by George Eliot
room looked less like a place to dine in than a piece of space enclosed simply
for the sake of beautiful outline; and the small dining-table, with the party
round it, seemed an odd and insignificant accident, rather than anything
connected with the original purpose of the apartment.
But, examined closely, that group was far from insignificant; for the eldest,
who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous proceedings of the French
parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to his young companions, was
as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman as could well have been found in
those venerable days of cocked-hats and pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under
projecting brows, made more prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows; but any
apprehension of severity excited by these penetrating eyes, and by a somewhat
aquiline nose, was allayed by the good-natured lines about the mouth, which
retained all its teeth and its vigour of expression in spite of sixty winters.
The forehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked outline
was made conspicuous by the arrangement of the profusely-powdered hair, drawn
backward and gathered into a pigtail. He sat in a small hard chair, which did
not admit the slightest approach to a lounge, and which showed to advantage the
flatness of his back and the breadth of his chest. In fact, Sir Christopher
Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman, as any one may see who enters the saloon
at Cheverel Manor, where his full-length portrait, taken when he was fifty,
hangs side by side with that of his wife, the stately lady seated on the lawn.
Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once have been inclined to hope that he
had a full-grown son and heir; but perhaps you would have wished that it might
not prove to be the young man on his right hand, in whom a certain resemblance
to the Baronet, in the contour of the nose and brow, seemed to indicate a family
relationship. If this young man had been less elegant in his person, he would
have been remarked for the elegance of his dress. But the perfections of his
slim well-proportioned figure were so striking that no one but a tailor could
notice the perfections of his velvet coat; and his small white hands, with their
blue veins and taper fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his lace ruffles. The
face, however�it was difficult to say why�was certainly not pleasing. Nothing
could be more delicate than the blond complexion�its bloom set off by the
powdered hair�than the veined overhanging eye-lids, which gave an indolent
expression to the hazel eyes; nothing more finely cut than the transparent
nostril and the short upper-lip. Perhaps the chin and lower jaw were too small
for an irreproachable profile, but the defect was on the side of that delicacy
and finesse which was the distinctive characteristic of the whole person, and
which was carried out in the clear brown arch of the eyebrows, and the marble
smoothness of the sloping forehead. Impossible to say that this face was not
eminently handsome; yet, for the majority both of men and women, it was
destitute of charm. Women disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently accepting
admiration instead of rendering it; and men, especially if they had a tendency
to clumsiness in the nose and ankles, were inclined to think this Antinous in a
pig-tail a 'confounded puppy'. I fancy that was frequently the inward
interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the opposite side of
the dining-table, though Mr Gilfil's legs and profile were not at all of a kind
to make him peculiarly alive to the impertinence and frivolity of personal
advantages. His healthy open face and robust limbs were after an excellent
pattern for everyday wear, and, in the opinion of Mr Bates, the north-country
gardener, would have become regimentals 'a fain saight' better than the 'peaky'
features and slight form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young
gentleman, as Sir Christopher's nephew and destined heir, had the strongest
hereditary claim on the gardener's respect, and was undeniably 'clean-limbed'.
But alas! human longings are perversely obstinate; and to the man whose mouth is
watering for a peach, it is of no use to offer the largest vegetable marrow. Mr
Gilfil was not sensitive to Mr Bates's opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the
opinion of another person, who by no means shared Mr Bates's preference.
Who the other person was it would not have required a very keen observer to
guess, from a certain eagerness in Mr Gilfil's glance as that little figure in
white tripped along the lawn with the cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking
in the same direction, but his handsome face remained handsome�and nothing more.
'Ah,' said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, 'there's my lady. Ring
for coffee, Anthony; we'll go and join her, and the little monkey Tina shall
give us a song.'
The coffee presently appeared, brought�not as usual by the footman, in scarlet
and drab, but�by the old butler, in threadbare but well-brushed black, who, as
he was placing it on the table, said -
'If you please, Sir Christopher, there's the widow Hartopp a-crying i' the still
room, and begs leave to see your honour.'
'I have given Markham full orders about the widow Hartopp,' said Sir
Christopher, in a sharp decided tone. 'I have nothing to say to her.'
'Your honour,' pleaded the butler, rubbing his hands, and putting on an
additional coating of humility, 'the poor woman's dreadful overcome, and says
she can't sleep a wink this blessed night without seeing your honour, and she
begs you to pardon the great freedom she's took to come at this time. She cries
fit to break her heart.'
'Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into the library.'
Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out through the open window, and
joined the ladies on the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way to the
library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who, in his habitual
place at the Baronet's right hand, behaved with great urbanity during dinner;
but when the cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared under the table, apparently
regarding the claret-jug as a mere human weakness, which he winked at, but
refused to sanction.
