THE MUSIC MUTE
When Cerise found herself alone, she naturally read her mother’s letter
once again, and made a variety of resolutions for her future conduct
which she could not but acknowledge were derogatory to her own dignity
the while. It was her duty, she told herself, to yield to her husband’s
prejudices, however unreasonable; to give way to him in this, as in every
other difference of married life—for she felt it _was_ a difference,
though expressed only by a turn of his eyebrow, a contraction of his
lip—and to trample her own pride under foot when he required it, however
humiliating and disagreeable it might be to herself. If George was so
absurd as to think she showed an over-anxiety for the safety of their
guest, why, she must bear with his folly because he was her husband, and
school her manner to please him, as she schooled her thoughts. After all,
was she not interested in Florian only as _his_ friend? What was it, what
_could_ it be to her, if the priest were carried off to York gaol, or
the Tower of London, to-morrow? Lady Hamilton passed very rapidly over
this extreme speculation, and perhaps she was right; though it is easy
to convince yourself by argument that you are uninterested in any one,
the actual process of your thoughts is apt to create something very like
a special interest which increases in proportion to the multitude of
reasons adduced against its possibility, and that which was but a phantom
when you sat down to consider it has grown into a solid and tangible
substance when you get up. Lady Hamilton, therefore, was discreet in
reverting chiefly to what her husband thought of _her_, not to what
_she_ thought of Monsieur de St. Croix.
“He is jealous!” she said to herself, clasping her hands with an emotion
that was not wholly without pleasure. “Jealous, poor fellow, and that
shows he loves me. Ah! he little knows! he little knows!”
By the time the two gentlemen had finished their wine, and come to her
small withdrawing-room, according to custom, for coffee, Cerise had
worked herself up into a high state of self-sacrifice and wife-like
devotion. It created rather a reaction to find that Sir George’s manner
was as cordial and open as ever. He was free with his guest, and familiar
with herself, laughing and jesting as if the cloud that had overshadowed
his spirits before dinner was now completely passed away and forgotten.
She was a little disappointed—a little provoked. After all, then, what
mountains had she been making of mole-hills! What a deep grief and
abject penitence that had been to _her_, which was but a chance moment
of ill-humour, an unconsidered thoughtless whim of her husband, and what
a fool had she been so to distress herself, and to resolve that she
would even relax the rules of good breeding—fail in the common duties of
hospitality, for such a trifle!
She conversed with Florian, therefore, as usual, which was a little. She
listened to him also as usual, which was a good deal. Sir George forced
the thought from his mind again and again, yet he could not get rid of
it. “How bright Cerise looks when he is talking to her! I never saw her
so amused and interested in any one before!”
Now, Monsieur de St. Croix’s life at Hamilton Hill ought to have been
sufficiently agreeable, if it be true that the real way to make time pass
pleasantly is to alternate the labour of the head and the hands; to be
daily engaged in some work of importance, varied by periods of relaxation
and moderate excitement. Florian’s correspondence usually occupied him
for several hours in the morning, and it was remarked that the voluminous
packets he received and transmitted were carried by special couriers who
arrived and departed at stated times. Some of the correspondence was in
cipher, most of it in French, with an English translation, and it seemed
to refer principally to the geological formation of the neighbourhood,
though a line or two of political gossip interspersed would relieve
the dryness of that profound subject. Perhaps many of these packets,
ciphers, scientific information, and all, were intended to be read by the
authorities at St. James’s. Perhaps every courier was entrusted with a
set of despatches on purpose to be seized, and a line in the handle of
his whip, a word or two spoken in apparent jest, a mere sign that might
be forwarded to a confederate looker-on, signifying the real gist of his
intelligence.
At any rate the papers required a deal of preparation, and Florian was
seldom able to accompany his host on the sporting expeditions in which
the latter took such delight.
Sir George, then, would be off soon after daylight, to return at
dinner-time, and in a whole fortnight had not yet found that spare five
minutes for a visit to Lady Hamilton’s garden, while Florian would be
at leisure by noon, and naturally devoted himself to the service of his
hostess for the rest of the day.
They read together—they walked together—they gardened together. Some of
those special packets that arrived from France, even contained certain
seeds which Cerise had expressed a wish to possess, and they talked of
their future crop, and the result of their joint labours next year, as if
Florian had become an established member of the family, and was never to
depart.
This mode of life might have been interrupted by her ladyship’s
misgivings at first, but she reflected that it would be absurd for her
to discontinue an agreeable companionship of which her husband obviously
approved, only because she had misapplied her mother’s letter, or her
mother had misunderstood hers; also it is difficult to resume coldness
and reserve, where we have given, and wish to give, confidence and
friendship, so Florian and Cerise were to be seen every fine day on the
terrace at Hamilton Hill hard at work, side by side, like brother and
sister, over the same flower-bed.
