she fastened on Sir Christopher, who probably began to think that, for poetical
purposes, it would be better not to meet one's first love again, after a lapse
of forty years.
Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and Miss Assher, and Mr Gilfil tried
to relieve Caterina from the awkwardness of sitting aloof and dumb, by telling
her how a friend of his had broken his arm and staked his horse that morning,
not at all appearing to heed that she hardly listened, and was looking towards
the other side of the room. One of the tortures of jealousy is, that it can
never turn away its eyes from the thing that pains it.
By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from chit-chat�Sir Christopher
perhaps the most of all�and it was he who made the acceptable proposition�
"Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night before we sit down to cards? Your
ladyship plays at cards, I think?" he added, recollecting himself, and turning
to Lady Assher.
"O yes! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist-table every night."
Caterina sat down to the harpsichord at once, and had no sooner begun to sing
than she perceived with delight that Captain Wybrow was gliding towards the
harpsichord, and soon standing in the old place. This consciousness gave fresh
strength to her voice; and when she noticed that Miss Assher presently followed
him with that air of ostentatious admiration which belongs to the absence of
real enjoyment, her closing bravura was none the worse for being animated by a
little triumphant contempt.
"Why, you are in better voice than ever, Caterina," said Captain Wybrow, when
she had ended. "This is rather different from Miss Hibbert's small piping that
we used to be glad of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice?"
"Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature, Miss Sarti�Caterina�may I not
call you Caterina? for I have heard Anthony speak of you so often, I seem to
know you quite well. You will let me call you Caterina?"
"O yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when they call me Tina."
"Come, come, more singing, more singing, little monkey," Sir Christopher called
out from the other side of the room. "We have not had half enough yet."
Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she was singing she was queen of
the room, and Miss Assher was reduced to grimacing admiration. Alas! you see
what jealousy was doing in this poor young soul. Caterina, who had passed her
life as a little unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so fondly under the wings
that were outstretched for her, her heart beating only to the peaceful rhythm of
love, or fluttering with some easily stifled fear, had begun to know the fierce
palpitations of triumph and hatred.
When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to whist
with Lady Assher and Mr Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself at the Baronet's
elbow, as if to watch the game, that she might not appear to thrust herself on
the pair of lovers. At first she was glowing with her little triumph, and felt
the strength of pride; but her eye would steal to the opposite side of the
fireplace, where Captain Wybrow had seated himself close to Miss Assher, and was
leaning with his arm over the back of the chair, in the most lover-like
position. Caterina began to feel a choking sensation. She could see, almost
without looking, that he was taking up her arm to examine her bracelet; their
heads were bending close together, her curls touching his cheek�now he was
putting his lips to her hand. Caterina felt her cheeks burn�she could sit no
longer. She got up, pretended to be gliding about in search of something, and at
length slipped out of the room.
Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along the passages and up the stairs
to her own room, locked the door.
"O, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!" the poor thing burst out aloud,
clasping her little fingers, and pressing them back against her forehead, as if
she wanted to break them.
Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room.
"And this must go on for days and days, and I must see it."
She looked about nervously for something to clutch. There was a muslin kerchief
lying on the table; she took it up and tore it into shreds as she walked up and
down, and then pressed it into hard balls in her hand.
"And Anthony," she thought, "he can do this without caring for what I feel. O,
he can forget everything: how he used to say he loved me� how he used to take my
hand in his as we walked �how he used to stand near me in the evenings for the
sake of looking into my eyes."
"Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel!" she burst out again aloud, as all those
love-moments in the past returned upon her. Then the tears gushed forth, she
threw herself on her knees by the bed, and sobbed bitterly.
She did not know how long she had been there, till she was startled by the
prayer-bell; when, thinking Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some one to inquire
after her, she rose, and began hastily to undress, that there might be no
possibility of her going down again. She had hardly unfastened her hair, and
thrown a loose gown about her, before there was a knock at the door, and Mrs
Sharp's voice said�"Miss Tina, my lady wants to know if you're ill."
Caterina opened the door and said, "Thank you, dear Mrs Sharp; I have a bad
headache; please tell my lady I felt it come on after singing."
"Then, goodness me! why arn't you in bed, istid o' standing shivering there, fit
to catch your death? Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuck you up warm."
"O no, thank you; I shall really be in bed very soon. Good-night, dear Sharpy;
don't scold; I will be good, and get into bed."
Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs Sharp was not to be "come
over" in that way, and insisted on seeing her former charge in bed, taking away
the candle which the poor child had wanted to keep as a companion.
