Mr Gilfil's Love Story

by George Eliot

Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she thought, would do well

  to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sarti. He was really very patient and

  kind to her, considering how she behaved.

  Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully tended as an

  invalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. This

  tendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions and

  kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself to appear

  at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well, though head and heart

  were throbbing. To be confined in her own room was intolerable; it was wretched

  enough to be looked at and spoken to, but it was more wretched to be left alone.

  She was frightened at her own sensations: she was frightened at the imperious

  vividness with which pictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her

  imagination. And there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be

  down-stairs and moving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking

  to Captain Wybrow alone�of speaking those words of hatred and scorn that burned

  on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected manner.

  Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing-room to fetch some

  patterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently walked

  out after her, and met her as she was returning down-stairs.

  'Caterina,' he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was hurrying on without

  looking at him, 'will you meet me in the Rookery at twelve o'clock? I must speak

  to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I cannot speak to you in the house.'

  To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; she answered

  shortly and decidedly, 'Yes', then snatched her arm away from him, and passed

  down-stairs.

  Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulating Lady

  Cheverel's embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement of holding

  the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus about her, and

  Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat down to the harpsichord

  in the sitting-room. It seemed as if playing massive chords�bringing out volumes

  of sound, would be the easiest way of passing the long feverish moments before

  twelve o'clock. Handel's Messiah stood open on the desk, at the chorus 'All we

  like sheep', and Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies

  of that magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never have played

  it so well: for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by a

  convulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to the clutch of

  the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives farsounding intensity to the shriek of

  the feeble.

  But at half-past eleven she was interrupted by Lady Cheverel, who said, 'Tina,

  go down, will you, and hold Miss Assher's silks for her. Lady Assher and I have

  decided on having our drive before luncheon.'

  Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-room in

  time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from going;

  nothing should rob her of this one precious moment�perhaps the last�when she

  could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that, she would be passive;

  she would bear anything.

  But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk on her hands, when

  Miss Assher said, graciously,�

  'I know you have an engagement with Captain Wybrow this morning. You must not

  let me detain you beyond the time.'

  'So he has been talking to her ahout me,' thought Caterina. Her hands began to

  tremble as she held the skein.

  Miss Assher continued in the same gracious tone: 'It is tedious work holding

  these skeins. I am sure I am very much obliged to you.'

  'No, you are not obliged to me,' said Caterina, completely mastered by her

  irritation; 'I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me.'

  The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer suppress her long latent

  desire to 'let Miss Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct.' With the

  malicious anger that assumes the tone of compassion, she said,�

  'Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not able to control

  yourself better. This giving way to unwarrantable feelings is lowering you�it is

  indeed.'

  'What unwarrantable feelings?' said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and fixing

  her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher.

  'It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious what I mean.

  Only summon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow

  extremely by your want of self-control.'

  'Did he tell you I pained him?'

  'Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you should behave to me as if

  you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make a friend of me. I

  assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are sorry you should

  cherish such feelings.'

  'He is very good,' said Caterina, bitterly. 'What feelings did he say I

  cherished?'

  This bitter tone increased Miss Assher's irritation. There was still a lurking

  suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain

  Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and feelings towards Caterina.

  It was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, which urged her

  to say something that would test the truth of his statement. That she would be

  humiliating Caterina at the same time, was only an additional temptation.

  'These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even understand

  how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never given her the least

  ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the case.'

  'He told you that, did he?' said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips turning

  white as she rose from her chair.

  'Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange behaviour.'

  Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.

  See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages and up

  the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift silent

  tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a

  woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in the gallery, making mimic

  suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of polished breast-plates. Yes, there

  are sharp weapons in the gallery. There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows

  it well. And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a

  leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her

  pocket. In three minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk,

  hurrying along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the

  windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon her,

  not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket, clenching the

  handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its sheath.

  She has reached the Rookery, and is under
the gloom of the interlacing boughs.

  Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom� as if every next leap must be

  its last. Wait, wait, O heart!�till she has done this one deed. He will be

  there�he will be before her in a moment. He will come towards her with that

  false smile, thinking she does not know his baseness�she will plunge that dagger

  into his heart.

  Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish put back into the

  water�who never willingly killed the smallest living thing�dreams now, in the

  madness of her passion, that she can kill the man whose very voice unnerves her.

  But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yards before her?

  Good God! it is he�lying motionless�his hat fallen off. He is ill, then�he has

  fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards him. His eyes are

  fixed; he does not see her. She sinks down on her knees, takes the dear head in

  her arms, and kisses the cold forehead.

  'Anthony, Anthony! speak to me�it is Tina�speak to me! O God, he is dead!'

