Scenes of Clerical Life

instead of past sorrow.

  When Mr Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to her, the light fell full upon his

  face. A slight startled expression came over Caterina's eyes; she looked at him

  earnestly for a few moments, then lifted up her hand as if to beckon him to

  stoop down towards her, and whispered "Maynard!"

  He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down towards her. She whispered again?

  "Maynard, did you see the dagger?"

  He followed his first impulse in answering her, and it was a wise one.

  "Yes," he whispered, "I found it in your pocket, and put it back again in the

  cabinet."

  He took her hand in his and held it gently, waiting what she would say next. His

  heart swelled so with thankfulness that she had recognised him, he could hardly

  repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became softer and less intense in their gaze.

  The tears were slowly gathering, and presently some large hot drops rolled down

  her cheek. Then the flood-gates were opened, and the heart-easing stream gushed

  forth; deep sobs came; and for nearly an hour she lay without speaking, while

  the heavy icy pressure that with-held her misery from utterance was thus melting

  away. How precious these tears were to Maynard, who day after day had been

  shuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the dry scorching

  stare of insanity!

  By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe calmly, and lay quiet with

  her eyes shut. Patiently Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of the hours, not

  heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the landing. But when it was nearly

  ten, Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know the result of Mr Gilfil's appearance,

  could not help stepping in on tip-toe. Without moving, he whispered in her ear

  to supply him with candles, see that the cow-boy had shaken down his mare, and

  go to bed?he would watch with Caterina?a great change had come over her.

  Before long, Tina's lips began to move. "Maynard," she whispered again. He

  leaned towards her, and she went on.

  "You know how wicked I am, then? You know what I meant to do with the dagger?"

  "Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina?"

  She shook her head slowly, and then was silent for a long while. At last,

  looking at him with solemn eyes, she whispered, "To kill him."

  "Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. God saw your whole heart; He

  knows you would never harm a living thing. He watches over His children, and

  will not let them do things they would pray with their whole hearts not to do.

  It was the angry thought of a moment, and He forgives you."

  She sank into silence again till it was nearly midnight. The weary enfeebled

  spirit seemed to be making its slow way with difficulty through the windings of

  thought; and when she began to whisper again, it was in reply to Maynard's

  words.

  "But I had had such wicked feelings for a long while. I was so angry, and I

  hated Miss Assher so, and I didn't care what came to anybody, because I was so

  miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. No one else was ever so wicked."

  "Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have very wicked feelings, and am

  tempted to do wrong things; but then my body is stronger than yours, and I can

  hide my feelings, and resist them better. They do not master me so. You have

  seen the little birds when they are very young and just begin to fly, how all

  their feathers are ruffled when they are frightened or angry; they have no power

  over themselves left, and might fall into a pit from mere fright. You were like

  one of those little birds. Your sorrow and suffering had taken such hold of you,

  you hardly knew what you did."

  He would not speak long, lest he should tire her, and oppress her with too many

  thoughts. Long pauses seemed needful for her before she could concentrate her

  feelings in short words.

  "But when I meant to do it," was the next thing she whispered, "it was as bad as

  if I had done it."

  "No, my Tina," answered Maynard slowly, waiting a little between each sentence;

  "we mean to do wicked things that we never could do, just as we mean to do good

  or clever things that we never could do. Our thoughts are often worse than we

  are, just as they are often better than we are. And God sees us as we are

  altogether, not in separate feelings or actions, as our fellow-men see us. We

  are always doing each other injustice, and thinking better or worse of each

  other than we deserve, because we only hear and see separate words and actions.

  We don't see each other's whole nature. But God sees that you could not have

  committed that crime."

  Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. After a while,

  "I don't know," she said; "I seemed to see him coming towards me, just as he

  would really have looked, and I meant?I meant to do it."

  "But when you saw him?tell me how it was, Tina?"

  "I saw him lying on the ground, and thought he was ill. I don't know how it was

  then; I forgot everything. I knelt down and spoke to him, and?and he took no

  notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and I began to think he was dead."

  "And you have never felt angry since?"

  "O no, no; it is I who have been more wicked than any one; it is I who have been

  wrong all through."

  "No, my Tina; the fault has not all been yours; he was wrong; he gave you

  provocation. And wrong makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardly help

  having ill feeling towards them. But that second wrong is more excusable. I am

  more sinful than you, Tina; I have often had very bad feelings towards Captain

  Wybrow; and if he had provoked me as he did you, I should perhaps have done

  something more wicked."

  "O, it was not so wrong in him; he didn't know how he hurt me. How was it likely

  he could love me as I loved him? And how could he marry a poor little thing like

  me?"

