FOR THE STAR
He ought to have known, he _did_ know, his danger. If he was not sure
of it during his ride to the coast, while he crossed the Channel, and
felt the wild spray dash against his face like the greeting of an old
friend, nor in the long journey that took him northward through many
a smiling valley and breezy upland of that country which he had once
thought so gloomy and desolate, which seemed so fair and sunny now,
because it was _hers_, he ought to have realised it when he rode under
the old oaks at Hamilton Hill, and dreaded, even more than he longed, to
see her white dress glancing among their stems. Above all, he ought to
have been warned, when, entering the house, though Lady Hamilton herself
did not appear, he felt surrounded by her presence, and experienced
that sensation of repose which, after all his tumult of anxiety and
uncertainty, pervades a man’s whole being in the home of the woman he
loves. There were her gardening gloves, and plain straw hat, perhaps yet
warm from her touch, lying near the door. There were flowers that surely
must have been gathered by her hands but a few hours ago, on the table
where he laid his pistols and riding-wand. There was her work set aside
on a chair, her shawl thrown over its back, the footstool she had used
pushed half across the floor, and an Iceland hawk, with hood, bell, and
jesses, moving restlessly on the perch, doubtless in expectation of its
mistress’s return.
He tried hard to deceive himself, and he succeeded. He felt that in all
his lawless infatuation for this pure, spotless woman, he had never loved
her so well as now—now, that she was his friend’s wife! But he argued, he
pleaded, he convinced himself in his madness, that such a love as his,
even a husband must approve. It was an affection, he repeated, or rather
a worship, completely spiritualised and self-sacrificing, to outlast the
material trammels of this life, and follow her, still faithful, still
changeless, into eternity. So true, so holy, however hopeless, however
foolish, could such a love as this, deprived of all earthly leaven, be
criminal, even in _him_, the priest, for _her_, the wedded wife? No, no,
he told himself, a thousand times, no! And all the while the man within
the man, who sits, and mocks, and judges, and condemns us all, said Yes—a
thousand times—Yes!
There is but one end to such debate, when the idol is under the same roof
with the worshipper. He put the question from him for the present, and
only resolved that, at least, he might love all belonging to her, for
her sake. All, even to the very flowers she gathered and the floor she
trod. He took up the work she had set aside, and pressed it passionately
to his lips, his heart, his eyes. The door opened, and he dropped it,
scared, startled, guilty, like a man detected in a crime. It was a
disappointment, yet he felt it a relief, to find that the intruder was
not Cerise. He had scarcely yet learned to call her Lady Hamilton.
There was no disappointment, however, in the new-comer’s face, as he
stood for a moment with the door in his hand, looking at Florian with
a quaint comical smile, in which respect for Sir George’s guest was
strangely mingled with a sailor’s hearty welcome to his shipmate. The
latter sentiment soon predominated, and Slap-Jack, hurrying forward with
a scrape of his foot and a profusion of sea-bows, seized the visitor by
both hands, called him “my hearty!” several times over; and, finally,
relapsing with considerable effort into the staid and confidential
servant of the family, offered him, in his master’s absence, liquid
refreshment on the spot.
“It’s a fair wind, whichever way it blowed, as brought _you_ here,”
exclaimed the late foretopman, when the energy of his greeting had
somewhat subsided; “and so the skipper, I mean Sir George, will swear,
when he knows his first lieutenant’s turned up in this here anchorage,
and my lady too, askin’ your reverence’s pardon once more, being that I’m
not quite so sure as I ought to be of your honour’s rating.”
Slap-Jack was becoming a little confused, remembering the part played by
Beaudésir on the last occasion of their meeting.
“Sir George does not expect me,” answered Florian, returning the seaman’s
greeting with cordial warmth; “but unless he is very much altered, I
think his welcome will be no less hearty than your own.”
