Caterina burst forth with intense bitterness, rising, and moving towards the door; ‘say that I am a poor silly girl, and have fallen in love with you, and am jealous of her; but that you have never had any feeling but pity for me—you have never behaved with anything more than friendliness to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the better of you.’
Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her ideas would furnish her with, not having the faintest suspicion that the sarcasm derived any of its bitterness from truth. Underneath all her sense of wrong, which was rather instinctive than reflective—underneath all the madness of her jealousy, and her ungovernable impulses of resentment and vindictiveness—underneath all this scorching passion there were still left some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of belief that Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not all gone to feed the fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that Anthony felt more for her than he seemed to feel; she was still far from suspecting him of a wrong which a woman resents even more than inconstancy. And she threw out this taunt simply as the most intense expression she could find for the anger of the moment.
As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, her little body trembling under the shock of passions too strong for it, her very lips pale, and her eyes gleaming, the door opened, and Miss Assher appeared, tall, blooming, and splendid, in her walking costume. As she entered, her face wore the smile appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young lady who feels that her presence is an interesting fact; but the next moment she looked at Caterina with grave surprise, and then threw a glance of angry suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore an air of weariness and vexation.
‘Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Captain Wybrow? I will go alone.’
‘No, no, I am coming,’ he answered, hurrying towards her, and leading her out of the room; leaving poor Caterina to feel all the reaction of shame and self-reproach after her outburst of passion.
Chapter XII.
‘Pray, what is likely to be the next scene in the drama between you and Miss Sarti?’ said Miss Assher to Captain Wybrow as soon as they were out on the gravel. ‘It would be agreeable to have some idea of what is coming.’
Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of humour, wearied, annoyed. There come moments when one almost determines never again to oppose anything but dead silence to an angry woman. ‘Now then, confound it,’ he said to himself, ‘I’m going to be battered on the other flank.’ He looked resolutely at the horizon, with something more like a frown on his face than Beatrice had ever seen there.
After a pause of two or three minutes, she continued in a still haughtier tone, ‘I suppose you are aware, Captain Wybrow, that I expect an explanation of what I have just seen.’
‘I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice,’ he answered at last, making a strong effort over himself, ‘except what I have already given you. I hoped you would never recur to the subject.’
‘Your explanation, however, is very far from satisfactory. I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti thinks herself entitled to put on towards you, are quite incompatible with your position as regards me. And her behaviour to me is most insulting. I shall certainly not stay in the house under such circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons to Sir Christopher.’
‘Beatrice,’ said Captain Wybrow, his irritation giving way to alarm, ‘I beseech you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in this affair. It is very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be grieved to injure poor Caterina—to bring down my uncle’s anger upon her. Consider what a poor little dependent thing she is.’
‘It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, but do not suppose that they deceive me. Miss Sarti would never dare to behave to you as she does, if you had not flirted with her, or made love to her. I suppose she considers your engagement to me a breach of faith to her. I am much obliged to you, certainly, for making me Miss Sarti’s rival. You have told me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow.’
‘Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina is nothing more to me than a girl I naturally feel kindly to—as a favourite of my uncle’s, and a nice little thing enough. I should be glad to see her married to Gilfil to-morrow; that’s a good proof that I’m not in love with her, I should think. As to the past, I may have shown her little attentions, which she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable to that sort of thing?’
‘But what can she found her behaviour on? What had she been saying to you this morning to make her tremble and turn pale in that way?’
‘O, I don’t know. I just said something about her behaving peevishly. With that Italian blood of hers, there’s no knowing how she may take what one says. She’s a fierce little thing, though she seems so quiet generally.’
‘But she ought to be made to know how unbecoming and indelicate her conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Cheverel has not noticed her short answers and the airs she puts on.’
‘Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything of the kind to Lady Cheverel. You must have observed how strict my aunt is. It never enters her head that a girl can be in love with a man who has not made her an offer.’
‘Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I have observed her conduct. It will be only a charity to her.’
‘Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. Caterina’s temper is peculiar. The best thing you can do will be to leave her to herself as much as possible. It will all wear off. I’ve no doubt she’ll be married to Gilfil before long. Girls’ fancies are easily diverted from one object to another. By jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at! These confounded palpitations get worse instead of better.’
Thus ended the conversation, so far as it concerned Caterina, not without leaving a distinct resolution in Captain Wybrow’s mind—a resolution carried into effect the next day, when he was in the library with Sir Christopher for the purpose of discussing some arrangements about the approaching marriage.
‘By the by,’ he said carelessly, when the business came to a pause, and he was sauntering round the room with his hands in his coat-pockets, surveying the backs of the books that lined the walls, ‘when is the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come off, sir? I’ve a fellow-feeling for a poor devil so many fathoms deep in love as Maynard. Why shouldn’t their marriage happen as soon as ours? I suppose he has come to an understanding with Tina?’
‘Why,’ said Sir Christopher, ‘I did think of letting the thing be until old Crichley died; he can’t hold out very long, poor fellow; and then Maynard might have entered into matrimony and the rectory both at once. But, after all, that really is no good reason for waiting. There is no need for them to leave the Manor when they are married. The little monkey is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see her a matron, with a baby about the size of a kitten in her arms.’
‘I think that system of waiting is always bad. And if I can further any settlement you would like to make on Caterina, I shall be delighted to carry out your wishes.’
‘My dear boy, that’s very good of you; but Maynard will have enough; and from what I know of him—and I know him well—I think he would rather provide for Caterina himself. However, now you have put this matter into my head, I begin to blame myself for not having thought of it before. I’ve been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I had really forgotten poor Maynard. And he’s older than you—it’s high time he was settled in life as a family man.’
Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative manner, and presently said, more to himself than to Anthony, who was humming a tune at the far end of the room, ‘Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to finish off all our family business at once.’
Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned to her incidentally, that Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina as