Catherine had spent the night in the invalid's room, because he had earnestly begged her to, and she was glad to yield to his wants because she had yearned for his boyish self since first she had seen him in all his fresh schoolboy pride. She hoped that after his illness he did not treat her as coolly as he had treated her before, and that he could draw a familiarity and warmth from her presence. However, like his father, he had more delicacy than warmth, and was better suited for politeness than openness, and the older he grew the more apparent it became.
As soon as he had dropped off, she crept downstairs, for breakfast was to be had in five minutes. She met Mr. Utterson on the stairs, and warned him of his patient's present doze.
"In view of the circumstances, then," said the placid, gentlemanly doctor, "I shall breakfast with you, if you don't consider it an impertinence."
"Not in the least," she smiled, descending the stairs and then veering into the breakfast room, whither she was disappointed by the absence of her brother-in-law. Mr. Utterson seemed thoroughly pleased with her, and smiled a good deal, talking to her of his work and his life – his struggles and his enjoyments. Catherine found in him a disinterested companion who knew his own mind and had a clear perception and good understanding of the world and its inhabitants. He had been witness to so many different types of character, that he knew human beings more thoroughly than Mr. Musgrave did from mere observation. He was a man of science, true, but he did not for a moment appear to be bored by her. She did not say much – she mostly listened – but most men are glad to be listened to so attentively with such pleasing expressions of understanding.
Mr. Utterson was still talking when Mr. Musgrave appeared, giving his excuses for his late arrival. Catherine immediately transferred her attentions from the phlegmatic apothecary to the kind-eyed gentleman, and inquired anxiously into his health.
"Had he slept well? – Was his headache quite gone? – Did he prefer tea or coffee?" Albert was gratified by the warm attentions bestowed on him by so fine a woman, and felt quite overpowered. He could not give an answer to any of her questions without some hesitation in his look and tone. Her eyes were filled with affectionate anxiety for him as her hands poured the tea into his cup, and both he and Utterson could not take their eyes off this industrious and obliging lady, for in spite of her courteous manners, she gave the impression of being intensely independent and stout-hearted. The quietest can often be the most intriguing.
"I believe you stayed in Philip's room all night," said Albert, with an easygoing smile. "You must be exhausted – neither I nor Utterson assisted you in the task."
"Yes, we should be ashamed of ourselves," said Utterson, in a more affable tone than he was used to speaking in. "But I have trust in your stalwart health, Miss Crane. You could not have gotten very weak – you may be tired, and indeed look much fagged, but that is all. As a doctor, Miss Crane, I would advise you to go sleep in your brother-in-law's room for a couple of hours, and then report to me. If you still feel fatigued, then I shall prescribe you a tonic."
"Yes, Catherine, it would comfort me to know that you are well-rested," said Albert, with a look of warm regard and courteous concern. "And my room is all yours until you feel fully restored."
"Since I've no arguments against such a scheme, and since I do feel exceedingly fatigued, I shall go," she said, rising to her feet with a pale smile meant for both gentlemen. "I thank you, Mr. Utterson, for the lively conversation." Since she had nothing to say to Mr. Musgrave, she only smiled at him, and then retired to his room.
"She is really something, Musgrave," said Utterson, who was still absorbed by her person, in spite of her being already out of sight. "She is not nearly as handsome as some women I've seen, yet there is something one likes about her – she has a very pleasing countenance, I suppose. I don't know what else it could be. And then she is so alert, and provides one with such sensible answers, that one is convinced that she listens to everything one says, unlike some women who only give the appearance of listening, and then say the silliest of things. I quite like her, Musgrave. Yes, I like her exceedingly."
*
Catherine slept not two hours, but five, and when she had finally come to; the first thing she saw was a little nosegay on the nightstand with a note beside it with Mr. Borne's seal. She inhaled the fresh scent of the flowers before reading the note, and then took it up, breaking the seal as she sat up in bed. It ran thus:
My dear little woman,
How grieved Sarah and I were on being informed of your nephew's fall! How the father must feel it! Sarah sends her best regards along with a dainty nosegay that she fashioned in a few minutes, for she has grown quite as skilful at these things as you. We pine for your company daily, and I write to inform you of Miss Poppy Plympton's arrival at her brother's residence. She had hitherto been staying at the Lemmon Lodge with some friends, and came with the most ardent wish to see you. I hope we shall have you back at home in another day or so, and that young Musgrave shall be as good as new in another month, for I am not blind to the long process of recovery of a broken limb. I was quite reckless myself as a boy, and have had my fair share of broken as well as sprained limbs.