“Florian!” she would say, for Cerise had so accustomed herself to his
Christian name in talking of him with her husband, that she did not
always call him Monsieur de St. Croix to his face. “Florian! come and
help me to tie up this rose-tree—there, hold the knot while I fasten
it—now run and fetch me the scissors, they are lying by my flowers on the
step. Quick—or it will slip out of my hands! So _there_ is my Provence
rose at last—truly a rose without a thorn!”
And Florian did her bidding like a dog, watched her eye, followed her
about, and seemed to take a dog’s pleasure in the mere fact of being
near her. His reward, too, was much the same as that faithful animal’s,
a kind word, a bright look, a wave of the white hand, denoting a mark of
approval rather than a caress. Sometimes, for a minute or two, he could
almost fancy he was happy.
And Sir George—did Sir George approve of this constant intercourse, this
daily companionship? Were his hawks and his hounds, his meetings with his
neighbours for the administration of justice and the training of militia,
for the excitement of a cock-fight or the relaxation of a bowling-match,
so engrossing that he never thought of his fair young wife, left for
hours in that lonely mansion on the hill to her own thoughts and the
society of a Jesuit priest? It was hard to say—Sir George Hamilton’s
disposition was shrewd though noble, ready to form suspicion but
disdaining to entertain it, prone more than another to suffer from
misplaced confidence, but the last in the world to confess its injuries
even to himself.
He had never seemed more energetic, never showed better spirits than now.
His hawks struck their quarry, his hounds ran into their game, his horses
carried him far ahead of his fellow-sportsmen. His advice was listened to
at their meetings, his opinions quoted at their tables, his popularity
was at its height with all the country gentlemen of the neighbourhood.
He cheered lustily in the field, and drank his bottle fairly at the
fire-side, yet all the time, under that smooth brow, that jovial manner,
that comely cheek, there lurked a something which turned the chase to
penance, and the claret to gall.
He was not jealous, far from it. _He_ jealous—what degradation! And of
Cerise—what sacrilege! No, it was not jealousy that thus obtruded its
shadow over those sunny moors, athwart that fair autumn sky; it was
more a sense of self-reproach, of repentance, of remorse, as if he
had committed some injustice to a poor helpless being, that he could
never now repay. A lower nature incapable of the sentiment would in
its inferiority have been spared much needless pain. It was as if he
had wounded a child, a lamb, or some such weak loveable creature, by
accident, and could not stanch the wound. It would have been cowardly had
he meant it, but he did not mean it, and it was only clumsy; yet none the
less was he haunted by the patient eyes, the mute appealing sorrow that
spoke so humbly to his heart.
What if this girl, whose affection he had never doubted, did really not
love him after all? What if the fancy that he knew she had entertained
for him was but a girl’s fancy for the first man who had roused her
vanity and flattered her self-esteem? It might be that she had only
prized him because she had seen so few others, that her ideal was
something quite different, he said in bitterness of spirit, to a rough
ignorant soldier, a mere hunting, hawking, north-country baronet,
whose good qualities, if he had any, were but a blunt honesty, and an
affection for herself he had not the wit to express; whose personal
advantages did but consist in a strong arm, and a weather-browned cheek,
like any ploughman on his estate. Perhaps the man who would really have
suited her was of a different type altogether, a refined scholar, an
accomplished courtier, one who could overlay a masculine understanding
with the graceful trickeries of a woman’s fancy, who could talk to her of
sentiment, romance, affinity of spirits, and congeniality of character.
Such a man as this pale-faced priest—not him in particular, that had
nothing to do with it! but some one like him—there were hundreds of them
whom she might meet at any time. It was not that he thought she loved
another, but that the possibility now dawned of her not loving him.
He did not realise this at first. It was long before he could bring
himself to look such a privation in the face—the blank it would make in
his own life was too chilling to contemplate—and to do him justice his
first thought was not of his own certain misery, but of her lost chances
of happiness. If now, when it was too late, she should find one whom she
could really love, had he not stood between her and the light? Would he
not be the clog round her neck, the curse rather than the blessing of her
existence?
Of all this he was vaguely conscious, not actually thinking out his
reflections, far less expressing them, but aware, nevertheless, of some
deadening, depressing influence that weighed him down like a nightmare,
from which, morning after morning, he never woke.
But this inner life which all men must live, affected the outer not
at all. Sir George flung his hawks aloft and cheered his hounds with
unabated zest, while Florian held Lady Hamilton’s scissors, and helped to
tie up her roses, under the grey and gold of the soft autumnal sky.
They had a thousand matters to talk about, a thousand reminiscences in
common, now that the old intimacy had returned. On many points they
thought alike, and discoursed pleasantly enough, on many they differed,
and it was to these, I think, that they reverted with the keenest relish
again and again.
Cerise was a rigid Catholic—the more so now that she lived in a
Protestant country, and with a husband whose antecedents had taught him
to place little value on the mere external forms of religion. One of the
dogmas on which she chiefly insisted was the holiness of the Church,
and the separation of the clergy from all personal interests in secular
pursuits.