The library lay but three steps from the dining-room, on the other side of a
cloistered and matted passage. The oriel window was overshadowed by the great
beech, and this, with the flat heavily-carved ceiling and the dark hue of the
old books that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, especially on
entering it from the dining-room, with its aerial curves and cream-coloured
fretwork touched with gold. As Sir Christopher opened the door, a jet of
brighter light fell on a woman in a widow's dress, who stood in the middle of
the room, and made the deepest of curtsies as he entered. She was a buxom woman
approaching forty, her eyes red with the tears which had evidently been absorbed
by the handkerchief gathered into a damp ball in her right hand.
'Now. Mrs Hartopp,' said Sir Christopher, taking out his gold snuff-box and
tapping the lid, 'what h
ave you to say to me? Markham has delivered you a notice
to quit, I suppose?'
'O yis, your honour, an' that's the reason why I've come. I hope your honour 'll
think better on it, an' not turn me an' my poor children out o' the farm, where
my husband al'ys paid his rent as reglar as the day come.'
'Nonsense! I should like to know what good it will do you and your children to
stay on a farm and lose every farthing your husband has left you, instead of
selling your stock and going into some little place where you can keep your
money together. It is very well known to every tenant of mine that I never allow
widows to stay on their husbands' farms.'
'O, Sir Christifer, if you would consider�when I've sold the hay, an' corn, an'
all the live things, an' paid the debts, an' put the money out to use, I shall
have hardly enough to keep our souls an' bodies together. An' how can I rear my
boys and put 'em 'prentice? They must go for day-labourers, an' their father a
man wi' as good belongings as any on your honour's estate, an' niver threshed
his wheat afore it was well i' the rick, nor sold the straw off his farm, nor
nothin'. Ask all the farmers round if there was a stiddier, soberer man than my
husband as attended Ripstone market. An' he says, "Bessie," says he�them was his
last words�"you'll mek a shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christifer 'ull let
you stay on."'
'Pooh, pooh!' said Sir Christopher, Mrs Hartopp's sobs having interrupted her
pleadings, 'now listen to me, and try to understand a little common-sense. You
are about as able to manage the farm as your best milch cow. You'll be obliged
to have some managing man, who will either cheat you out of your money or
wheedle you into marrying him.'
'O, your honour, I was never that sort o' woman, an' nobody has known it on me.'
'Very likely not, because you were never a widow before. A woman's always silly
enough, but she's never quite as great a fool as she can be until she puts on a
widow's cap. Now, just ask yourself how much the better you will be for staying
on your farm at the end of four years, when you've got through your money, and
let your farm run down, and are in arrears for half your rent: or, perhaps, have
got some great hulky fellow for a husband, who swears at you and kicks your
children.'
'Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o' farmin,' an' was brought up i' the
thick on it, as you may say. An' there was my husband's great-aunt managed a
farm for twenty year, an' left legacies to all her nephys an' nieces, an' even
to my husband, as was then a babe unborn.'
'Psha! a woman six feet high, with a squint and sharp elbows, I daresay�a man in
petticoats. Not a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs Hartopp.'
'Indeed, your honour, I never heard of her squintin', an' they said as she might
ha' been married o'er and o'er again, to people as had no call to hanker after
her money.'
'Ay, ay, that's what you all think. Every man that looks at you wants to marry
you, and would like you the better the more children you have and the less
money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have good reasons for my plans, and
never alter them. What you have to do is to take the best of your stock, and to
look out for some little place to go to, when you leave the Hollows. Now, go
back to Mrs Bellamy's room, and ask her to give you a dish of tea.'
Mrs Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christopher's tone that he was not to be
shaken, curtsied low and left the library, while the Baronet, seating himself at
his desk in the oriel window, wrote the following letter:
Mr Markham, Take no steps about letting Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intend to put in
the widow Hartopp when she leaves her farm; and if you will be here at eleven on
Saturday morning, I will ride round with you, and settle about making some
repairs, and see about adding a bit of land to the take, as she will want to
keep a cow and some pigs. Yours faithfully,
Christopher Cheverel
After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to be sent, Sir Christopher
walked out to join the party on the lawn. But finding the cushions deserted, he
walked on to the eastern front of the building, where, by the side of the grand
entrance, was the large bow-window of the saloon, opening on to the
gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista of undulating turf, bordered by
tall trees, which, seeming to unite itself with the green of the meadows and a
grassy road through a plantation, only terminated with the Gothic arch of a
gateway in the far distance. The bow-window was open, and Sir Christopher,
stepping in, found the group he sought, examining the progress of the unfinished
ceiling. It was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as the dining-room,
but more elaborate in its tracery, which was like petrified lace-work picked out
with delicate and varied colouring. About a fourth of its still remained
uncoloured, and under this part were scaffolding, ladders, and tools; otherwise
the spacious saloon was empty of furniture, and seemed to be a grand Gothic
canopy for the group of five human figures standing in the centre.