Yours affectionately, &c. &c.
She was overjoyed with this note, particularly because Miss Plympton had come, for she had not seen her for two whole years! She remembered her in all her bloom and youth, and recalled how good and sensible a person she had been in general. With Sarah occupied by her own happiness, she would be in need of a new companion, one who could be spared at any time, and Poppy was exactly suited for the purpose. She almost skipped down the stairs because she felt so refreshed by the doze and animated by the note and nosegay. She glided into the parlour half expecting to impress the two gentlemen with her restored energy, but was disappointed to find the parlour empty, and that, upon further inquiry, they had gone into town.
"Gone into town!" she said to herself, putting on her bonnet and shawl, and walking out into the garden adjoining the inn. "Would Albert do that, knowing that at any moment I could stir? He must have a purpose, or he would not have done so." After pacing the gardens in a state of mingled anxiety and excitement, she forced herself to sit down, as she was exhausting herself. As the time went by, and there was still no sign of the gentlemen, she decided that it was high time to go see how Philip went on. However, on her way out of the gardens, Mr. Musgrave, who was alone, ran into her.
"Catherine, you are up!" he said with a look of abstraction. "I'm glad."
"Yes – I'm afraid that you and Mr. Utterson let me sleep for far too long – pray, where is that gentleman? I thought that he would be with you."
"No – no, he is with Philip. He came back earlier than I did, for I had gone to call on your guardian. His niece is looking very well – I was told of her recent good fortune. But then she is an heiress, and her being a spinster would not at all be a bad thing, for wealthy spinsters are much respected, whereas poor ones can often be ridiculed."
"Yes, it is a common fallacy – that is, for people to laugh at women who did not marry. Perhaps they did not find love – not even rational love."
"Rational! Pray, what is that?" he chuckled, slipping his hands casually into his trouser pockets.
"Oh, you know, convenient love. Love without a struggle. The kind that simply walks into your parlour one day."
"Love without passion, you mean?"
"No – there may be passion, but what I meant is that it is a very tedious sort of attachment. It is nothing out of the ordinary."
"I thought you were finished reading those silly novels. You disappoint me in communicating opinions I presume you to have drawn from such books."
"You disappoint me in thinking me so low as to still be reading sensational literature. They once absorbed me, sir, but not any more. I still read poetry and history, and occasionally allow myself the pleasures of a novel... for there are those that are quite reasonable. They are not as bizarre as The Monk or The Castle of Otranto. The fictional events recorded in them are entirely true to life. Have you not read Jane Eyre, sir, or The Pickwick Papers? They are the new and improved novels of the nineteenth century, which even men such as you cannot find fault with."
"Men such as me? I'll allow that. At all events, I am guilty of having read The Pickwick Papers with great pleasure. I find Mr. Dickens to be sensible and ridiculous all at once. I enjoy his work exceedingly."
"But what of Charlotte Bronte? She is sensible without being ridiculous to boot."
"I have not read any of her works, though I will if you recommend me a worthwhile one."
"Jane Eyre, sir! That is the book you want to read. I shall send it to you as soon as I return to Creston Manor. It is my personal favourite, and I am sure no man can resist admiring the hero of the story, Mr. Edward Rochester."
"Admiring a fictitious character? Nonsense!"
"You shall see, Mr. Musgrave," she said, walking towards the inn.
*
Though Catherine was deeply in love with her brother-in-law, she was of so contemplative a nature – a mind so governed by etiquette, and a heart so affected by the romance of books, even then; that she persisted in hesitating and subduing her true feelings. She could not bear to be dishonest with him, but it could not be helped. She did not know how to approach him on the subject, because she had never loved before. She was once engaged – in the oddest manner, be it said – but this was not experience enough, and she was not sure of Albert's feelings.
That same day, early in the evening, Sarah called on her to bring her a fresh set of clothes, and as the two friends sat in silence for a moment, Catherine told her everything.