“A priest,” said Cerise, snipping off the ends of the matting with which
she had tied up her rose-tree, “a priest is priest _avant tout_—that
of course. But in my opinion his character is not one bit less sacred
outside, in the street, than when he is saying high mass before the
altar. He should never approach the line of demarcation that separates
him from the layman. So long as he thinks only the thoughts of the
Church, and speaks her words, he is infallible. When he expresses his own
opinions and yields to his own feelings, he is no longer the priest, but
the man. He might as well, perhaps better, be a courtier or a musketeer!”
He stooped low down over the rose-tree, and his voice was very sad and
gentle while he replied—
“Far better—far better—a labourer, a lackey, or a shoe-black. It is a
cruel lot to bear a yoke that is too heavy for the neck, and to feel that
it can never be taken off. To sit in a prison looking into your empty
grave and knowing there is no escape till you fill it—perhaps not even
then—while all the time the children are laughing at their play outside,
and the scent of the summer roses comes in through the bars—the summer
roses that your hands shall never reach, your lips shall never press! Ah!
that is the ingenuity of the torture, when perhaps, to wear one of these
roses in your bosom for an hour, you would barter your priesthood here,
and your soul hereafter!”
“It must be hard sometimes,” answered Cerise, kindly—“very hard; but is
not that the whole value of the ordeal? What do _we_ give up for our
faith—even we poor women, who hold ourselves good Catholics?—three hours
at most in the week, and a slice of the sirloin or the haunch on Friday.
Oh, Florian, it is dreadful to me to think how little I can do to further
the work of the Church! I feel as if a thousand strong men were pulling,
with all their might, at a load, and I could only put one of my poor weak
fingers on the rope for a second at a time.”
“My daughter,” he answered, assuming at once the sacerdotal character,
“the weakest efforts, rendered with a will, are counted by the Church
with the strongest. St. Clement says that ‘if one, going on his daily
business, shall move out of his way but two steps towards the altar, he
shall not be without his reward.’ Submit yourself to the Church and her
ministers, in thought, word, and deed, so will she take your burden on
her own shoulders, and be answerable for your welfare in this world and
the next.”
It was the old dangerous doctrine he had learned by rote and repeated
to so many penitents during his ministration. He saw the full influence
of it now, and wished, for one wild moment, that he could be a better
Christian, or a worse! But when she turned her eyes on him so hopefully,
so trustfully, the evil spirit was rebuked, and came out of the man,
tearing him the while, and almost tempting him to curse her—the woman
he worshipped—because, for the moment, her face was “as the face of
an angel.” He had a mind then to return to St. Omer at once—to trust
himself no longer with this task, this duty, this penance, whatever their
cruelty chose to call it—to confess his insubordination without reserve,
and accept whatever penalty the Order might inflict! But she put her
hand softly on his arm, and spoke so kindly, that evil desires and good
resolutions were dispelled alike.
“Florian,” said she, “you will help me to do right, I know. And I, too—I
can be of some small aid even to you. You are happy here, I am sure.”
“Happy!” he repeated, almost with a sob; and, half-conquering his enemy,
half-giving in, adopted at last that middle course, which runs so smooth
and easy, like a tram-way down the broad road. “I am happy in so far as
that, by remaining at Hamilton, I can hope to speed the interests of the
true Church. You say that a priest should never mix himself with secular
affairs. You little know how, in these evil days, our chief duties are
connected with political intrigue—our very existence dependent on the
energy we show as men of action and men of the world. Why am I here, Lady
Hamilton, do you think? Is it to counsel you, as I used at the convent,
and hold your gloves, and look in your face, and tie up your roses? It
would be happy for me, indeed, if such were all my duties; for I could
live and die, desiring no better. Alas! it is not so. My mission to
England does not affect you. Its object is the aggrandisement of your
husband.”
“Not affect _me_!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly. “Oh,
Florian! how can you say so? Tell me what it is, quick! I am dying to
know. Is it a secret? Not now. Here he comes!”
Sir George may, perhaps, have heard these last words, as he ascended the
terrace steps. Whether he heard them or not, he could scarce fail to mark
his wife’s excited gestures—her brightened eyes—her raised colour—and the
sudden check in the conversation, caused by his own arrival.
Again that dull pain seemed to gnaw at his heart, when he thought how
bright and eager and amused she always seemed in Florian’s company.
He had seen the two on the terrace as he rode home across the park, and
joined them by the shortest way from the stable, without a tinge of that
suspicion he might not be wanted, which was so painful now. Still he kept
down all such unworthy feelings as he would have trampled an adder under
his heavy riding-boots.
“Bring me a rose, Cerise,” he said, cheerily, as he passed his wife.
“There are not many of them left now. Here, Florian,” he added, tossing
him a packet he held in his hand. “A note from pretty Alice at the
‘Hamilton Arms.’ Have a care, man! there are a host of rivals in the
field.”
Florian looked at the writing on the cover, and turned pale. This might
easily be accounted for, but why should Cerise, at the same instant, have
blushed so red—redder even than the rose she was plucking for her husband?
Perhaps that was the question Sir George asked himself as he walked
moodily into the house to dress.