'Francesco has been getting on a little better the last day or two,' said Sir
Christopher, as he joined the party: 'he's a sad lazy dog, and I fancy he has a
knack of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes in his hands. But I must spur
him on, or we may not have the scaffolding cleared away before the bride comes,
if you show dexterous generalship in your wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your
Magdeburg quickly.'
'Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most tedious operations in war,'
said Captain Wybrow, with an easy smile.
'Not when there's a traitor within the walls in the shape of a soft heart. And
that there will be, if Beatrice has her mother's tenderness as well as her
mother's beauty.'
'What do you think, Sir Christopher,' said Lady Cheverel, who seemed to wince a
little under her husband's reminiscences, 'of hanging Guercino's Sibyl over that
door when we put up the pictures? It is rather lost in my sitting-room.'
'Very good, my love,' answered Sir Christopher, in a tone of punctiliously
polite affection; 'if you like to part with the ornament from your own room, it
will show admirably here. Our portraits, by Sir Joshua, will hang opposite the
window, and the Transfiguration at that end. You see, Anthony, I am leaving no
good places on the walls for you and your wife. We shall turn you with your
faces to the wall in the gallery, and you may take your revenge on us
by-and-by.'
While this conversation was going on, Mr Gilfil turned to Caterina and said,�
'I like the view from this window better than any other in the house.'
She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were filling with tears; so he
added, 'Suppose we walk out a little; Sir Christopher and my lady seem to be
occupied.'
Caterina complied silently, and they turned down one of the gravel walks that
led, after many windings under tall trees and among grassy openings, to a large
enclosed flower-garden. Their walk w
as perfectly silent, for Maynard Gilfil knew
that Caterina's thoughts were not with him, and she had been long used to make
him endure the weight of those moods which she carefully hid from others.
They reached the flower-garden, and turned mechanically in at the gate that
opened, through a high thick hedge, on an expanse of brilliant colour, which,
after the green shades they had passed through, startled the eye like flames.
The effect was assisted by an undulation of the ground, which gradually
descended from the entrance-gate, and then rose again towards the opposite end,
crowned by an orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendours;
verbenas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemed a gala
where all was happiness and brilliancy, and misery could find no sympathy. This
was the effect it had on Caterina. As she wound among the beds of gold and blue
and pink, where the flowers seemed to be looking at her with wondering elf-like
eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling of isolation in her wretchedness
overcame her, and the tears, which had been before trickling slowly down her
pale cheeks, now gushed forth accompanied with sobs. And yet there was a loving
human being close beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who was possessed
by the feeling that she was miserable, and that he was helpless to soothe her.
But she was too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were different from
hers, that he rather regretted the folly of her hopes than the probability of
their disappointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. Caterina, like the
rest of us, turned away from sympathy which she suspected to be mingled with
criticism, as the child turns away from the sweetmeat in which it suspects
imperceptible medicine.
'Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,' said Mr Gilfil; 'they may be coming this
way.'
She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions. and ran rapidly
to the other end of the garden, where she seemed occupied in selecting a rose.
Presently Lady Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm of Captain Wybrow, and
followed by Sir Christopher. The party stopped to admire the tiers of geraniums
near the gate; and in the mean time Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud
in her hand, and, gomg up to Sir Christopher, said�'There, Padroncello�there is
a nice rose for your button-hole.'
'Ah, you black-eyed monkey,' he said, fondly stroking her cheek; 'so you have
been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him an inch or two
deeper into love. Come, come, I want you to sing us "Ho perduto" before we sit
down to picquet. Anthony goes tomorrow, you know; you must warble him into the
right sentimental lover's mood, that he may acquit himself well at Bath.' He put
her little arm under his, and calling to Lady Cheverel, 'Come, Henrietta!' led
the way towards the house.
The party entered the drawing-room, which, with its oriel window, corresponded
to the library in the other wing, and had also a flat ceiling heavy with carving
and blazonry; but the window being unshaded, and the walls hung with full-length
portraits of knights and dames in scarlet, white, and gold, it had not the
sombre effect of the library. Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel,
who in the reign of Charles II was the renovator of the family splendour, which
had suffered some declension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who
came over with the Conqueror. A very imposing personage was this Sir Anthony,
standing with one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot advanced, evidently with
a view to the gratification of his contemporaries and posterity. You might have
taken off his splendid peruke, and his scarlet cloak, which was thrown backward
from his shoulders, without annihilating the dignity of his appearance. And he