyed
monkey was never meant for anything so ugly. And there's Maynard Gilfil, the
best man in the country, worth his weight in gold, heavy as he is; he loves you
better than his eyes. And you love him too, you silly monkey, whatever you may
say about not being married."
"No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so; I could not marry him."
"Why not, you foolish child? You don't know your own mind. Why, it is plain to
everybody that you love him. My lady has all along said she was sure you loved
him?she has seen what little princess airs you put on to him; and Anthony too,
he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what has made you take it into your
head that you wouldn't like to marry him?"
Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. Sir Christopher patted
her on the back and said, "Come, come; why, Tina, you are not well this morning.
Go and rest, little one. You will see things in quite another light when you are
well. Think over what I have said, and remember there is nothing, after
Anthony's marriage, that I have set my heart on so much as seeing you and
Maynard settled for life. I must have no whims and follies?no nonsense." This
was said with a slight severity; but he presently added, in a soothing tone,
"There, there, stop crying, and be a good little monkey. Go and lie down and get
to sleep."
Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the old Baronet's hand,
covered it with tears and kisses, and then ran out of the room.
Before the evening, Captain Wybrow had heard from his uncle the result of the
interview with Caterina. He thought, "If I could have a long quiet talk with
her, I could perhaps persuade her to look more reasonably at things. But there's
no speaking to her in the house without being interrupted, and I can hardly see
her anywhere else without Beatrice's finding it out." At last he determined to
make it a matter of confidence with Miss Assher?to tell her that he wished to
talk to Caterina quietly for the sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind,
and persuade her to listen to Gilfil's affection. He was very much pleased with
this judicious and candid plan, and in the course of the evening he had arranged
with himself the time and place of meeting, and had communicated his purpose to
Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she thought, would do well
to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sarti. He was really very patient and
kind to her, considering how she behaved.
Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully tended as an
invalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. This
tendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions and
kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself to appear
at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well, though head and heart
were trobbing. To be confined in her own room was intolerable; it was wretched
enough to be looked at and spoken to, but it was more wretched to be left alone.
She was frightened at her own sensations: she was frightened at the imperious
vividness with which pictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her
imagination. And there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be down
stairs and moving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking to
Captain Wybrow alone?of speaking those words of hatred and scron that burned on
her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected manner.
Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing-room to fetch some
patterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently walked
out after her, and met her as she was returning down stairs.
"Caterina," he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was hurrying on without
looking at him, "will you meet me in the Rookery at twelve o'clock? I must speak
to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I cannot speak to you in the house."
To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; she answered
shortly and decidedly, "Yes," then snatched her arm away from him, and passed
down stairs.
Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulating Lady
Cheverel's embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement of holding
the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus about her, and
Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat down to the harpsichord
in the sittingroom. It seemed as if playing massive chords? bringing out volumes
of sound, would be the easiest way of passing the long feverish moments before
twelve o'clock. Handel's "Messiah" stood open on the desk, at the chorus "All we
like sheep," and Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies
of that magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never have played
it so well; for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by a
convulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to the clutch of
the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives far-sounding intensity to the shriek
of the feeble.
But at half-past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Cheverel, who said, "Tina,
go down, will you, and hold Miss Assher's silks for her. Lady Assher and I have
decided on having our drive before luncheon."
Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-room in
time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from going;
nothing should rob her of this one precious moment?perhaps the last?when she
could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that, she would be passive;
she would bear anything.
But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk on her hands, when
Miss Assher said, graciously,?
"I know you have an engagement with Captain Wybrow this morning. You must not
let me detain you beyond the time."
"So he has been talking to her about me," thought Caterina. Her hands began to
tremble as she held the skein.
Miss Assher continued, in the same gracious tone: "It is tedious work holding
these skeins. I am sure I am very much obliged to you."
"No, you are not obliged to me," said Caterina, completely mastered by her
irritation; "I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me."
The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer suppress her long latent
desire to "let Miss Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct." With the
malicious anger that assumes the tone of compassion, she said,?
"Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not able to control
yourself better. This giving way to unwarrantable feelings is lowering you ?it
is indeed."
"What unwarrantable feelings?" said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and fixing
her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher.
"It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious what I mean.
Only summon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow
extremely by your want of self-control."
"Did he tell you I pained him?"
"Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you should behave to me as if
you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make a friend of me. I
assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are sorry you should
cherish such feelings."
"He is very good," said Caterina, bitterly. "What feelings did he say I
cherished?"
This bitter tone increased Miss Assher's irritation. There was still a lurking
suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain
Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and feelings towards Caterina.
It was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, which urged her
to say something that would test the truth of his statement. That she would be
humiliating Caterina at the same time, was only an additional temptation.
"These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even understand
how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never given her the least
ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the case."
"He told you that, did he?" said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips turning
white as she rose from her chair.
"Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange behaviour."
Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.
See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages and up
the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift silent
tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a
woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in the gallery, making mimic
suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of polished breastplates. Yes, there
are sharp weapons in the gallery. There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows
it well. And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a
leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her
pocket. In three minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk,
hurrying along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the
windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon her,
not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket, clenching the
handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its sheath.
She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing boughs.
Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom?as if every next leap must be
its last. Wait, wait, O heart! till she has done this one deed. He will be
there?he will be before her in a moment. He will come towards her with that
false smile, thinking she does not know his baseness?she will plunge that dagger
into his heart.
Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish put back into the
water?who never willingly killed the smallest living thing? dreams now, in the
madness of her passion, that she can kill the man whose very voice unnerves her.
But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yards before her?
Good God! it is he?lying motionless?his hat fallen off. He is ill, then?he has
fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards him. His eyes are
fixed; he does not see her. She sinks down on her knees, takes the dear head in
her arms, and kisses the cold forehead.
"Anthony, Anthony! speak to me?it is Tina ?speak to me! O God, he is dead!"
CHAPTER XIV.
"Yes, Maynard," said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr Gilfil in the library,
"it really is a remarkable thing that I never in my life laid a plan, and failed
to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I never swerve from them?that's it. A
strong will is the only magic. And next to striking out one's plans, the
pleasantest thing in the world is to see them well accomplished. This year, now,
will be the happiest of my life, all but the year '53, when I came into
possession of the Manor, and married Henrietta. The last touch is given to the
old house; Anthony's marriage? the thing I had nearest my heart?is settled to my
entire satisfaction; and by-and-by you will be buying a little wedding-ring for
Tina's finger. Don't shake your head in that forlorn way;? when I make
prophecies, they generally come to pass. But there's a quarter after twelve
striking. I must be riding to the High Ash to meet Markham about felling some
timber. My old oaks will have to groan for this wedding, but"?
The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, her eyes distended with
terror, rushed in, threw her arms round Sir Christopher's neck, and gasping
out?"Anthony ... the Rookery ... dead ... in the Rookery," fell fainting on the
floor.
In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr Gilfil was bending to
raise Caterina in his arms. As he lifted her from the ground he felt something
hard and heavy in her pocket. What could it be? The weight of it would be enough
to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to the sofa, put his hand in her pocket,
and drew forth the dagger.
Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, or ... or ... a horrible
suspicion forced itself upon him. "Dead?in the Rookery." He hated himself for
the thought that prompted him to draw the dagger from its sheath. No! there was
no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the good steel for its innocence. He
thrust the weapon into his own pocket; he would restore it as soon as possible
to its well-known place in the gallery. Yet, why had Caterina taken this dagger?
What was it that had happened in the Roockery? Was it only a delirious vision of
hers?
He was afraid to ring?afraid to summon any one to Caterina's assistance. What
might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit? She might be raving. He
could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty for not following Sir
Christopher to see what was the truth. It took but a moment to think and feel
all this, but that moment seemed such a long agony to him, that he began to
reproach himself for letting it pass without seeking some means of reviving
Caterina. Happily the decanter of water on Sir Christopher's table was
untouched. He would at least try the effect of throwing that water over her. She
might revive without his needing to call any one else.
Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at his utmost speed towards the Rookery;
his face, so lately bright and confident, now agitated by a vague dread. The
deep alarmed bark of Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr
Bates, then on his way homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the
direction of the sound, he met the Baronet just as he was approaching the
entrance of the Rookery. Sir Christopher's look was enough. Mr Bates said
nothing, but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the
dead leaves
with his nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him a
minute, when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had found
something, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of the large
planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert leading them; the
tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling of the leaves, as their feet
plunged among them, falling like an evil omen on the Baronet's ear.
They have reached the summit of the mound, and have begun to descend. Sir
Christopher sees something purple down on the path below among the yellow
leaves. Rupert is already beside it, but Sir Christopher cannot move faster. A
tremor has taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert comes back and licks the
trembling hand, as if to say "Courage!" and then is down again snuffing the
body. Yes, it is a body ... Anthony's body. There is the white hand with its
diamond ring clutching the dark leaves. His eyes are half open, but do not heed
the gleam of sunlight that darts itself directly on them from between the
boughs.
Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit. Sir Christopher knelt
down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his hand on the
heart. It might be syncope; it might not?it could not be death. No! that thought
must be kept far off.
"Go, Bates, get help; we'll carry him to your cottage. Send some one to the
house to tell Mr Gilfil and Warren. Bid them send off for Doctor Hart, and break
it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill."
Mr Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling beside the body.
The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe lips, the
smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid; and the aged face was bending
over them in silent anguish; the aged deep-veined hands were seeking with
tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom that life was not irrevocably gone.
Rupert was there too, waiting and watching; licking first the dead and then the
living hands; then running off on Mr Bates's track as if he would follow and
hasten his return, but in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene
of his master's sorrow.
CHAPTER XV.
It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one who has fainted, and
witness the fresh birth of consciousness spreading itself over the blank
features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine summits that lay ghastly and
dead under the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the frost-bound eyes
recover their liquid light; for an instant they show the inward
semi-consciousness of an infant's; then, with a little start, they open wider
and begin to look; the present is visible, but only as a strange writing, and
the interpreter Memory is not yet there.
Mr Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over Caterina's face. He
bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, and looking at her with tender pity as
her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. He thought there might be some wine in
the dining-room close by. He left the room, and Caterina's eyes turned towards
the window? towards Sir Christopher's chair. There was the link at which the
chain of consciousness had snapped, and the events of the morning were beginning
to recur dimly like a half-remembered dream, when Maynard returned with some
wine. He raised her, and she drank it; but still she was silent, seeming lost in
the attempt to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr Warren appeared
with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr Gilfil, dreading lest he should
tell them in Caterina's presence, hurried towards him with his finger on his
lips, and drew him away into the dining-room on the opposite side of the
passage.
Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the full consciousness of
the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead; she had left him to tell
Sir Christopher; she must go and see what they were doing with him; perhaps he