our drive before luncheon.’
Caterina went down, wondering how she should escape from the drawing-room in time to be in the Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from going; nothing should rob her of this one precious moment—perhaps the last—when she could speak out the thoughts that were in her. After that, she would be passive; she would bear anything.
But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of yellow silk on her hands, when Miss Assher said, graciously,—‘I know you have an engagement with Captain Wybrow this morning. You must not let me detain you beyond the time.’
‘So he has been talking to her about me,’ thought Caterina. Her hands began to tremble as she held the skein.
Miss Assher continued in the same gracious tone: ‘It is tedious work holding these skeins. I am sure I am very much obliged to you.’
‘No, you are not obliged to me,’ said Caterina, completely mastered by her irritation; ‘I have only done it because Lady Cheverel told me.’
The moment was come when Miss Assher could no longer suppress her long latent desire to ‘let Miss Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct.’ With the malicious anger that assumes the tone of compassion, she said, —‘Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you are not able to control yourself better. This giving way to unwarrantable feelings is lowering you—it is indeed.’
‘What unwarrantable feelings?’ said Caterina, letting her hands fall, and fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher. ‘It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You must be conscious what I mean. Only summon a sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain Wybrow extremely by your want of self-control.’
‘Did he tell you I pained him?’
‘Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that you should behave to me as if you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to make a friend of me. I assure you we both feel very kindly towards you, and are sorry you should cherish such feelings.’
‘He is very good,’ said Caterina, bitterly. ‘What feelings did he say I cherished?’
This bitter tone increased Miss Assher’s irritation. There was still a lurking suspicion in her mind, though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his conduct and feelings towards Caterina. It was this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, which urged her to say something that would test the truth of his statement. That she would be humiliating Caterina at the same time, was only an additional temptation.
‘These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even understand how a woman can indulge a passion for a man who has never given her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow assures me is the case.’
‘He told you that, did he?’ said Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips turning white as she rose from her chair.
‘Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it me after your strange behaviour.’
Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly and left the room.
See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, along the passages and up the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift silent tread, make her look like the incarnation of a fierce purpose, rather than a woman. The mid-day sun is shining on the armour in the gallery, making mimic suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of polished breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in the gallery. There is a dagger in that cabinet; she knows it well. And as a dragon-fly wheels in its flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into her pocket. In three minutes more she is out, in hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying along towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She threads the windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves that rain upon her, not feeling the earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket, clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds half out of its sheath.
She has reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom of the interlacing boughs. Her heart throbs as if it would burst her bosom—as if every next leap must be its last. Wait, wait, O heart!—till she has done this one deed. He will be there—he will be before her in a moment. He will come towards her with that false smile, thinking she does not know his baseness—she will plunge that dagger into his heart.
Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to have the fish put back into the water—who never willingly killed the smallest living thing—dreams now, in the madness of her passion, that she can kill the man whose very voice unnerves her.
But what is that lying among the dank leaves on the path three yards before her?
Good God! it is he—lying motionless—his hat fallen off. He is ill, then—he has fainted. Her hand lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards him. His eyes are fixed; he does not see her. She sinks down on her knees, takes the dear head in her arms, and kisses the cold forehead.
‘Anthony, Anthony! speak to me—it is Tina—speak to me! O God, he is dead!’
Chapter XIV.
‘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,