"She did."
Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling between his reluctance to
inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir Christopher, and his determination that no
injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christopher's eyes were still fixed on
him in solemn inquiry, and his own sunk towards the ground, while he tried to
find the words that would tell the truth least cruelly.
"You must not have any wrong thoughts about Tina," he said at length. "I must
tell you now, for her sake, what nothing but this should ever have caused to
pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her affections by attentions which, in his
position, he was bound not to show her. Before his marriage was talked of, he
had behaved to her like a lover."
Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard's arm, and looked away from him. He
was silent for some minutes, evidently attempting to master himself, so as to be
able to speak calmly.
"I must see Henrietta immediately," he said at last, with something of his old
sharp decision; "she must know all; but we must keep it from every one else as
far as possible. My dear boy," he continued in a kinder tone, "the heaviest
burthen has fallen on you. But we may find her yet; we must not despair: there
has not been time enough for us to be certain. Poor dear little one! God help
me! I thought I saw everything, and was stone-blind all the while."
CHAPTER XIX.
The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the coroner's inquest a verdict of
sudden death had been pronounced. Dr Hart, acquainted with Captain Wybrow's
previous state of health, had given his opinion that death had been imminent
from long-established disease of the heart, though it had probably been
accelerated by some unusual emotion. Miss Assher was the only person who
positively knew the motive that had led Captain Wybrow to the Rookery; but she
had not mentioned Caterina's name, and all painful details or inquiries were
studiously kept from her. Mr Gilfil and Sir Christopher, however, knew enough to
conjecture that the fatal agitation was due to an appointed meeting with
Caterina.
All search and inquiry after her had been fruitless, and were the more likely to
be so because they were carried on under the prepossession that she had
committed suicide. No one noticed the absence of the trifles she had taken from
her desk; no one knew of the likeness, or that she had hoarded her
seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that she should have happened
to be wearing the pearl earrings. She had left the house, they thought, taking
nothing with her; it seemed impossible she could have gone far; and she must
have been in a state of mental excitement, that made it too probable she had
only gone to seek relief in death. The same places within three or four miles of
the Manor were searched again and again�every pond, every ditch in the
neighbourhood was examined.
Sometimes Maynard thought that death might have come on unsought, from cold and
exhaustion; and not a day passed but he wandered through the neighbouring woods,
turning up the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were possible her dear body could
be hidden there. Then another horrible thought recurred, and before each night
came he had been again through all the uninhabited rooms of the house, to
satisfy himself once more that she was not hidden behind some cabinet, or door,
or curtain�that he should not find her there with madness in her eyes, looking
and looking, and yet not seeing him.
But at last those five long days and nights were at an end, the funeral was
over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When they had set out,
a heavy rain was falling; but now the clouds were breaking up, and a gleam of
sunshine was sparkling among the dripping boughs under which they were passing.
This gleam fell upon a man on horseback who was jogging slowly along, and whom
Mr Gilfil recognised, in spite of diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the
coachman who had married the rosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before.
Every new incident suggested the same thought to Mr Gilfil; and his eye no
sooner fell on Knott than he said to himself, "Can he be come to tell us
anything about Caterina?" Then he remembered that Caterina had been very fond of
Dorcas, and that she always had some present ready to send her when Knott paid
an occasional visit to the Manor. Could Tina have gone to Dorcas? But his heart
sank again as he thought, very likely Knott had only come because he had heard
of Captain Wybrow's death, and wanted to know how his old master had borne the
As soon as the carriage reached the house, he went up to his study and walked
about nervously, longing, but afraid, to go down and speak to Knott, lest his
faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at that face, usually so full
of calm goodwill, would have seen that the last week's suffering had left deep
traces. By day he had been riding or wandering incessantly, either searching for
Caterina himself, or directing inquiries to be made by others. By night he had
not known sleep� only intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be finding
Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from this unreal agony to the real
anguish of believing that he should see her no more. The clear grey eyes looked
sunken and restless, the full careless lips had a strange tension about them,
and the brow, formerly so smooth and open, was contracted as if with pain. He
had not lost the object of a few months' passion; he had lost the being who was
bound up with his power of loving, as the brook we played by or the flowers we
gathered in childhood are bound up with our sense of beauty. Love meant nothing
for him but to love Caterina. For years, the thought of her had been present in
everything, like the air and the light; and now she was gone, it seemed as if
all pleasure had lost its vehicle: the sky, the earth, the daily ride, the daily
talk might be there, but the loveliness and the joy that were in them had gone
for ever.
Presently, as he still paced backwards and forwards, he heard steps along the
corridor, and there was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as he said,
"Come in," and the rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable from pain
when he saw Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him.
"Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I thought it best to bring him to
you first."
Mr Gilfil could not help going up to the old coachman and wringing his hand; but
he was unable to speak, and only motioned to him to take a chair, while Warren
left the room. He hung upon Daniel's moon-face, and listened to his small piping
voice, with the same solemn yearning expectation with which he would have given
ear to the most awful messenger from the land of shades.
"It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come; but we knowed nothin' o' what's happened
at the Manor. She's frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti, an' she would
hev me saddle Balckbird this mornin', an leave the ploughin', to come an' let
Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you've heared, sir, we don't keep the
Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o' mine died three 'ear ago, an' left me a
leggicy. He was bailiff to Squire Ramble, as hed them there big farms on his
hans; an' so we took a little farm o' forty acres or thereabouts, becos Dorkis
didn't like the public when she got moithered wi' children. As pritty a place as
iver you see, sir, wi' water at the back convenent for the cattle."
"For God's sake," said Maynard, "tell me what it is about Miss Sarti. Don't stay
to tell me anything else now."
"Well, sir," said Knott, rather frightened by the parson's vehemence, "she come
t' our house i' the carrier's cart o' Wednesday, when it was welly nine o'clock
at night; and Dorkis run out, for she heared the cart stop, an' Miss Sarti
throwed her arms roun' Dorkis's neck an' says, 'Tek me in, Dorkis, tek me in,'
an' went off into a swoond, like. An' Dorkis calls out to me,�'Dannel,' she
calls�an' I run out and carried the young miss in, an' she come roun' arter a
bit, an' opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her to drink a spoonful o'
rum-an'-water �we've got some capital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, an'
Dorkis won't let nobody drink it. She says she keeps it for sickness; but for my
part, I think it's a pity to drink good rum when your mouth's out o' taste; you
may just as well hev doctor's stuff. Howiver, Dorkis got her to bed, an' there
she's lay iver sin', stoopid like, an niver speaks, an' on'y teks little bits
an' sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An' we begun to be frightened, and couldn't
think what had made her come away from the Manor, and Dorkis was afeard there
was summat wrong. So this mornin' she could hold no longer, an' would hev no nay
but I must come an' see; an' so I've rode twenty mile upo' Blackbird, as thinks
all the while he's a ploughin', an' turns sharp roun, ivery thirty yards, as if
he was at the end of a furrow. I've hed a sore time wi' him, I can tell you,
sir."
"God bless you, Knott, for coming!" said Mr Gilfil, wringing the old coachman's
hand again. "Now go down and have something and rest yourself. You will stay
your house. I shall get ready to ride there immediately, when I have spoken to
Sir Christopher."
In an hour from that time Mr Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare towards the
little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more he saw
some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; once more it was a pleasure to see the
hedgerow trees flying past him, and to be conscious of a "good seat" while his
black Kitty bounded beneath him, and the air whistled to the rhythm of her pace.
Caterina was not dead; he had found her; his love and tenderness and
long-suffering seemed so strong, they must recall her to life and happiness.
After that week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it carried his hopes
at once as far as the utmost mark they had ever reached. Caterina would come to
love him at last; she would be his. They had been carried through all that dark
and weary way that she might know the depth of his love. How he would cherish
her�his little bird with the timid bright eye, and the sweet throat that
trembled with love and music! She would nestle against him, and the poor little
breast which had been so ruffled and bruised should be safe for evermore. In the
love of a brave and faithful man there is always a strain of maternal
tenderness; he gives out again those beams of protecting fondness which were
shed on him as he lay on his mother's knee.
It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, asking a home-bound
labourer the way to Daniel Knott's, learned that it was by the church, which
showed its stumpy ivy-clad spire on a slight elevation of ground; a useful
addition to the means of identifying that desirable homestead afforded by
Daniel's description�"the prittiest place iver you see"�though a small cow-yard
full of excellent manure, and leading right up to the door, without any
frivolous interruption from garden or railing, might perhaps have been enough to
make that description unmistakably specific.
Mr Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading into the cow-yard, than he was
descried by a flaxen-haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with the toga
virilis, or smock-frock, who ran forward to let in the unusual visitor. In a
moment Dorcas was at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all the redder
for the three pair of cheeks which formed a group round her, and for the very
fat baby who stared in her arms, and sucked a long crust with calm relish.
"Is it Mr Gilfil, sir?" said Dorcas, curtsying low as he made his way through
the damp straw, after tying up his horse.
"Yes, Dorcas; I'm grown out of your knowledge. How is Miss Sarti?"
"Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose Dannel's told you; for I
reckon you've come from the Manor, though you're come uncommon quick, to be
sure."
"Yes, he got to the Manor about one o'clock, and I set off as soon as I could.
She's not worse, is she?"
"No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you please to walk in, sir? She lies
there teckin' no notice o' nothin', no more nor a baby as is on'y a wick old,
an' looks at me as blank as if she didn't know me. O what can it be, Mr Gilfil?
