Chapter 14
1016 Words
'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 clutching 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.
- Writer
