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?"
