Scenes of Clerical Life

Chapter 10

That evening Captain Wybrow, returning from a long ride with Miss Assher,

went up to his dressing-room, and seated himself with an air of

considerable lassitude before his mirror. The reflection there presented

of his exquisite self was certainly paler and more worn than usual, and

might excuse the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse, and then

laid his hand on his heart.

'It's a devil of a position this for a man to be in,' was the train of

his thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on the glass, while he leaned back

in his chair, and crossed his hands behind his head; 'between two jealous

women, and both of them as ready to take fire as tinder. And in my state

of health, too! I should be glad enough to run away from the whole

affair, and go off to some lotos-eating place or other where there are no

women, or only women who are too sleepy to be jealous. Here am I, doing

nothing to please myself, trying to do the best thing for everybody else,

and all the comfort I get is to have fire shot at me from women's eyes,

and venom spirted at me from women's tongues. If Beatrice takes another

jealous fit into her head--and it's likely enough, Tina is so

unmanageable--I don't know what storm she may raise. And any hitch in

this marriage, especially of that sort, might be a fatal business for the

old gentleman. I wouldn't have such a blow fall upon him for a great

deal. Besides, a man must be married some time in his life, and I could

hardly do better than marry Beatrice. She's an uncommonly fine woman, and

I'm really very fond of her; and as I shall let her have her own way, her

temper won't signify much. I wish the wedding was over and done with, for

this fuss doesn't suit me at all. I haven't been half so well lately.

That scene about Tina this morning quite upset me. Poor little Tina! What

a little simpleton it was, to set her heart on me in that way! But she

ought to see how impossible it is that things should be different. If she

would but understand how kindly I feel towards her, and make up her mind

to look on me as a friend;--but that it what one never can get a woman to

do. Beatrice is very good-natured; I'm sure she would be kind to the

little thing. It would be a great comfort if Tina would take to Gilfil,

if it were only in anger against me. He'd make her a capital husband, and

I should like to see the little grass-hopper happy. If I had been in a

different position, I would certainly have married her myself: hut that

was out of the question with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I

think a little persuasion from my uncle would bring her to accept Gilfil;

I know she would never be able to oppose my uncle's wishes. And if they

were once married, she's such a loving little thing, she would soon be

billing and cooing with him as if she had never known me. It would

certainly be the best thing for her happiness if that marriage were

hastened. Heigho! Those are lucky fellows that have no women falling in

love with them. It's a confounded responsibility.'

At this point in his meditations he turned his head a little, so as to

get a three-quarter view of his face. Clearly it was the '_dono infelice

della bellezza_' that laid these onerous duties upon him--an idea which

naturally suggested that he should ring for his valet.

For the next few days, however, there was such a cessation of threatening

symptoms as to allay the anxiety both of Captain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil.

All earthly things have their lull: even on nights when the most

unappeasable wind is raging, there will be a moment of stillness before

it crashes among the boughs again, and storms against the windows, and

howls like a thousand lost demons through the keyholes.

Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good-humour; Captain Wybrow was

more assiduous than usual, and was very circumspect in his behaviour to

Caterina, on whom Miss Assher bestowed unwonted attentions. The weather

was brilliant; there were riding excursions in the mornings and

dinner-parties in the evenings. Consultations in the library between Sir

Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to be leading to a satisfactory

result; and it was understood that this visit at Cheverel Manor would

terminate in another fortnight, when the preparations for the wedding

would be carried forward with all despatch at Farleigh. The Baronet

seemed every day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who entered into

his plans by the pleasant light which his own strong will and bright

hopefulness were always casting on the future, he saw nothing hut

personal charms and promising domestic qualities in Miss Assher, whose

quickness of eye and taste in externals formed a real ground of sympathy

between her and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel's enthusiasm never rose

above the temperate mark of calm satisfaction, and, having quite her

share of the critical acumen which characterizes the mutual estimates of

the fair s*x, she had a more moderate opinion of Miss Assher's qualities.

She suspected that the fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious temper;

and being herself, on principle and by habitual self-command, the most

deferential of wives, she noticed with disapproval Miss Assher's

occasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. A proud woman who has

learned to submit, carries all her pride to the reinforcement of her

submission, and looks down with severe superiority on all feminine

assumption as 'unbecoming'. Lady Cheverel, however, confined her

criticisms to the privacy of her own thoughts, and, with a reticence

which I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of

disturbing her husband's complacency.

And Caterina? How did she pass these sunny autumn days, in which the

skies seemed to be smiling on the family gladness? To her the change in

Miss Assher's manner was unaccountable. Those compassionate attentions,

those smiling condescensions, were torture to Caterina, who was

constantly tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought, 'Perhaps

Anthony has told her to be kind to poor Tina.' This was an insult. He

ought to have known that the mere presence of Miss Assher was painful to

her, that Miss Assher's smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher's kind

words were like poison stings inflaming her to madness. And he--Anthony

--he was evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed into

that morning in the drawing-room. He was cold and distant and civil to

her, to ward off Beatrice's suspicions, and Beatrice could be so gracious

now, because she was sure of Anthony's entire devotion. Well! and so it

ought to be--and she ought not to wish it otherwise. And yet--oh, he

_was_ cruel to her. She could never have behaved so to him. To make her

love him so--to speak such tender words--to give her such caresses, and

then to behave as if such things had never been. He had given her the

poison that seemed so sweet while she was drinking it, and now it was in

her blood, and she was helpless.'

With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor child went up to her

room every night, and there it all burst forth. There, with loud whispers

and sobs, restlessly pacing up and down, lying on the hard floor,

courting cold and weariness, she told to the pitiful listening night the

anguish which she could pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at

last, and always in the morning the reactive calm that enabled her to

live through the day.

It is amazing how long a young frame will go on battling with this sort

of secret wretchedness, and yet show no traces of the conflict for any

but sympathetic eyes. The very delicacy of Caterina's usual appearance,

her natural paleness and habitually quiet mouse-like ways, made any

symptoms of fatigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing--the

one thing in which she ceased to be passive, and became prominent--lost

none of its energy. She herself sometimes wondered how it was that,

whether she felt sad or angry, crushed with the sense of Anthony's

indifference, or burning with impatience under Miss Assher's attentions,

it was always a relief to her to sing. Those full deep notes she sent

forth seemed to be lifting the pain from her heart--seemed to be carrying

away the madness from her brain.

Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Caterina, and it was only Mr.

Gilfil who discerned with anxiety the feverish spot that sometimes rose

on her cheek, the deepening violet tint under her eyes, and the strange

absent glance, the unhealthy glitter of the beautiful eyes themselves.

But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal effect than was

represented by these slight outward changes.