  Maynard made no reply to this, and there was again silence, till Tina said,

  "Then I was so deceitful; they didn't know how wicked I was. Padroncello didn't

  know; his good little monkey he used to call me; and if he had known, O how

  naughty he would have thought me!"

  "My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we knew ourselves, we should not

  judge each other harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt, since this trouble

  came upon him, that he has been too severe and obstinate."

  In this way?in these broken confessions and answering words of comfort?the hours

  wore on, from the deep black night to the chill early twilight, and from early

  twilight to the first yellow streak of morning parting the purple cloud. Mr

  Gilfil felt as if in the long hours of that night the bond that united his love

  for ever and alone to Caterina had acquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is

  so with the human relations that rest on the deep emotional sympathy of

  affection: every new day and night of joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new

  consecration, for the love that is nourished by memories as well as hopes?the

  love to which perpetual repetition is not a weariness but a want, and to which a

  separate joy is the beginning of pain.

  The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there was a tramp
of footsteps in the

  yard, and Mr Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to affect

  Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said, "Maynard, are you going

  away?"

  "No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are better, and then you will go away

  too."

  "Never to the Manor again, O no! I shall live poorly, and get my own bread."

  "Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like best. But I wish you could go

  to sleep now. Try to rest quietly, and by-and-by you will perhaps sit up a

  little. God has kept you in life in spite of all this sorrow; it will be sinful

  not to try and make the best of His gift. Dear Tina, you will try;?and little

  Bessie brought you some crocuses once; you didn't notice the poor little thing;

  but you will notice her when she comes again, will you not?"

  "I will try," whispered Tina humbly, and then closed her eyes.

  By the time the sun was above the horizon, scattering the clouds, and shining

  with pleasant morning warmth through the little leaded window, Caterina was

  asleep. Maynard gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered Dorcas with the good news,

  and made his way to the village inn, with a thankful heart that Tina had been so

  far herself again. Evidently the sight of him had blended naturally with the

  memories in which her mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to an

  unburthening of herself that might be the beginning of a complete restoration.

  But her body was so enfeebled?her soul so bruised?that the utmost tenderness and

  care would be necessary. The next thing to be done was to send tidings to Sir

  Christopher and Lady Cheverel; then to write and summon his sister, under whose

  care he had determined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she had been

  wishing to return thither, would, he knew, be the most undesirable home for her

  at present: every scene, every object there, was associated with still unallayed

  anguish. If she were domesticated for a time with his mild gentle sister, who

  had a peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tina might attach herself anew

  to life, and recover, partly at least, the shock that had been given to her

  constitution. When he had written his letters and taken a hasty breakfast, he

  was soon in his saddle again, on his way to Sloppeter, where he would post them,

  and seek out a medical man, to whom he might confide the moral causes of

  Caterina's enfeebled condition.

  CHAPTER XX.

  In less than a week from that time, Caterina was persuaded to travel in a

  comfortable carriage, under the care of Mr Gilfil and his sister, Mrs Heron,

  whose soft blue eyes and mild manners were very soothing to the poor bruised

  child?the more so as they had an air of sisterly equality, which was quite new

  to her. Under Lady Cheverel's uncaressing authoritative goodwill, Tina had

  always retained a certain constraint and awe; and there was a sweetness before

  unknown in having a young and gentle woman, like an elder sister, bending over

  her caressingly, and speaking in low loving tones.

  Maynard was almost angry with himself for feeling happy while Tina's mind and

  body were still trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline; but the new

  delight of acting as her guardian angel, of being with her every hour of the

  day, of devising everything for her comfort, of watching for a ray of returning

  interest in her eyes, was too absorbing to leave room for alarm or regret.

  On the third day the carriage drove up to the door of Foxholm Parsonage, where

  the Rev. Arthur Heron presented himself on the door-step, eager to greet his

  returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad-chested tawny-liaired boy of

  five, who was smacking a miniature hunting-whip with great vigour.

  Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, walks better swept, or a porch more

  prettily festooned with creepers, than at Foxholm Parsonage, standing snugly

  sheltered by beeches and chestnuts half-way down the pretty green hill which was

  surmounted by the church, and overlooking a village that straggled at its ease

  among pastures and meadows, surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shadowing

  trees, as yet unthreatened by improved methods of farming.

  Brightly the fire shone in the great parlour, and brightly in the little pink

  bedroom, which was to be Caterina's, because it looked away from the churchyard,

  and on to a farm homestead, with its little cluster of beehive ricks, and placid

  groups of cows, and cheerful matin sounds of healthy labour. Mrs Heron, with the

  instinct of an impressionable woman, had written to her husband to have this

  room prepared for Caterina. Contented speckled hens, industriously scratching

  for the rarely-found corn, may sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove

  of nightingales; there is something irresistibly calming in the unsentimental

  cheeriness of top-knotted pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, and patient cart-horses

  enjoying a drink of muddy water.

