She did not know how long she had been there, till she was startled by the prayer-bell; when, thinking Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some one to inquire after her, she rose, and began hastily to undress, that there might be no possibility of her going down again. She had hardly unfastened her hair, and thrown a loose gown about her, before there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp’s voice said—‘Miss Tina, my lady wants to know if you’re ill.’
Caterina opened the door and said, ‘Thank you, dear Mrs. Sharp; I have a bad headache; please tell my lady I felt it come on after singing.’
‘Then, goodness me! why aren’t you in bed, istid o’ standing shivering there, fit to catch your death? Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuck you up warm.’
‘O no, thank you; I shall really be in bed very soon. Good-night, dear Sharpy; don’t scold; I will be good, and get into bed.’
Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. Sharp was not to be ‘come over’ in that way, and insisted on seeing her former charge in bed, taking away the candle which the poor child had wanted to keep as a companion. But it was impossible to lie there long with that beating heart; and the little white figure was soon out of bed again, seeking relief in the very sense of chill and uncomfort. It was light enough for her to see about her room, for the moon, nearly at full, was riding high in the heavens among scattered hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the window-curtain; and, sitting with her forehead pressed against the cold pane, looked out on the wide stretch of park and lawn.
How dreary the moonlight is! robbed of all its tenderness and repose by the hard driving wind. The trees are harassed by that tossing motion, when they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass makes her quake with sympathetic cold; and the willows by the pool, bent low and white under that invisible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like herself. But she loves the scene the better for its sadness: there is some pity in it. It is not like that hard unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting in the eyes of misery.
She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, and the tears fell thick and fast. She was so thankful she could cry, for the mad passion she had felt when her eyes were dry frightened her. If that dreadful feeling were to come on when Lady Cheverel was present, she should never be able to contain herself.
Then there was Sir Christopher—so good to her—so happy about Anthony’s marriage; and all the while she had these wicked feelings.
‘O, I cannot help it, I cannot help it!’ she said in a loud whisper between her sobs. ‘O God, have pity upon me!’
In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the windy moonlight, till at last, with weary aching limbs, she lay down in bed again, and slept from mere exhaustion.