“That I’ll swear it will—that I’ll swear he doesn’t,” protested
Slap-Jack, taking upon himself the character of confidential domestic
more and more. “Sir George never ordered so much as a third place to be
laid at dinner; but we’ll make that all ship-shape with a round turn
in no time; an’ if you don’t drink ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ to-day in a
flagon of the best, why, say I’m a Dutchman! When I see them towing your
nag into harbour, and our old purser’s steward, butler, as we calls him
ashore, he hails me and sings out as there’s a visitor between decks, I
knowed as something out of the common was aboard. I can’t tell you for
why; but I knowed it as sure as the compass. I haven’t been pleased since
I was paid off. If it wasn’t that my lady’s in the room above this, and
it’s not discipline to disturb her, blowed if I wouldn’t give three such
cheers as should shake the acorns down at the far end of the west avenue.
But I’ll do it to-night after quarters, see if I won’t, Lieutenant
Bo―askin’ your pardon, your honour’s reverence.”
Thus conversing, and occupying himself the whole time with the guest’s
comforts, for Slap-Jack, sailor-like, had not forgotten to be two-handed,
he showed Florian into a handsome bed-chamber, and unpacked with ready
skill the traveller’s valise, taken off his horse’s croup, that contained
the modest wardrobe, which in those days of equestrian journeys was
considered sufficient for a gentleman’s requirements. He then assured him
that Sir George’s arrival could not be long delayed, as dinner would be
served in half an hour, and the waiting-woman had already gone upstairs
to dress her ladyship; also, that there was a sirloin of beef on the spit
and ale in the cellar brewed thirty-five years ago next October; with
which pertinent information he left the visitor to his toilet and his
reflections.
The former was soon concluded; the latter lasted him through his
labours, and accompanied him downstairs to the great hall, where
Slap-Jack had told him he would find dinner prepared. His host and
hostess were already there. Of Lady Hamilton’s greeting he was
unconscious, for his head swam, and he dared not lift his eyes to her
face; but Sir George’s welcome was hearty, even boisterous. Florian could
not help thinking that, had he been in the hospitable baronet’s place, he
would have been less delighted with the arrival of a visitor.
Whatever people’s feelings may be, however, they go to dinner all the
same. Slap-Jack, an old grey-headed butler, and two or three livery
servants stood in attendance. The dishes were uncovered, and Florian
found himself seated at a round table in the centre of the fine old
hall like a man in a dream, confused indeed and vaguely bewildered, yet
conscious of no surprise at the novelty of his situation, and taking in
all its accessories with a glance. He was aware of the stag’s skeleton
frontlet, crowned by its gigantic antlers, beetling, bleached, and grim,
over the door; of the oak panelling and stained glass, the high carved
chimneypiece, with its grotesque supporters, the vast logs smouldering
in embers on the hearth, the dressed deer-skins, that served for rug or
carpet wherever a covering seemed needed on the polished floor; nay, even
of a full-length picture by Vandyck, representing the celebrated Count
Anthony Hamilton, looking his very politest, in a complete suit of plate
armour, with a yard or two of cambric round his neck, and an enormous wig
piling its hyacinthine curls above his forehead, to descend in coarse
cascades of hair below his waist.
All this had Florian taken note of before he could conscientiously
declare that he had looked his hostess in the face.
It made him start to hear the sweet voice once more, frank, cordial, and
caressing as of old. One of the many charms which Cerise exercised over
her fellow-creatures was the gentle, kindly tone in which she spoke to
all.
“You have just come from France, you say, Father Ambrose. Pardon,
Monsieur de St. Croix. How am I to address you? From our dear France,
George. Only think. He has scarcely left it a week.”
“Where they did not give you such ale as that, I’ll be bound,” answered
Sir George, motioning Slap-Jack to fill for the guest, a hospitable rite
performed by the old privateer’s-man with extreme good-will, and a solemn
wink of approval, as he placed the beaker at his hand. “What! You have
not learned to drink our _vin ordinaire_ yet? And now, I remember, you
were always averse to heavy potations. Here, fill him a bumper of claret,
some of you! Taste that, my friend. I don’t think we ever drank better
in the ‘Musketeers.’ Welcome to Hamilton Hill, old comrade. My lady
will drink to your health too, before she hears the latest Paris news.
She has not forgotten her country; and as for me, why, you know our old
principle, _Mousquetaire avant tout!_”
Sir George emptied his glass, and Cerise, bowing courteously, touched
hers with her lips. Florian found himself at once, so to speak “_enfant
de la maison_,” and recovered his presence of mind accordingly.