  Chapter 14

  'YES, Maynard,' said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr Gilfil in the library,

  'it really is a remarkable thing that I never in my life laid a plan, and failed

  to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I never swerve from them�that's it. A

  strong will is the only magic. And next to striking out one's plans, the

  pleasantest thing in the world is to see them well accomplished. This year, now,

  will be the happiest of my life, all but the year '53, when I came into

  possession of the Manor, and married Henrietta. The last touch is given to the

  old house; Anthony's marriage�the thing I had nearest my heart�is settled to my

  entire satisfaction; and by-and-by you will be buying a little wedding-ring for

  Tina's finger. Don't shake your head in that forlorn way;�when I make prophecies

  they generally come to pass. But there's a quarter after twelve striking. I must

  be riding to the High Ash to meet Markham about felling some timber. My old oaks

  will have to groan for this wedding, but -'

  The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and panting, her eyes distended with

  terror, rushed in, threw her arms round Sir Christopher's neck, and gasping

  out�'Anthony... the Rookery ... dead... in the Rookery', fell fainting on the

  floor.

  In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, and Mr Gilfil was bending to

  raise Caterina in his arms. As he lifted her from the ground he felt something

  hard and heavy in her pocket. What could it be? The weight of it would be enough

  to hurt her as she lay. He carried her to the sofa, put his hand in her pocket,

  and drew forth the dagger.

  Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, then, or ... or... a horrible

  suspicion forced itself upon him. 'Dead� in the Rookery.' He hated himself for

  the thought that prompted him to draw the dagger from its sheath. No! there was

  no trace of blood, and he was ready to kiss the good steel for its innocence. He

  thrust the weapon into his own pocket; he would restore it as soon as possible

  to its well-known place in the gallery. Yet. why had Caterina taken this dagger?

  What was it that had happened in the Rookery? Was it only a delirious vision of

  hers?

  He was afraid to ring�afraid to summon any one to Caterina's assistance. What

  might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit? She might be raving. He

  could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty for not following Sir

  Christopher to see what was the truth. It took but a moment to think and feel

  all this, but that moment seemed such a long agony to him that he began to

  reproach himself for letting it pass without seeking some means of reviving

  Caterina. Happily the decanter of water on Sir Christopher's table was

  untouched. He would at least try the effect of throwing that water over her. She

  might revive without his needing to call any one else.

  Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at his utmost speed towards the Rookery;

  his face, so lately bright and confident, now agitated by a vague dread. The

  deep alarmed bark of Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr

  Bates, then on his way homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the

  direction of the sound, he met the Baronet just as he was approaching the

  entrance of the Rookery. Sir Christopher's look was enough. Mr Bates said

  nothing, but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the

  dead leaves with his nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him a

  minute when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had found

  something, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of the large

  planted mounds. They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert leading them; the

  tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling of the leaves, as their feet

  plunged among them, falling like an evil omen on the Baronet's ear.

  They had reached the summit of the mound, and had begun to descend. Sir

  Christopher saw something purple down on the path below among the yellow leaves.

  Rupert was already beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move faster. A

  tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came back and licked the

  trembling hand, as if to say 'Courage!' and then was down again snuffing the

  body. Yes, it was a body... Anthony's body. There was the white hand with its

  diamond-ring clutch ing the dark leaves. His eyes were half open, but did not

  heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself directly on them from between the

  boughs.

  Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit. Sir Christopher knelt

  down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his hand on the

  heart. It might be syncope; it might not�it could not be death. No! that thought

  must be kept far off.

  'Go, Bates, get help; we'll carry him to your cottage. Send some one to the

  house to tell Mr Gilfil and Warren. Bid them send off for Doctor Hart, and break

  it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill.'

  Mr Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling beside the body.

  The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe lips, the

  smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid; and the aged face was bending

  over them in silent anguish; the aged deep-veined hands were seeking with

  tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom that life was not irrevocably gone.

  Rupert was there too, waiting and watching; licking first the dead and then the

  living hands; then running off on Mr Bates's track as if he would follow and

  hasten his return, but in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene

  of his master's sorrow.

  Chapter 15

  IT is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand by one who has fainted, and

  witness the fresh birth of consciousness spreading itself over the blank

  features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine summits that lay ghastly and

  dead under the leaden twilight. A slight shudder, and the frost-bound eyes

  recover their liquid light; for an instant they show the inward

  semi-consciousness of an infant's; then, wi
th a little start, they open wider

  and begin to look; the present is visible, but only as a strange writing, and

  the interpreter Memory is not yet there.

  Mr Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change passed over Caterina's face. He

  bent over her, rubbing her chill hands, and looking at her with tender pity as

  her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. He thought there might be some wine in

  the dining-room close by. He left the room, and Caterina's eyes turned towards

  the window�towards Sir Christopher's chair. There was the link at which the

  chain of consciousness had snapped, and the events of the morning were beginning

  to recur dimly like a half-remembered dream, when Maynard returned with some

  wine. He raised her, and she drank it; but still she was silent, seeming lost in

  the attempt to recover the past, when the door opened, and Mr Warren appeared

  with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr Gilfil, dreading lest he should

  tell them in Caterina's presence, hurried towards him with his finger on his

  lips, and drew him away into the dining-room on the opposite side of the

  passage.

  Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now recovering the full consciousness of

  the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead; she had left him to tell

  Sir Christopher; she must go and see what they were doing with him; perhaps he

  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 yearning 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 now she heard the tread of heavy steps, and under the yellow shade near the

  wooden bridge she saw men slowly carrying something. Soon she was face to face

  with them. Anthony was no longer in the Rookery: they were carrying him

  stretched on a door, and there behind him was 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 16

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

  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