But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating heart; and the little
white figure was soon out of bed again, seeking relief in the very sense of
chill and uncomfort. It was light enough for her to see about her room, for the
moon, nearly at full, was riding high in the heavens among scattered hurrying
clouds. Caterina drew aside the window-curtain; and, sitting with her forehead
pressed against the cold pane, looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn.
How dreary the moonlight is! robbed of all its tenderness and repose by the hard
driving wind. The trees are harassed by that tossing motion, when they would
like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake with sympathetic cold;
and the willows by the pool, bent low and white under that invisible harshness,
seem agitated and helpless like herself. But she loves the scene the better for
its sadness: there is some pity in it. It is not like that hard unfeeling
happiness of lovers, flaunting in the eyes of misery.
She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the tears fell thick and
fast. She was so thankful she could cry, for the mad passion she had felt when
her eyes were dry, frightened her. If that dreadful feeling were to come on when
Lady Cheverel was present, she should never be able to contain herself.
Then there was Sir Christopher�so good to her �so happy about Anthony's
marriage; and all the while she had these wicked feelings.
"O, I cannot help it, I cannot help it!" she said in a loud whisper between her
sobs. "O God, have pity upon me!"
In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy moonlight, till at last,
with weary aching limbs, she lay down in bed again, and slept from mere
exhaustion.
While this poor little heart was being bruised with a weight too heavy for it,
Nature was holding on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved and terrible beauty.
The stars were rushing in their eternal courses; the tides swelled to the level
of the last expectant weed; the sun was making brilliant day to busy nations on
the other side of the swift earth. The stream of human thought and deed was
hurrying and broadening onward. The astronomer was at his telescope; the great
ships were labouring over the waves; the toiling eagerness of commerce, the
fierce spirit of revolution, were only ebbing in brief rest; and sleepless
statesmen were dreading the possible crisis of the morrow. What were our little
Tina and her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing from one awful unknown to
another? Lighter than the smallest centre of quivering life in the water-drop,
hidden and uncared for as the pulse of anguish in the breast of the tiniest bird
that has fluttered down to its nest with the long-sought food, and has found the
nest torn and empty.
CHAPTER VI.
The next morning, when Caterina was waked from her heavy sleep by Martha
bringing in the warm water, the sun was shining, the wind had abated, and those
hours of suffering in the night seemed unreal and dreamlike, in spite of weary
limbs and aching eyes. She got up and began to dress with a strange feeling of
insensibility, as if nothing could make her cry again; and she even felt a sort
of longing to be down stairs in the midst of company, that she might get rid of
this benumbed condition by contact.
There are few of us that are not rather ashamed of our sins and follies as we
angel beckoning us to quit the old path of vanity that stretches its dreary
length behind us; and Tina, little as she knew about doctrines and theories,
seemed to herself to have been both foolish and wicked yesterday. To-day she
would try to be good; and when she knelt down to say her short prayer�the very
form she had learned by heart when she was ten years old�she added, "O God, help
me to bear it!"
That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for after some remarks on her pale
looks at breakfast, Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assher and Captain
Wybrow being out on a riding excursion. In the evening there was a dinner-party,
and after Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverel, remembering that she was
ailing, sent her to bed, where she soon sank into a deep sleep. Body and mind
must renew their force to suffer as well as to enjoy.
On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every one must stay in-doors; so it
was resolved that the guests should be taken over the house by Sir Christopher,
to hear the story of the architectural alterations, the family portraits, and
the family relics. All the party, except Mr Gilfil, were in the drawing-room
when the proposition was made; and when Miss Assher rose to go, she looked
towards Captain Wybrow, expecting to see him rise too; but he kept his seat near
the fire, turning his eyes towards the newspaper which he had been holding
unread in his hand.
"Are you not coming, Anthony?" said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss Assher's look
of expectation.
"I think not, if you'll excuse me," he answered, rising and opening the door; "I
feel a little chilled this morning, and I am afraid of the cold rooms and
draughts."
Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverel
accompanying her.
Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. It was the first time she and
Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before that he wished to
avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted to speak to her�he wanted to say something
kind. Presently he rose from his seat near the fire, and placed himself on the
ottoman opposite to her.
"Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long time?"
Both the tone and the words were an offence to her; the tone was so different
from the old one, the words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered, with a
little bitterness,�
"I think you needn't ask. It doesn't make much difference to you."
"Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me after my long absence?"
"I don't know why you should expect me to say kind things."
Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much to avoid allusions to the past or
comments on the present. And yet he wished to be well with Caterina. He would
have liked to caress her, make her presents, and have her think him very kind to
her. But these women are so plaguy perverse! There's no bringing them to look
rationally at anything. At last he said, "I hoped you would think all the better
of me, Tina, for doing as I have done, instead of bearing malice towards me. I
hoped you would see that it is the best thing for every one�the best for your
happiness too."
