Scenes of Clerical Life

Home > Literature > Scenes of Clerical Life > Page 22
Scenes of Clerical Life Page 22

by George Eliot

was not really dead�only in a trance; people did fall into trances sometimes.

  While Mr Gilfil was telling Warren how it would be best to break the news to

  Lady Cheverel and Miss Assher, anxious himself to return to Caterina, the poor

  child had made her way feebly to the great entrance-door, which stood open. Her

  strength increased as she moved and breathed the fresh air, and with every

  increase of strength came increased vividness of emotion, increased yearing to

  be where her thought was�in the Rookery with Anthony. She walked more and more

  swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial strength of passionate

  excitement, began to run.

  But soon she hears the tread of heavy steps, and under the yellow shade near the

  wooden bridge, she sees men slowly carrying something. Now she is face to face

  with them. Anthony is no longer in the Rookery: they are carrying him stretched

  on a door, and there behind him is Sir Christopher, with the firmly-set mouth,

  the deathly paleness, and the concentrated expression of suffering in the eye,

  which mark the suppressed grief of the strong man. The sight of this face, on

  which Caterina had never before beheld the signs of anguish, caused a rush of

  new feeling which for the moment submerged all the rest. She went gently up to

  him, put her little hand in his, and walked in silence by his side. Sir

  Christopher could not tell her to leave him, and so she went on with that sad

  procession to Mr Bates's cottage in the Mosslands, and sat there in silence,

  waiting and watching to know if Anthony were really dead.

  She had not yet missed the dagger from her pocket; she had not yet even thought

  of it. At the sight of Anthony lying dead, her nature had rebounded from its new

  bias of resentment and hatred to the old sweet habit of love. The earliest and

  the longest has still the mastery over us; and the only past that linked itself

  with those glazed unconscious eyes, was the past when they beamed on her with

  tenderness. She forgot the interval of wrong and jealousy and hatred�all his

  cruelty, and all her thoughts of revenge�as the exile forgets the stormy passage

  that lay between home and happiness, and the dreary land in which he finds

  himself desolate.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  Before night all hope was gone. Dr Hart had said it was death; Anthony's body

  had been carried to the house, and every one there knew the calamity that had

  fallen on them.

  Caterina had been questioned by Dr Hart, and had answered briefly that she found

  Anthony lying in the Rookery. That she should have been walking there just at

  that time was not a coincidence to raise conjectures in any one besides Mr

  Gilfil. Except in answering this question, she had not broken her silence. She

  sat mute in a corner of the gardener's kitchen, shaking her head when Maynard

  entreated her to return with him, and apparently unable to think of anything but

  the possibility that Anthony might revive, until she saw them carrying away the

  body to the house. Then she followed by Sir Christopher's side again, so

  quietly, that even Dr Hart did not object to her presence.

  It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the coroner's inquest

  to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, she turned up the

  gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the place where she felt at home with

  her sorrows. It was the first time she had been in the gallery since that

  terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot and the objects around began to

  reawaken her half-stunned memory. The armour was no longer glittering in the

  sunlight, but there it hung dead and sombre above the cabinet from which she had

  taken the dagger. Yes! now it all came back to her�all the wretchedness and all

  the sin. But where was the dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it was not there.

  Could it have been her fancy�all that about the dagger? She looked in the

  cabinet; it was not there. Alas! no; it could not have been her fancy, and she

  was guilty of that wickedness. But where could the dagger be now? Could it have

  fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascending the stairs, and hurried on

  to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and burying her face to shut out the

  hateful light, she tried to recall every feeling and incident of the morning.

  It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she had felt for

  the last month� for many months�ever since that June evening when he had last

  spoken to her in the gallery. She looked back on her storms of passion, her

  jealously and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of revenge on Anthony. O how

  wicked she had been! It was she who had been sinning; it was she who had driven

  him to do and say those things that had made her so angry. And if he had wronged

  her, what had she been on the verge of doing to him? She was too wicked ever to

  be pardoned. She would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might

  punish her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every one�before

  Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her away�would never see her again,

  if he knew all; and she would be happier to be punished and frowned on, than to

  be treated tenderly while she had that guilty secret in her breast. But then, if

  Sir Christopher were to know all, it would add to his sorrow, and make him more

  wretched than ever. No! she could not confess it �she should have to tell about

  Anthony. But she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; she could not

  bear Sir Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight of all these things that

  reminded her of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon; she felt

  very feeble; there could not be much life in her. She would go away and live

  humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die.

  The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was the storm of anger passed

  than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and she could do

  nothing but love and mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from imagining the

  consequences of her disappearance from the Manor; she foresaw none of the

  terrible details of alarm and distress and search that must ensue. "They will

  think I am dead," she said to herself, "and by-and-by they will forget me, and

  Maynard will get happy again, and love some one else."

  She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. Mrs Bellamy was

  there. She had come by Mr Gilfil's request to see how Miss Sarti was, and to

  bring her some food and wine.

