by George Eliot
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
