Scenes of Clerical Life

Chapter 2

It is the evening of the 21st of June 1788. The day has been bright and

sultry, and the sun will still be more than an hour above the horizon,

but his rays, broken by the leafy fretwork of the elms that border the

park, no longer prevent two ladies from carrying out their cushions and

embroidery, and seating themselves to work on the lawn in front of

Cheverel Manor. The soft turf gives way even under the fairy tread of the

younger lady, whose small stature and slim figure rest on the tiniest of

full-grown feet. She trips along before the elder, carrying the cushions,

which she places in the favourite spot, just on the slope by a clump of

laurels, where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among the

water-lilies, and can be themselves seen from the dining-room windows.

She has deposited the cushions, and now turns round, so that you may have

a full view of her as she stands waiting the slower advance of the elder

lady. You are at once arrested by her large dark eyes, which, in their

inexpressive unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn, and it is

only by an effort of attention that you notice the absence of bloom on

her young cheek, and the southern yellowish tint of her small neck and

face, rising above the little black lace kerchief which prevents the too

immediate comparison of her skin with her white muslin gown. Her large

eyes seem all the more striking because the dark hair is gathered away

from her face, under a little cap set at the top of her head, with a

cherry-coloured bow on one side.

The elder lady, who is advancing towards the cushions, is cast in a very

different mould of womanhood. She is tall, and looks the taller because

her powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee, and surmounted by

lace and ribbons. She is nearly fifty, but her complexion is still fresh

and beautiful, with the beauty of an auburn blond; her proud pouting

lips, and her head thrown a little backward as she walks, give an

expression of hauteur which is not contradicted by the cold grey eye. The

tucked-in kerchief, rising full over the low tight bodice of her blue

dress, sets off the majestic form of her bust, and she treads the lawn as

if she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds' stately ladies, who had suddenly

stepped from her frame to enjoy the evening cool.

'Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may not have so much sun upon

us,' she called out, in a tone of authority, when still at some distance.

Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two bright patches of red and

white and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn, which

would look none the less pretty in a picture because one of the women's

hearts was rather cold and the other rather sad.

And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would have made that evening, if

some English Watteau had been there to paint it: the castellated house of

grey-tinted stone, with the flickering sunbeams sending dashes of golden

light across the many-shaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a great

beech leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and breaking, with its

dark flattened boughs, the too formal symmetry of the front; the broad

gravel-walk winding on the right, by a row of tall pines, alongside the

pool--on the left branching out among swelling grassy mounds, surmounted

by clumps of trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in the

descending sunlight against the bright green of limes and acacias; the

great pool, where a pair of swans are swimming lazily with one leg tucked

under a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calmly accepting the

kisses of the fluttering light-sparkles; the lawn, with its smooth

emerald greenness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herbage of the

park, from which it is invisibly fenced by a little stream that winds

away from the pool, and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant

pleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, whose part in the

landscape the painter, standing at a favourable point of view in the

park, would represent with a few little dabs of red and white and blue.

Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, they had much more

definiteness of outline, and were distinctly visible to the three

gentlemen sipping their claret there, as two fair women in whom all three

had a personal interest. These gentlemen were a group worth considering

attentively; but any one entering that dining-room for the first time,

would perhaps have had his attention even more strongly arrested by the

room itself, which was so bare of furniture that it impressed one with

its architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of matting stretched

from door to door, a bit of worn carpet under the dining-table, and a

sideboard in a deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment from the

lofty groined ceiling, with its richly-carved pendants, all of creamy

white, relieved here and there by touches of gold. On one side, this

lofty ceiling was supported by pillars and arches, beyond which a lower

ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered the square

projection which, with its three large pointed windows, formed the

central feature of the building. The 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 c****d-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 have 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

dey-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 was 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, going 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 had known how to choose a wife,

too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny brown hair

drawn away in bands from her mild grave face, and falling in two large

rich curls on her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the harsher hue

and outline of her white satin robe, was a fit mother of 'large-acred'

heirs.

In this room tea was served; and here, every evening, as regularly as the

great clock in the court-yard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, Sir

Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet until half-past ten,

when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the assembled household in the chapel.

But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to the

harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favourite airs from Gluck's

'Orfeo', an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was then

to be heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the

sentiment of these airs, '_Che faro senza Eurydice?_' and '_Ho perduto il

bel sembiante_', in both of which the singer pours out his yearning after

his lost love, came very close to Caterina's own feeling. But her

emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional

power. Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point of

superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beauty

whom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her

rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled

forth in the deep rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto,

which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to

preserve her from straining.