He addressed himself, however, chiefly to his host. “You forget,”
said he, “that I have been living in the seclusion of a cloister.
Though I have carried a sword and kept my watch under your command,
and spent almost the happiest days of my life in your company, I was
a priest before I was a Musketeer, and a priest I must always remain.
Nevertheless, even at St. Omer, we are not utterly severed from the world
and its vanities; and though we do not participate in them, we hear them
freely canvassed. The first news, of course, for madame (pardon! I must
learn to call you by your English name—for Lady Hamilton), regards the
despotism of King Chiffon. The farthingale is worn more oval; diamond
buckles are gone out; it is bad taste just now to carry a fan anywhere
except to church.”
In spite of his agitation he adopted a light tone of jest befitting
the subject—for was he not a Jesuit?—and stole a look at Cerise while
he spoke. Many a time had he dreamt of a lovely girl blooming into
womanhood, in the Convent of our Lady of Succour. Ever since the tumult
of her hasty wedding, after the escape from _Cash-a-crou_, he had been
haunted by a pale, sweet, agitated face, on which he had invoked a
blessing at the altar from the depths of his tortured heart; but what
did he think of her now? She had reached that queenly standard to which
women only attain after marriage; and while she had lost none of her
early charms, her frankness, her simplicity, her radiant smile, her deep
truthful eyes, she had added to them that gentle dignity, that calm,
assured repose of manner, which completes the graces of mature womanhood,
and adorns the wedded wife as fitly as her purple robe becomes a queen.
She could look him in the face quietly and steadily enough; but while
his very heart thrilled at her voice, his eyes fell, as though dazzled,
beneath her beauty.
“You forget, monsieur,” said she, with an affectionate glance at her
husband, “I am an Englishwoman now; and we have deeper interests here
even than the change of fashions and the revolutions in the kingdom of
dress. Besides, mamma keeps me informed on all such subjects, as well as
those of more importance; but she is in Touraine now, and I am quite in
the dark as regards everything at Paris; above all, the political state
of the Court. You see we are no longer Musketeers.”
She smiled playfully at George, in allusion to the sentiment he had
lately broached, and looked, Florian thought, lovelier than ever.
The excitement of conversation had brought a colour to her cheek. Now,
when she ceased, it faded away, leaving her perhaps none the less
beautiful, that she was a little pale and seemed tired. He observed
the change of course. Not an inflection of her voice, not a quiver of
an eyelash, not one of those silken hairs out of place on her soft
forehead, could have escaped his notice. “Was she unhappy?” he thought;
“was she, too, dissatisfied with her lot? Had she failed to reach that
resting-place of the heart which is sought for eagerly by so many, and
found but by so few?” It pained him; yes, he was glad to feel that it
pained him to think this possible. Yet would he have been better pleased
to learn that her languor of manner, her pale weariness of brow, were
only the effects of her morning’s disappointment, when she waited in vain
for the company of her husband?
But such an under-current of reflection in no way affected the tide of
his conversation; nor had he forgotten the primary cause of his journey,
the especial object for which he was now sitting at Sir George Hamilton’s
table.
“I cannot pretend,” said he, “to be so well informed on political matters
as Madame la Marquise. I can only tell you the news of all the world—the
gossip that people talk in the streets. The Regent is unpopular, and
grows more so day by day. His excesses have at last disgusted the good
_bourgeoisie_ of the capital; and these honest citizens, who think only
of selling spices over a counter, will, as you know, endure a good deal
before they venture to complain of a prince who throws money about with
both hands. As the young King grows older, they are more encouraged to
cry out; and in Paris, as in Persia, they tell me, it is now the fashion
to worship the rising sun. Of course France will follow suit; but we are
quiet people at St. Omer; and I do not think our peasantry in Artois
have yet realised the death of Louis Quatorze. When Jean Baptiste is
thoroughly satisfied on that point, he will, of course, throw up his red
cap, and shout, “Vive Louis Quinze!” Till then the Regency assumes all
the indistinct terrors of the Unknown. Seriously, I believe the Duke’s
day is over, and that the way to Court favour lies through Villeroy’s
orderly-room into the apartment of the young King!”
