Scenes of Clerical Life

Chapter 16

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

body 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 that time was not a coincidence to raise conjectures in any

one besides Mr. Gilfil. Except in answering this question, she had not

broken her silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener's kitchen

shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with him, and

apparently unable to think of anything but the possibility that Anthony

might revive, until she saw them carrying away the body to the house.

Then she followed by Sir Christopher's side again, so quietly, that even

Dr Hart did not object to her presence.

It was decided to lay the body in the library until after the coroner's

inquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, she

turned up the gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the place where

she felt at home with her sorrows. It was the first time she had been in

the gallery since that terrible moment in the morning, and now the spot

and the objects around began to reawaken her half-stunned memory. The

armour was no longer glittering in the sunlight, but there it hung dead

and sombre above the cabinet from which she had taken the dagger. Yes!

now it all came back to her--all the wretchedness and all the sin. But

where was the dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it was not there. Could

it have been her fancy--all that about the dagger? She looked in the

cabinet; it was not there. Alas! no; it could not have been her fancy,

and she _was_ guilty of that wickedness. But where could the dagger be

now? Could it have fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascending

the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and

burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall every

feeling and incident of the morning.

It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she had

felt for the last month--for many months--ever since that June evening

when he had last spoken to her in the gallery. She looked back on her

storms of passion, her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts

of revenge on Anthony. O how wicked she had been! It was she who had been

sinning; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things that

had made her so angry. And if he had wronged her, what had she been on

the verge of doing to him? She was too wicked ever to be pardoned. She

would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish

her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every

one--before Miss Assher even. Sir Christopher would send her away--would

never see her again, if he knew all; and she would be happier to be

punished and frowned on, than to be treated tenderly while she had that

guilty secret in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to know

all, it would add to his sorrow, and make him more wretched than ever.

No! she could not confess it--she should have to tell about Anthony. But

she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; she could not bear Sir

Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight of all these things that

reminded her of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die soon: she

felt very feeble; there could not be much life in her. She would go away

and live humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die.

The poor child never thought of suicide. No sooner was the storm of anger

passed than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and she

could do nothing but love and mourn. Her inexperience prevented her from

imagining the consequences of her disappearance from the Manor; she

foresaw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and search

that must ensue. 'They will think I am dead,' she said to herself, 'and

by-and-by they will forget me, and Maynard will get happy again, and love

some one else.'

She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door. Mrs. Bellamy

was there. She had come by Mr. Gilfil's request to see how Miss Sarti

was, and to bring her some food and wine.

'You look sadly, my dear,' said the old housekeeper, 'an' you're all of a

quake wi' cold. Get you to bed, now do. Martha shall come an' warm it,

an' light your fire. See now, here's some nice arrowroot, wi' a drop o'

wine in it. Take that, an' it'll warm you. I must go down again, for I

can't awhile to stay. There's so many things to see to; an' Miss Assher's

in hysterics constant, an' her maid's ill i' bed--a poor creachy

thing--an' Mrs. Sharp's wanted every minute. But I'll send Martha up, an'

do you get ready to go to bed, there's a dear child, an' take care o'

yourself.'

'Thank you, dear mammy,' said Tina, kissing the little old woman's

wrinkled cheek; 'I shall eat the arrowroot, and don't trouble about me

any more to-night. I shall do very well when Martha has lighted my fire.

Tell Mr. Gilfil I'm better. I shall go to bed by-and-by, so don't you

come up again, because you may only disturb me.'

'Well, well, take care o' yourself, there's a good child, an' God send

you may sleep.'

Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while Martha was lighting her

fire. She wanted to get strength for her journey, and she kept the plate

of biscuits by her that she might put some in her pocket. Her whole mind

was now bent on going away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all

the ways and means her little life's experience could suggest.

It was dusk now; she must wait till early dawn, for she was too timid to

go away in the dark, but she must make her escape before any one was up

in the house. There would be people watching Anthony in the library, but

she could make her way out of a small door leading into the garden,

against the drawing-room on the other side of the house.

She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready; then she lighted a candle,

opened her desk, and took out the broken portrait wrapped in paper. She

folded it again in two little notes of Anthony's, written in pencil, and

placed it in her bosom. There was the little china box, too--Dorcas's

present, the pearl ear-rings, and a silk purse, with fifteen

seven-shilling pieces in it, the presents Sir Christopher had made her on

her birthday, ever since she had been at the Manor. Should she take the

earrings and the seven-shilling pieces? She could not bear to part with

them; it seemed as if they had some of Sir Christopher's love in them.

She would like them to be buried with her. She fastened the little round

earrings in her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas's box in her pocket.

She had another purse there, and she took it out to count her money, for

she would never spend her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea and

eight shillings; that would be plenty.

So now she sat down to wait for the morning, afraid to lay herself on the

bed lest she should sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony once

more and kiss his cold forehead! But that could not be. She did not

deserve it. She must go away from him, away from Sir Christopher, and

Lady Cheverel, and Maynard, and everybody who had been kind to her, and

thought her good while she was so wicked.