How come she to leave the Manor? How's his honour an' my lady?"
"In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher's nephew, you know,
has died suddenly. Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the shock has
affected her mind."
"Eh, dear! that fine young gentleman as was to be th' heir, as Dannel told me
about. I remember seein' him when he was a little un, a visitin' at the Manor.
Well-a-day, what a grief to his honour and my lady. But that poor Miss Tina �an'
she found him a-lyin' dead? O dear, O dear!"
Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen, as charming a room as best
kitchens used to be in farmhouses which had no parlours�the fire reflected in a
bright row of pewter plates and dishes; the sand-scoured deal tables so clean
you longed to stroke them; the salt-coffer in one chimney-corner, and a
three-cornered chair in the other, the walls behind handsomely tapestried with
flitches of bacon, and the ceiling ornamented with pendent hams.
"Sit ye down, sir�do," said Dorcas, moving the three-cornered chair, "an' let me
get you somethin' after your long journey. Here, Becky, come an' tek the baby."
Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the adjoining back-kitchen, and
possessed herself of baby, whose feelings or fat made him conveniently apathetic
under the transference.
"What'll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you? I'll get you a rasher o'
bacon i' no time, an' I've got some tea, or belike you'd tek a glass o'
rum-an'-water. I know we've got nothin' as you're used t' eat and drink; but
such as I hev, sir, I shall be proud to give you."
"Thank you, Dorcas; I can't eat or drink anything. I'm not hungry or tired. Let
us talk about Tina. Has she spoken at all?"
"Niver since the fust words. 'Dear Dorkis,' says she, 'tek me in;' an' then
went
off into a faint, an' not a word has she spoke since. I get her t' eat little
bits an' sups o' things, but she teks no notice o' nothin'. I've took up Bessie
wi' me now an' then"�here Dorcas lifted to her lap a curly-headed little girl of
three, who was twisting a corner of her mother's apron, and opening round eyes
at the gentleman�"folks 'll tek notice o' children sometimes when they won't o'
nothin' else. An' we gethered th' autumn crocuses out o' th' orchard, an' Bessie
carried 'em up in her hand, an' put 'em on the bed. I knowed how fond Miss Tina
was o' flowers an' them things, when she was a little un. But she looked at
Bessie an' the flowers just the same as if she didn't see 'em. It cuts me to th'
heart to look at them eyes o' hers: I think they're bigger nor iver, an' they
look like my poor baby's as died, when it got so thin�O dear, its little hands,
you could see thro' 'em. But I've great hopes if she was to see you, sir, as
come from the Manor, it might bring back her mind, like."
Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists of fear gathering round him
after the few bright warm hours of joyful confidence which had passed since he
first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought would urge itself upon him that
her mind and body might never recover the strain that had been put upon
them�that her delicate thread of life had already nearly spun itself out.
"Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don't say anything about my being here.
Perhaps it would be better for me to wait till daylight before I see her, and
yet it would be very hard to pass another night in this way."
Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The three other children,
including young Daniel in his smock-frock, were standing opposite to Mr Gilfil,
watching him still more shyly now they were without their mother's countenance.
He drew little Bessie towards him, and set her on his knee. She shook her yellow
curls out of her eyes, and looked up at him as she said,�
"Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? What zoo do to her? Tiss her?"
"Do you like to be kissed, Bessie?"
"Det," said Bessie, immediately ducking down her head very low, in resistance to
the expected rejoinder.
"We've got two pups," said young Daniel, emboldened by observing the gentleman's
amenities towards Bessie. "Shall I show 'em yer? One's got white spots."
"Yes, let me see them."
Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two blind puppies, eagerly
followed by the mother, affectionate though mongrel, and an exciting scene was
beginning when Dorcas returned and said,�
"There's niver any difference in her hardly. I think you needn't wait, sir. She
lies very still, as she al'ys does. I've put two candles i' the room, so as she
may see you well. You'll please t' excuse the room, sir, an' the cap as she hes
on; it's one o' mine."
Mr Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her up-stairs. They turned in at
the first door, their footsteps making little noise on the plaster floor. The
red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of the bed, and Dorcas had
placed the candles on this side of the room, so that the light might not fall
oppressively on Caterina's eyes. When she had opened the door, Dorcas whispered,
"I'd better leave you, sir, I think?"
Mr Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the curtain. Caterina lay with
her eyes turned the other way, and seemed unconscious that any one had entered.
Her eyes, as Dorcas had said, looked larger than ever, perhaps because her face
was thinner and paler, and her hair quite gathered away under one of Dorcas's
thick caps. The small hands, too, that lay listlessly on the outside of the
bed-clothes, were thinner than ever. She looked younger than she really was, and
any one seeing the tiny face and hands for the first time, might have thought
they belonged to a little girl of twelve, who was being taken away from coming