"My dearest Catherine!" cried Sarah, her eyes widening with animated surprise. "How is this? How long have you loved him? I remember asking you in Cambridge whether you loved him as more than a brother, and you denying it completely. Were you hiding your heart from me then, or speaking the truth?"
"I was in earnest when I said I did not love him as more than a brother. However, that is all changed now. I have reconsidered. I do not know how long I have loved him, but perhaps it began at the garden party – he looked the same, yet so fresh; so pleasing. Well, I do not altogether know. Sarah, what ought I to do? I cannot be sure of his feelings, and until I am, I must bury my love."
"This is simple," she said, clasping her hand with a sympathising smile. "For I happen to know that Uncle Busick knows something. I must admit that a few days ago, he commissioned me to ask you what you thought of Mr. Musgrave, but he did not specify as to why he wanted me to do this, and I have had my suspicions since." She did not say more, but nothing more needed to be said.
"Are you quite sure, my dear?" she gasped, looking apprehensively about the room, as if expecting to see him emerging from behind the half-opened door.
"Yes – I like to think I am, because I am so happily settled myself – or, soon to be. I should like you to share in my bliss – that would be fortunate indeed!"
"Well... if it is the case, then I shall wait for him to... to speak." It was very hard for her to come to grips with her present reality, as joyful and hopeful as it was, but she could not help feeling doubtful when thinking of him. For the first time in her life, she felt oppressed by her own heart, and wished rather to unlove him. But she could not unlove him. Her love was carved into her heart like words engraved into a solid gold plate. It was permanent and vivid.
"Your face is white, Cathy," said Sarah, as she walked her to the door. "I daresay you should come back home with me."
"You must be right," she said, looking very much dismayed. "But it is my duty to remain by my nephew's side until he can make do without me. He is always asking for me, and I could not bear to disappoint him in being away when he needs me the most. Therefore go, Sarah, and pray not to tempt me with such requests as this one, for, if you catch me in my more sceptical mood, then I shall accompany you back to the manor and keep on veiling my heart. Now go, Sarah, before I change my mind."
"Good-bye, then," she said, trotting out of the inn with the shadow of Catherine's unease hanging over her happiness.
*
She was up very early the next morning, and her first thought was to ascertain Philip's health. As she went into the room, she found it to be empty save for the slumbering patient, but upon sitting down on the edge of his bed, and glancing about the room another time, she noticed Albert sleeping in one of the high-backed armchairs by the hearth. She gave a start, rose to her feet, and then crept noiselessly out of the room. She was intensely bewildered, and even more so when a servant came up with a tray of tea-things, and requested her to bring it in, for she was in a great hurry to be elsewhere.
Catherine took it from her without much consideration, and then forced herself back into the room. She found them in as deep a sleep as ever, and managed to place the tray upon the hearthside table without making much noise, save rattling the tea-things unintentionally. However, it was enough to rouse Mr. Musgrave, because he had only dozed off, and was presently blinking at the form arranging and rearranging Philip's covers and then the chairs and other such nothings.
"You look nervous, Catherine," he said in his husky morning voice, which made her jump up and then face him with a flushed face. "Very nervous. Has something happened?" he yawned; stretching his limbs, and then approached her, she observed, without a coat on his back.
"No – nothing at all. I have been commissioned to bring in the tea-things, and now that I am no longer needed, I shall take my leave."
"Stay," he said, catching her wrist and looked imploringly into her brilliant brown eyes. "You are evidently troubled. Will not you confide in me, your own brother? Or would you prefer to tell all to Utterson?" Catherine thought that he sounded rather jealous, but did not comment on it, for fear of instigating another subject, which she thought to be closely related to the answer she would naturally give to this question. Thus, she remained silent: averting her eyes from his gaze knowing that he would read the expression in them if allowed to examine them.
"You do not ask me why I refer to Utterson?"
"I cannot imagine," she murmured, ashamed of finding herself so softened under his gaze.
"You do not suppose me jealous of him, do you?"
"How can you think so, after my knowing him but a few days, and you all my life?" She did not dare to look him in the face as she said this, but she did not easily escape his inspection. He took her chin between his fingers, and turned it so that she faced him in full; he read her countenance and understood it directly.
"Catherine," he said in hushed disbelief, letting go of her wrist and chin and transferring his hands to her forearms. "Can it be true?"