  "You look sadly, my dear," said the old housekeeper, "an' you're all of a quake

  wi' cold. Get you to bed, now do. Martha shall come an' warm it, an' light your

  fire. See now, here's some nice arrowroot, wi' a drop o' wine in it. Tek that,

  an' it'll warm you. I must go down again, for I can't awhile to stay. There's so

  many things to see to; an' Miss Assher's in hysterics constant, an' her maid's

  ill i' bed�a poor creachy thing�an' Mrs Sharp's wanted every minute. But I'll

  send Martha up, an' do you get ready to go to bed, there's a dear child, an' tek

  care o' yourself."

  "Thank you, dear mammy," said Tina, kissing the little old woman's wrinkled

&n
bsp; cheek; "I shall eat the arrowroot, and don't trouble about me any more to-night.

  I shall do very well when Martha has lighted my fire. Tell Mr Gilfil I'm better.

  I shall go to bed by-and-by, so don't you come up again, because you may only

  disturb me."

  "Well, well, tek care o' yourself, there's a good child, an' God send you may

  sleep."

  Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was lighting her fire.

  She wanted to get strength for her journey, and she kept the plate of biscuits

  by her that she might put some in her pocket. Her whole mind was now bent on

  going away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all the ways and means her

  little life's experience could suggest.

  It was dusk now; she must wait till early dawn, for she was too timid to go away

  in the dark, but she must make her escape before any one was up in the house.

  There would be people watching Anthony in the library, but she could make her

  way out of a small door leading into the garden, against the drawing-room on the

  other side of the house.

  She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready; then she lighted a candle, opened

  her desk, and took out the broken portrait wrapped in paper. She folded it again

  in two little notes of Anthony's, written in pencil, and placed it in her bosom.

  There was the little china box, too�Dorcas's present, the pearl earrings, and a

  silk purse, with fifteen seven-shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir

  Christopher had made her on her birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor.

  Should she take the earrings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could not bear

  to part with them; it seemed as if they had some of Sir Christopher's love in

  them. She would like them to be buried with her. She fastened the little round

  earrings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas's box in her pocket. She had

  another purse there, and she took it out to count her money, for she would never

  spend her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea and eight shillings; that

  would be plenty.

  So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay herself on the bed

  lest she should sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony once more, and kiss

  his cold forehead! But that could not be. She did not deserve it. She must go

  away from him, away from Sir Christopher, and Lady Cheverel, and Maynard, and

  everybody who had been kind to her, and thought her good while she was so

  wicked.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Some of Mrs Sharp's earliest thoughts, the next morning, were given to Caterina,

  whom she had not been able to visit the evening before, and whom, from a nearly

  equal mixture of affection and self-importance, she did not at all like

  resigning to Mrs Bellamy's care. At half-past eight o'clock she went up to

  Tina's room, bent on benevolent dictation as to doses and diet and lying in bed.

  But on opening the door she found the bed smooth and empty. Evidently it had not

  been slept in. What could this mean? Had she sat up all night, and was she gone

  out to walk? The poor thing's head might be touched by what had happened

  yesterday; it was such a shock�finding Captain Wybrow in that way; she was

  perhaps gone out of her mind. Mrs Sharp looked anxiously in the place where Tina

  kept her hat and clock; they were not there, so that she had had at least the

  presence of mind to put them on. Still the good woman felt greatly alarmed, and

  hastened away to tell Mr Gilfil, who, she knew, was in his study.

  "Mr Gilfil," she said, as soon as she had closed the door behind her, "my mind

  misgives me dreadful about Miss Sarti."

  "What is it?" said poor Maynard, with a horrible fear that Caterina had betrayed

  something about the dagger.

  "She's not in her room, an'her bed's not been slept in this night, an' her hat

  an' cloak's gone."

  For a minute or two Mr Gilfil was unable to speak. He felt sure the worst had

  come: Caterina had destroyed herself. The strong man suddenly looked so ill and

  helpless that Mrs Sharp began to be frightened at the effect of her abruptness.

  "O, sir, I'm grieved to my heart to shock you so; but I didn't know who else to

  go to."

  "No, no, you were quite right."

  He gathered some strength from his very despair. It was all over, and he had

  nothing now to do but to suffer and to help the suffering. He went on in a

  firmer voice:

  "Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any one. We must not alarm Lady

  Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss Sarti may be only walking in the garden. She

  was terribly excited by what she saw yesterday, and perhaps was unable to lie

  down from restlessness. Just go quietly through the empty rooms, and see whether

  she is in the house. I will go and look for her in the grounds."

  He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm in the house, walked at once

  towards the Mosslands in search of Mr Bates, whom he met returning from his

  breakfast. To the gardener he confided his fear about Caterina, assigning as a

  reason for this fear the probability that the shock she had undergone yesterday

  had unhinged her mind, and begging him to send men in search of her through the

  gardens and park, and inquire if she had been seen at the lodges; and if she

  were not found or heard of in this way, to lose no time in dragging the waters

  round the Manor.

  "God forbid it should be so, Bates, but we shall be the easier for having

  searched everywhere."

  "Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr Gilfil. Eh! but I'd ha' worked for day-wage

  all the rest o' my life, rether than anythin' should ha' happened to her."

  The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the stables that he might

  send the grooms on horseback through the park.

  Mr Gilfil's next thought was to search the Rookery: she might be haunting the

  scene of Captain Wybrow's death. He went hastily over every mound, looked round

  every large tree, and followed every winding of the walks. In reality he had

  little hope of finding her there; but the bare possibility fenced off for a time

  the fatal conviction that Caterina's body would be found in the water. When the

  Rookery had been searched in vain, he walked fast to the border of the little

  stream that bounded one side of the grounds. The stream was almost everywhere

  hidden among trees, and there was one place where it was broader and deeper than

  elsewhere�she would be more likely to come to that spot than to the pool. He

  hurried along with strained eyes, his imagination continually creating what he

  dreaded to see.

  There is something white behind that overhanging bough. His knees tremble under

  him. He seems to see part of her dress caught on a branch, and her dear dead

  face upturned. O God, give strength to thy creature, on whom thou hast laid this

  great agony! He is nearly up to the bough, and the white object is moving. It is

  a waterfowl, that spreads its wings and flies away screaming. He hardly knows

  whether it is a relief or a disappointment that she is not there. The conviction

  that she is dead presses its cold weight upon him none the less heavily.

  As he reached the great pool in front of the Manor, he saw Mr Ba
tes, with a

  group of men already there, preparing for the dreadful search which could only

  displace his vague despair by a definite horror; for the gardener, in his

  restless anxiety, had been unable to defer this until other means of search had

  proved vain. The pool was not now laughing with sparkles among the waterlilies.

  It looked black and cruel under the sombre sky, as if its cold depths held

  relentlessly all the murdered hope and joy of Maynard Gilfil's life.

  Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as well as himself were crowding on

  his mind. The blinds and shutters were all closed in front of the Manor, and it

  was not likely that Sir Christopher would be aware of anything that was passing

  outside; but Mr Gilfil felt that Caterina's disappearance could not long be

  concealed from him. The coroner's inquest would be held shortly; she would be

  inquired for, and then it would be inevitable that the Baronet should know all.

  END OF VOL. I.

  VOL. II. MR GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  At twelve o'clock, when all search and inquiry had been in vain, and the coroner

  was expected every moment, Mr Gilfil could no longer defer the hard duty of

  revealing this fresh calamity to Sir Christopher, who must otherwise have it

  discovered to him abruptly.

  The Baronet was seated in his dressing-room, where the dark window-curtains were

  drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the first time Mr Gilfil had

  had an interview with him this morning, and he was struck to see how a single

  day and night of grief had aged the fine old man. The lines in his brow and

  about his mouth were deepened; his complexion looked dull and withered; there

  was a swollen ridge under his eyes; and the eyes themselves, which used to cast

  so keen a glance on the present, had the vacant expression which tells that

  vision is no longer a sense, but a memory.

  He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed it, and sat down beside him in

  silence. Sir Christopher's heart began to swell at this unspoken sympathy; the

  tears would rise, would roll in great drops down his cheeks. The first tears he

  had shed since boyhood were for Anthony.

  Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the roof of his mouth. He could not

  speak first: he must wait until Sir Christopher said something which might lead

  on to the cruel words that must be spoken.

  At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say, "I'm very weak, Maynard�God

  help me! I didn't think anything would unman me in this way; but I'd built

  everything on that lad. Perhaps I've been wrong in not forgiving my sister. She

  lost one of her sons a little while ago. I've been too proud and obstinate."

  "We can hardly learn humility and tenderness enough except by suffering," said

  Maynard; "and God sees we are in need of suffering, for it is falling more and

  more heavily on us. We have a new trouble this morning."

  "Tina?" said Sir Christopher, looking up anxiously�"is Tina ill?"

  "I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was very much agitated

  yesterday�and with her delicate health�I am afraid to think what turn the

  agitation may have taken."

  "Is she delirious, poor dear little one?"

  "God only knows how she is. We are unable to find her. When Mrs Sharp went up to

  her room this morning, it was empty. She had not been in bed. Her hat and cloak

  were gone. I have had search made for her everywhere�in the house and garden, in

  the park, and�in the water. No one has seen her since Martha went up to light

  her fire at seven o'clock in the evening."

  While Mr Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher's eyes, which were eagerly turned

  on him, recovered some of their old keenness, and some sudden painful emotion,

  as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across his already agitated face, like the

  shadow of a dark cloud over the waves. When the pause came, he laid his hand on

  Mr Gilfil's arm, and said in a lower voice,�

  "Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony?"

 

‹ Prev