Scenes of Clerical Life

Chapter 20

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-haired 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 a delicate, impressible

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 re-awakened, 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 playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his

instruction on many subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of his

milkjug 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.