"What – what, sir?"
"None of that please! I want you to call me by my Christian name, as you did before – not that civilised atrocity."
"Very well – Albert."
"I am not satisfied. You speak so coolly. Look into my eyes, Catherine." She looked. "Now, that will do. You still love me."
"Albert!" she gasped, trying to free herself from his affectionate hold. "I cannot... I do not... I will not..."
"I know you will always hesitate and brood, but pray, save us some time and suspense by saying those three cloying words – I love you. Say this, and I will ask nothing more of you: I require neither ardent speeches nor oppressive embraces. I am a gentleman, Catherine, and can be satisfied with one look – one word. Speak, my dear. I must hear it to believe it."
"I cannot speak under these circumstances – with so oppressed a mind," she muttered. "You hold me so firmly, that I can think of nothing but freeing myself." This little demonstration was less than promising, but in the style of every sincere lover, he still had hope, and yielded to her wishes, allowing her to think over all that he had said in a chair by the fireplace. At length, after both had remained seated in grave contemplation, Catherine rose from her seat and said, in a faint but firm voice, "I love you." Albert was across the room in another moment.
"You'll be my wife, then?"
"Yes, Albert."
"Marvellous!" he laughed, circling her warmly with his arms, her cheek pressing against his cheek, and her heart beating against his heart. All was settled – they were both at peace, and could ask for no higher form of happiness than to never be parted. Catherine was still locked in his arms when they heard a faint voice calling out from the bed; "Now that was devilish inconsiderate of you two. I say, I was awake this whole time, and was forced to witness your ardent display of affections and silly proposals without the opportunity of slipping away because of this confounded leg injury."
"My boy!" exclaimed Albert, colouring at his son's impudence. "Consider – we thought you were asleep. You gave the appearance of it."
"No matter! I saw and heard it all. Well, you are engaged? Very good! Aunty Cathy shall finally be my mama!"
"Yes, my little Philip!" she gushed, flying to his side and gathering him to her breast. "No more Aunty Cathy for you. I am only mama to you now."
"You were never anything but, mama," he smiled up at her with boyish frankness, pressing his palm against her cheek. Her face wore her brightest smile, and she felt that she could finally be as carelessly happy as she had once been with her beloved father. The couple drove to Creston Manor that same evening to deliver the good news in person, and found Sarah and Mr. Borne excitedly expectant, for the former had informed the latter of Catherine's professed feelings.
"Two daughters married at once!" was Mr. Borne's only complaint. "I shall be the most miserable old bachelor in the world." However, he was fortunate enough to have his niece's fiancé a neighbour to him in Derbyshire, and therefore could visit her whenever he was compelled to bother them. As for Catherine, he was more reluctant to part with her. Trillynch Hall was such a way off, and he was sure that she had no more room in her heart for his old, purposeless self, now that she loved another with such fresh intensity. Naturally, she denied it, and convinced him of her still-standing affections for him by many kind expressions and confidential words, and the decision of continuing with her uncle at Creston Manor until her and Sarah's marriage, for it was a settled thing that they were to have a double wedding.
Catherine and Albert parted for the day, and with such modesty as convinced Borne of Albert's unwavering honour and Catherine's virtuous modesty. His heart ached that night, and I end this chapter recording an individual's solitary sorrow rather than a couple's mutual joy. He had had a faint hope – an Utopian image – of his charges' taking care of him when he could no longer take care of them, and of seeing them become old spinsters – happy old spinsters, for they would always have each other – under his roof. However, with his niece engaged, he had half expected his other charge to follow, and to abandon him and all his wealth. He was resolved to leave Heron Hall to Catherine and Creston Manor to Sarah, because then they would be able to see each other more often, and thus he was at peace, thinking that at least he had secured both their happiness as only he could.
He would continue growing old in solitude, and had a sort of fluctuating wish to die in action – either in a country in Africa, climbing the steep steps of a temple, or in France, climbing the Alps. Either of the two would do. He loved his charges like daughters, but the strongest love is that which can adapt to its circumstances. Therefore, the next morning he was determined to appear as cheerful as ever, and to lavish them with every kindness he could spare. Besides – there was no more room in the house for sorrow. The joy had frightened it all away, just as old Grandfather Borne had frightened all the ghosts out of Heron Hall.