'Excellent, Caterina,' said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the

wonderful linked sweetness of '_Che faro_'. 'I never heard you sing that

so well. Once more!'

It was repeated; and then came, 'Ho perduto', which Sir Christopher

encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine. When the last note

was dying out he said--'There's a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring out

the table for picquet.'

Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her rapid

fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir

Christopher's knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek and smiled.

'Caterina, that is foolish,' said Lady Cheverel. 'I wish you would leave

off those stage-players' antics.'

She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing

the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the

room.

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing,

and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room.

They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the

'Gentleman's Magazine'; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the

door, opened 'Faublas'; and there was perfect silence in the room which,

ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate tones of Caterina.

She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and

there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to

a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it

was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight

was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow

the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls Greek statues and

busts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural

and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and

strange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps

and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family

portraits--of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with

close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs--of faded, pink-faced

ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses--of

gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed

beards.

Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade,

and here billiards were played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by

all except Caterina--and, sometimes, one other person.

She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale face and thin

white-robed form making her look like the ghost of some former Lady

Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses of the moon.

By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window above the portico, and

looked out on the long vista of turf and trees now stretching chill and

saddened in the moonlight.

Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to float towards her, and an

arm stole gently round her waist, while a soft hand took up her tiny

fingers. Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless for one

long moment; then she pushed away the arm and hand, and, turning round,

lifted up to the face that hung over her eyes full of tenderness and

reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one look

were the ground tones of poor little Caterina's nature--intense love and

fierce jealousy.

'Why do you push me away, Tina?' said Captain Wybrow in a half-whisper;

'are you angry with me for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you have

me cross my uncle--who has done so much for us both--in his dearest wish?

You know I have duties--we both have duties--before which feeling must be

sacrificed.'

'Yes, yes,' said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her head;

'don't tell me what I know already.'

There was a voice speaking in Caterina's mind to which she had never yet

given vent. That voice said continually. 'Why did he make me love

him--why did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the while that he

couldn't brave everything for my sake?' Then love answered, 'He was led

on by the feeling of the moment, as you have been, Caterina; and now you

ought to help him to do what is right.' Then the voice rejoined, 'It was

a slight matter to him. He doesn't much mind giving you up. He will soon

love that beautiful woman, and forget a poor little pale thing like you.'

Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in that young soul.

'Besides, Tina,' continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler tones, 'I

shall not succeed. Miss Assher very likely prefers some one else; and you

know I have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come back a

hapless bachelor--perhaps to find you already married to the good-looking

chaplain, who is over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir

Christopher has made up his mind that you're to have Gilfil.

'Why will you speak so? You speak from your own want of feeling. Go away

from me.'

'Don't let us part in anger, Tina. All this may pass away. It's as likely

as not that I may never marry any one at all. These palpitations may

carry me off, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall

never be anybody's bride-groom. Who knows what may happen? I may be my

own master before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, and be able to

choose my little singing-bird. Why should we distress ourselves before

the time?'

'It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling,' said Caterina, the

tears flowing fast. 'It is bad to bear now, whatever may come after. But

you don't care about my misery.'

'Don't I, Tina?' said Anthony in his tenderest tones, again stealing his

arm round her waist, and drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slave

of this voice and touch. Grief and resentment, retrospect and foreboding,

vanished--all life before and after melted away in the bliss of that

moment, as Anthony pressed his lips to hers.

Captain Wybrow thought, 'Poor little Tina! it would make her very happy

to have me. But she is a mad little thing.'

At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from her trance of bliss. It

was the summons to prayers in the chapel, and she hastened away, leaving

Captain Wybrow to follow slowly.

It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to worship in the little

chapel, where a couple of wax-candles threw a mild faint light on the

figures kneeling there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade

graver than usual. On his right hand, kneeling on their red velvet

cushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderly

dignified beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of Anthony and

Caterina, in all the striking contrast of their colouring--he, with his

exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like an Olympian god; she, dark

and tiny, like a gypsy changeling. Then there were the domestics kneeling

on red-covered forms,--the women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little

old housekeeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. Sharp, my lady's maid,

of somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire; the men by Mr. Bellamy

the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christopher's venerable valet.

A few collects from the Evening Service was what Mr. Gilfil habitually

read, ending with the simple petition, 'Lighten our darkness.'

And then they all rose, the servants turning to curtsy and bow as they

went out. The family returned to the drawing-room, said good-night to

each other, and dispersed--all to speedy slumber except two. Caterina

only cried herself to sleep after the clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil

lay awake still longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was crying.

Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at eleven, was soon in a soft

slumber, his face looking like a fine cameo in high relief on the

slightly indented pillow.