“And the Musketeers?” asked Sir George, eagerly. “That must be all in
their favour. They have stood so firm by the Marshal and the _real_
throne, their privileges will now surely be respected and increased.”
“On the contrary,” replied Florian, “the Musketeers are in disgrace.
The grey company was actually warned to leave Paris for Marly, although
neither the King nor the Regent were to be there in person. At the last
moment the order was revoked, or there must have been a mutiny. As
it was, they refused to parade on the Duke’s birthday, and were only
brought to reason by Bras-de-Fer, who made them a speech as long as that
interminable sword he wears at his belt.”
“Which was not long enough to reach my ribs, however,” interrupted Sir
George, heartily, “with the Cadet Eugène Beaudésir at my side to parry
it. Oh! that such a fencer should be thrown away on the Church! Well,
fill your glass, Sir Priest, and never blush about it. Cerise here knows
the whole story, and has only failed to thank you because she has not yet
had the opportunity.”
“But I do now,” interposed Lady Hamilton, bending on him her blue eyes
with the pure tenderness of an angel. “I thank you for it with my whole
heart.”
He felt at that moment how less than trifling had been his service
compared with his reward. In his exaltation he would have laid his life
down willingly for them both.
“That was a mere chance,” said he, making light of his exploit with a
forced laugh. “The whole affair was but the roughest cudgel-play from
beginning to end. I, at least, have no cause to regret it, speaking in
my secular capacity, for it led to an agreeable cruise and a sight of
the most beautiful island in the world, where, I hope, I was fortunate
enough to be of some service to Sir George in a manner more befitting my
calling.”
Again he forced himself to smile, addressing his speech to Lady Hamilton,
without looking at her.
“And what of the new Court?” asked Cerise, observing his confusion with
some astonishment, and kindly endeavouring to cover it. “Will the young
King fulfil all the promise of his boyhood? They used to say he would
grow up the image of Louis le Grand.”
“The new Court,” answered Florian, lightly, “like all other new Courts,
is the exact reverse of the old. To be in favour with the Regent is to be
an eyesore to the King; to have served Louis le Grand faithfully, is to
be wearisome, _rococo_, and behind the times; while, if a courtier wishes
to bid for favour with the Duke, he must forswear the rest of the Royal
family—go about drunk by daylight, and set at open defiance, not only the
sacred moralities of life, but all the common decencies of society.”
“The scum, then, comes well to the surface,” observed Sir George,
laughing. “It seems that in the respectable Paris of to-day there is a
better chance than ever for a reprobate!”
“There is a way to fortune for honest men,” answered the Jesuit, “that
may be trodden now with every appearance of safety, and without the loss
of self-esteem. It leads, in my opinion, directly to success, and keeps
the straight, unswerving path of honour all the time. ‘The Bashful
Maid,’ Sir George, used to lay her course faithfully by the compass,
and I have often thought what a good example that inanimate figure-head
showed to those who controlled her movements. But I must ask Lady
Hamilton’s pardon,” he added, with mock gravity, “for thus mentioning her
most formidable rival in her presence. If you can call to mind, madame,
her resolute front, her coal-black hair, her glaring eyes, her complexion
of rich vermilion, mantling even to the tip of her nose, and the devotion
paid to her charms by captain as well as crew, you must despair of
equalling her in Sir George’s eyes, and can never know a moment’s peace
again.”
Slap-Jack, clearing the table with much ceremony, could scarcely refrain
from giving audible expression to his delight.
Lady Hamilton laughed.
“As you have chosen such a subject of conversation,” said she, “it is
time for me to retire. After you have done justice to the charms of ‘The
Bashful Maid,’ whom, when she was not too lively, I admired as much as
any one, and have exhausted your Musketeer’s reminiscences, you will find
_me_, and, what is more to the purpose, a dish of hot coffee, in the
little room at the end of the gallery. Till then, _Sans adieu_!” And her
ladyship walked out, laying her hand on Sir George’s shoulder to prevent
his rising while she passed, with an affectionate gesture that was in
itself a caress.
The Jesuit gazed after her as she disappeared, and, resuming his place at
the table, felt that whatever difficulties he had already experienced,
the worst part of his task was now to come.