  In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of comfort, without any of the

  stateliness that would carry a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr Gilfil was not

  unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might gradually shake off the haunting

  vision of the past, and recover from the languor and feebleness which were the

  physical sign of that vision's blighting presence. The next thing to be done was

  to arrange an exchange of duties with Mr Heron's curate, that Maynard might be

  constantly near Caterina, and watch over her progress. She seemed to like him to

  be with her, to look uneasily for his return; and though she seldom spoke to

  him, she was most contented when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his

  large protecting grasp. But Oswald, alias Ozzy, the broad-chested boy, was

  perhaps her most beneficial companion. With something of his uncle's person, he

  had inherited also his uncle's early taste for a domestic menagerie, and was

  very imperative in demanding Tina's sympathy in the welfare of his guinea-pigs,

  squirrels, and dormice. With him she seemed now and then to have gleams of her

  childhood coming athwart the leaden clouds, and many hours of winter went by the

  more easily for being spent in Ozzy's nursery.

  Mrs Heron was not musical, and had no instrument; but one of Mr Gilfil's cares

  was to procure a harpsichord, and have it placed in the drawing-room, always

  open, in the hope that some day the spirit of music would be reawakened in

  Caterina, and she would be attracted towards the instrument. But the winter was

  almost gone by, and he had waited in vain. The utmost improvement in Tina had

  not gone beyond passiveness and acquiescence ?a quiet grateful smile, compliance

  with Oswald's whims, and an increasing consciousness of what was being said and

  done around her. Sometimes she would take up a bit of woman's work, but she

  seemed too languid to persevere in it; her fingers soon dropped, and she

  relapsed into motionless reverie.

  At last?it was one of those bright days in the end of February, when the sun is

  shining with a promise of approaching spring. Maynard had been walking with her

  and Oswald round the garden to look at the snowdrops, and she was resting on the

  sofa after the walk
. Ozzy, roaming about the room in quest of a forbidden

  pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and struck the handle of his whip on a deep

  bass note.

  The vibration rushed through Caterina like an electric shock: it seemed as if at

  that instant a new soul were entering into her, and filling her with a deeper,

  more significant life. She looked round, rose from the sofa, and walked to the

  harpsichord. In a moment her fingers were wandering with their old sweet method

  among the keys, and her soul was floating in its true familiar element of

  delicious sound, as the water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the

  ground expands into freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native

  flood.

  Maynard thanked God. An active power was reawakened, and must make a new epoch

  in Caterina's recovery.

  Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder tones

  of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled into predominance.

  Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth open and his legs

  very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this new power in "Tin-Tin,"

  as he called her, whom he had been accustomed to think of as a play-fellow not

  at all clever, and very much in need of his instruction on many subjects. A

  genie soaring with broad wings out of his milk-jug would not have been more

  astonishing.

  Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo which we heard her singing so

  many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was Ho perduto, Sir

  Christopher's favourite, and its notes seemed to carry on their wings all the

  tenderest memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor was still an untroubled

  home. The long happy days of childhood and girlhood recovered all their rightful

  predominance over the short interval of sin and sorrow.

  She paused, and burst into tears?the first tears she had shed since she had been

  at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, putting his arm round

  her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him, and put up her

  little mouth to be kissed.

  The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul that was

  born anew to music was born anew to love.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  On the 30th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers assembled

  near the door of Foxholm church. The sun was bright upon the dewy grass, the air

  was alive with the murmur of bees and the trilling of birds, the bushy

  blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows seemed to be crowding

  round to learn why the church-bells were ringing so merrily, as Maynard Gilfil,

  his face bright with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic doorway with Tina

  on his arm. The little face was still pale, and there was a subdued melancholy

  in it, as of one who sups with friends for the last time, and has his ear open

  for the signal that will call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the

  pressure of contented affection on Maynard's arm, and the dark eyes met his

  downward glance with timid answering love.

  There was no train of bridesmaids; only pretty Mrs Heron leaning on the arm of a

  dark-haired young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and holding by the other hand

  little Ozzy, who exulted less in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the

  notion that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin.

  Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed yet more eagerly than the

  bride and bridegroom: a fine old gentleman, who looked round with keen glances

  that cowed the conscious scapegraces among them, and a stately lady in

  blue-and-white silk robes, who must surely be like Queen Charlotte.

  "Well, that theer's whut I coal a pictur," said old "Mester" Ford, a true

  Staffordshire patriarch, who leaned on a stick and held his head very much on

  one side, with the air of a man who had little hope of the present generation,

  but would at all events give it the benefit of his criticism. "Th' yoong men

  noo-a-deys, the'r poor squashy things?the' looke well anoof, but the' woon't