"O pray don't make love to Miss Assher for the sake of my happiness," answered
Tina.
At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher entered, to fetch her reticule,
which lay on the harpsichord. She gave a keen glance at Caterina, whose face was
flushed, and saying to Captain Wybrow with a slight sneer, "Since you are so
chill, I wonder you like to sit in the window," left the room again immediately.
The lover did not appear much discomposed, but sat quiet a little longer, and
then, seating himself on the music-stool, drew it near to Caterina, and, taking
her hand, said, "Come, Tina, look kindly at me, and let us be friends. I shall
always be your friend."
"Thank you," said Caterina, drawing away her hand. "You are very generous. But
pray move away. Miss Assher may come in again."
"Miss Assher be hanged!" said Anthony, feeling the fascination of old habit
returning on him in his proximity to Caterina. He put his arm round her waist,
and leaned his cheek down to hers. The lips couldn't help meeting after that;
but the next moment, with heart swelling and tears rising, Caterina burst away
from him, and rushed out of the room.
Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the desperate effort of one who has just
self-recollection enough left to be conscious that the fumes of charcoal will
master his senses unless he bursts a way for himself to the fresh air; but when
she reached her own room, she was still too intoxicated with that momentary
revival of old emotions, too much agitated by the sudden return of tenderness in
her lover, to know whether pain or pleasure predominated. It was as if a miracle
had
happened in her little world of feeling, and made the future all vague�a dim
morning haze of possibilities, instead of the sombre wintry daylight and clear
rigid outline of painful certainty.
She felt the need of rapid movement. She must walk out in spite of the rain.
Happily, there was a thin place in the curtain of clouds which seemed to promise
that now, about noon, the day had a mind to clear up. Caterina thought to
herself, "I will walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr Bates the comforter I have
made for him, and then Lady Cheverel will not wonder so much at my going out."
At the hall door she found Rupert, the old bloodhound, stationed on the mat,
with the determination that the first person who was sensible enough to take a
walk that morning should have the honour of his approbation and society. As he
thrust his great black and tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail with
vigorous eloquence, and reached the climax of his welcome by jumping up to lick
her face, which was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina felt quite
grateful to the old dog for his friendliness. Animals are such agreeable
friends�they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.
The "Mosslands" was a remote part of the grounds, encircled by the little stream
issuing from the pool; and certainly, for a wet day, Caterina could hardly have
chosen a less suitable walk, for though the rain was abating, and presently
ceased altogether, there was still a smart shower falling from the trees which
arched over the greater part of her way. But she found just the desired relief
from her feverish excitement in labouring along the wet paths with an umbrella
that made her arm ache. This amount of exertion was to her tiny body what a
day's hunting often was to Mr Gilfil, who at times had his fits of jealousy and
sadness to get rid of, and wisely had recourse to nature's innocent opium�
fatigue.
When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden bridge which formed the only
entrance to the Mosslands for any but webbed feet, the sun had mastered the
clouds, and was shining through the boughs of the tall elms that made a deep
nest for the gardener's cottage�turning the raindrops into diamonds, and
inviting the nasturtium flowers creeping over the porch and low-thatched roof to
lift up their flame-coloured heads once more. The rooks were cawing with
many-voiced monotony, apparently�by a remarkable approximation to human
intelligence�finding great conversational resources in the change of weather.
The mossy turf, studded with the broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told that
Mr Bates's nest was rather damp in the best of weather; but he was of opinion
that a little external moisture would hurt no man who was not perversely
neglectful of that obvious and providential antidote, rum-and-water.
Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every sound that haunted it, had
been familiar to her from the days when she had been carried thither on Mr
Bates's arm, making little cawing noises to imitate the rooks, clapping her
hands at the green frogs leaping in the moist grass, and fixing grave eyes on
the gardener's fowls cluck-clucking under their pens. And now the spot looked
prettier to her than ever; it was so out of the way of Miss Assher, with her
brilliant beauty, and personal claims, and small civil remarks. She thought Mr
Bates would not be come in to his dinner yet, so she would sit down and wait for
him.
But she was mistaken. Mr Bates was seated in his arm-chair, with his
pocket-handkerchief thrown over his face, as the most eligible mode of passing
away those superfluous hours between meals when the weather drives a man
in-doors. Roused by the furious barking of his chained bulldog, he descried his
little favourite approaching, and forthwith presented himself at the doorway,
looking disproportionately tall compared with the height of his cottage. The
bulldog, meanwhile, unbent from the severity of his official demeanour, and
commenced a friendly interchange of ideas with Rupert.