The Complete Works - George Eliot

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      Look at her stooping down to gather up her treasure, searching for the hair and replacing it, and then mournfully examining the crack that disfigures the once-loved image. Alas! there is no glass now to guard either the hair or the portrait; but see how carefully she wraps delicate paper round it, and locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! God send the relenting may always come before the worst irrevocable deed!

      This action had quieted her, and she sat down to read Maynard’s letter again. She read it two or three times without seeming to take in the sense; her apprehension was dulled by the passion of the last hour, and she found it difficult to call up the ideas suggested by the words. At last she began to have a distinct conception of the impending interview with Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing the Baronet, of whom every one at the Manor stood in awe, frightened her so much that she thought it would be impossible to resist his wish. He believed that she loved Maynard; he had always spoken as if he were quite sure of it. How could she tell him he was deceived—and what if he were to ask her whether she loved anybody else? To have Sir Christopher looking angrily at her, was more than she could bear, even in imagination. He had always been so good to her! Then she began to think of the pain she might give him, and the more selfish distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection. Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful gratitude to Sir Christopher helped to awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gilfil’s tenderness and generosity.

      ‘Dear, good Maynard!—what a poor return I make him! If I could but have loved him instead—but I can never love or care for anything again. My heart is broken.’

      Chapter XIII.

      Table of Contents

      The next morning the dreaded moment came. Caterina, stupified by the suffering of the previous night, with that dull mental aching which follows on acute anguish, was in Lady Cheverel’s sitting-room, copying out some charity lists, when her ladyship came in, and said,—‘Tina, Sir Christopher wants you; go down into the library.’

      She went down trembling. As soon as she entered, Sir Christopher, who was seated near his writing-table, said, ‘Now, little monkey, come and sit down by me; I have something to tell you.’

      Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it at the Baronet’s feet. It was her habit to sit on these low stools, and in this way she could hide her face better. She put her little arm round his leg, and leaned her cheek against his knee.

      ‘Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. What’s the matter, eh?’

      ‘Nothing, Padroncello; only my head is bad.’

      ‘Poor monkey! Well, now, wouldn’t it do the head good if I were to promise you a good husband, and smart little wedding-gowns, and by-and-by a house of your own, where you would be a little mistress, and Padroncello would come and see you sometimes?’

      ‘O no, no! I shouldn’t like ever to be married. Let me always stay with you!’

      ‘Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and tiresome, and there will be Anthony’s children putting your nose out of joint. You will want some one to love you best of all, and you must have children of your own to love. I can’t have you withering away into an old maid. I hate old maids: they make me dismal to look at them. I never see Sharp without shuddering. My little black-eyed monkey was never meant for anything so ugly. And there’s Maynard Gilfil the best man in the county, worth his weight in gold, heavy as he is; he loves you better than his eyes. And you love him too, you silly monkey, whatever you may say about not being married.’

      ‘No, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so; I could not marry him.’

      ‘Why not, you foolish child? You don’t know your own mind. Why, it is plain to everybody that you love him. My lady has all along said she was sure you loved him—she has seen what little princess airs you put on to him; and Anthony too, he thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what has made you take it into your head that you wouldn’t like to marry him?’

      Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any answer. Sir Christopher patted her on the back and said, ‘Come, come; why, Tina, you are not well this morning. Go and rest, little one. You will see things in quite another light when you are well. Think over what I have said, and remember there is nothing, after Anthony’s marriage, that I have set my heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard settled for life. I must have no whims and follies—no nonsense.’ This was said with a slight severity; but he presently added, in a soothing tone, There, there, stop crying, and be a good little monkey. Go and lie down and get to sleep.’

      Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, took the old Baronet’s hand, covered it with tears and kisses, and then ran out of the room.

      Before the evening, Captain Wybrow had heard from his uncle the result of the interview with Caterina. He thought, ‘If I could have a long quiet talk with her, I could perhaps persuade her to look more reasonably at things. But there’s no speaking to her in the house without being interrupted, and I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice’s finding it out.’ At last he determined to make it a matter of confidence with Miss Assher—to tell her that he wished to talk to Caterina quietly for the sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind, and persuade her to listen to Gilfil’s affection. He was very much pleased with this judicious and candid plan, and in the course of the evening he had arranged with himself the time and place of meeting, and had communicated his purpose to Miss Assher, who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she thought, would do well to speak plainly and seriously to Miss Sarti. He was really very patient and kind to her, considering how she behaved.

      Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been carefully tended as an invalid, Sir Christopher having told her ladyship how matters stood. This tendance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy under attentions and kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself to appear at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well, though head and heart were throbbing. To be confined in her own room was intolerable; it was wretched enough to be looked at and spoken to, but it was more wretched to be left alone. She was frightened at her own sensations: she was frightened at the imperious vividness with which pictures of the past and future thrust themselves on her imagination. And there was another feeling, too, which made her want to be down-stairs and moving about. Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking to Captain Wybrow alone—of speaking those words of hatred and scorn that burned on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected manner.

      Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the drawing-room to fetch some patterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently walked out after her, and met her as she was returning down stairs.

      ‘Caterina,’ he said, laying his hand on her arm as she was hurrying on without looking at him, ‘will you meet me in the Rookery at twelve o’clock? I must speak to you, and we shall be in privacy there. I cannot speak to you in the house.’

      To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure across her face; she answered shortly and decidedly, ‘Yes’, then snatched her arm away from him, and passed down stairs.

      Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, being bent on emulating Lady Cheverel’s embroidery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement of holding the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all her working apparatus about her, and Caterina, thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat down to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It seemed as if playing massive chords—bringing out volumes of sound, would be the easiest way of passing the long feverish moments before twelve o’clock. Handel’s Messiah stood open on the desk, at the chorus ‘All we like sheep’, and Caterina threw herself at once into the impetuous intricacies of that magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she could never have played it so well: for now all the passion that made her misery was hurled by a convulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new force to the clutch of the sinking wrestler, and as terror gives farsounding intensity to the shriek of the feeble.

      But at half-past

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