FOREARMED
Notwithstanding the excitement under which she laboured, and the emotion
she painfully though contemptuously kept down, Madame de Montmirail
could not but smile at the unpretending mode in which she reached her
daughter’s new home. Slap-Jack, leading an old pony, that did all the odd
work of the “Hamilton Arms,” and that now swayed from side to side under
the traveller’s heavy valises, showed the way across the moor, while the
Marquise, on a pillion, sat behind Smoke-Jack, who, by no means at home
in the position, bestrode a stamping cart-horse with unexampled tenacity,
and followed his shipmate with perhaps more circumspection, and certainly
less confidence than if he had been steering the brigantine through shoal
water in a fog. He was by no means the least rejoiced of the three to
“make the lights” that twinkled in the hospitable windows of Hamilton
Hill.
It is needless to enlarge on the reception of so honoured a guest as
Lady Hamilton’s mother, or the delighted welcome, the affectionate
inquiries, the bustle of preparation, the running to and fro of servants,
the tight embrace of Cerise, the cordial greeting of Sir George, the
courteous salute of Florian, and the strange restraint that, after the
first demonstrative warmth had evaporated, seemed to lour like a cloud
over the whole party. Under pretext of the guest’s fatigue, all retired
earlier than usual to their apartments; yet long before they broke up for
the night the quick perception of the Marquise warned her something was
wrong, and this because she read Sir George’s face with a keener eye
than scanned even her daughter’s. How handsome he looked, she thought,
standing stately in the doorway of his hall, to greet her with the frank
manly courtesy of which she knew the charm so well. Yes, Cerise was
indeed a lucky girl! and could she be unworthy of her happiness? Could
she have mismanaged or trifled with it? This was always the way. Those
who possessed the treasure never seemed to appreciate its worth. Ah! It
was a strange world! She had hoped Cerise would be so happy! And now—and
now! Could the great sacrifice have been indeed offered up in vain?
Cerise was a good girl too; so kind, so truthful, so affectionate. Yet
in the present instance, if a shadow had really come between husband and
wife, Cerise must be in the wrong!
Women generally argue thus when they adjudicate for the sexes. In the
absence of proof they almost invariably assume that their own is in
fault. Perhaps they decide from internal evidence, and know best.
Lady Hamilton accompanied the Marquise to her bedroom, where mother and
daughter found themselves together again as they used to be in the old
days. It was not quite the same thing now. Neither could tell why, yet
both were conscious of the different relation in which they stood to each
other. It was but a question of perspective after all. Formerly the one
looked up, the other down. Now they occupied the dead level of a common
experience, and the mother felt her child was in leading-strings no more.
Then came the old story; the affectionate fencing match, wherein one
tries to obtain a full and free confession without asking a single direct
question, while the other assumes an appearance of extreme candour, to
cover profound and impenetrable reserve. The Marquise had never loved
her child so little as when the latter took leave of her for the night,
having seen with her own eyes to every appliance for her mother’s
comfort, combining gracefully and fondly the solicitude of a hostess
with the affectionate care of a daughter; and Lady Hamilton, seeking her
own room, with a pale face and a heavy heart, wondered she could feel so
little inspirited by dear mamma’s arrival, and acknowledged with a sigh
that the bloom was gone from everything in life, and the world had grown
dull and dreary since this cold shadow came between her and George.
He alone seemed satisfied with the turn affairs had taken. There need be
no more hesitation now, and it was well to know the worst. Sir George’s
demeanour always became the more composed the nearer he approached
a disagreeable necessity. Though Madame de Montmirail’s arrival had
exceedingly startled him, as in the last degree unexpected, he received
her with his customary cordial hospitality. Though he had detected, as
he believed, a deliberate falsehood, told him for the first time by the
wife of his bosom, he in no way altered the reserved, yet good-humoured
kindness of manner with which he forced himself to accost her of
late. Though he had discovered, as he thought, a scheme of black and
unpardonable treachery on the part of his friend, he could still afford
the culprit that refuge which was only to be found in his protection;
could treat him with the consideration due to every one beneath his own
roof.
But none the more for this did Sir George propose to sit down patiently
under his injuries. I fear the temper cherished by this retired
Captain of Musketeers savoured rather of a duellist’s politeness than
a philosopher’s contempt, or the forgiveness of a Christian. When he
sought his chamber that night, the chamber in which stood the unfinished
model of his brigantine, and from the window of which he had watched his
wife and Florian on the terrace, there was an evil smile round his lips,
denoting that thirst of all others the most insatiable, the thirst for
blood. He went calmly through the incidents of the past day, as a man
adds up a sum, and the wicked smile never left his face. Again he saw
his wife’s white dress among the roses, and her graceful figure bending
over the flower-beds with that pale dark-eyed priest. Every look of both,
every gesture, seemed stamped in fire on his brain. He remembered the
eagerness with which she brought out her packet and confided it to the
Jesuit. He had not forgotten the cold, haughty tone in which she told
him, _him_, her husband, who perhaps had some little right to inquire,
that it contained letters for her mother in France. In France! And that
very night her mother appears at his own house in the heart of Great
Britain!
He shuddered in a kind of pity to think of his own Cerise descending
to so petty a shift. Poor Cerise! Perhaps, after all, this coquetry
was bred in her, and she could not help it. She was her mother’s own
daughter, that was all. He remembered there used to be strange stories
about the Marquise in Paris, and he himself, if he had chosen—well, it
was all over now; but he ought never to have entrusted his happiness to
_that_ family. Of course if a married woman was a thorough coquette, as a
Montmirail seemed sure to be, she must screen herself with a lie! It was
contemptible, and he only despised her!
But was nobody to be punished for all the annoyances thus thrust upon
himself; the disgrace that had thus overtaken his house? The smile
deepened and hardened now, while he took down a glittering rapier from
the wall, and examined the blade and hilt carefully, bending the weapon
and proving its temper against the floor.
His mind was made up what to do, and to-morrow he would set about his
task.
So long as Florian remained under his roof, he argued, the rights of
hospitality required that a host should be answerable for his guest’s
safety. Nay more, he would never forgive himself if, from any undue haste
or eagerness of his own, the satisfaction should elude him of avenging
his dishonour for himself. What gratification would it be to see the
Jesuit hanged by the neck on Tower Hill? No, no. His old comrade and
lieutenant should die a fairer death than that. Die like a soldier, on
his back, with an honourable man’s sword through his heart. But how if it
came about the other way? Florian’s was a good blade, the best his own
had ever crossed. He flourished his wrist involuntarily, remembering that
deadly disengagement which had run poor Flanconnade through the body, and
was the despair of every scientific fencer in the company. What if it
should be his own lot to fall? Well, at least, he should have taken no
advantage, he would have fought fair all through, and Cerise, in the true
spirit of coquetry, would love him very dearly when she found she was
never to see him again.
He resolved, therefore, that he and Florian should depart forthwith. His
own character for loyalty stood so high, his intimacy with Sir Marmaduke
Umpleby and other gentlemen in authority was so well known, that he
anticipated no danger of discovery to any one who travelled under his
protection. Monsieur St. Croix should simply assume the ordinary dress
of a layman; they would not even ride on horseback. Every precaution
should be taken to avoid notice, and the ‘Flying Post’ coach, with its
interminable crawl, and innumerable delays, would probably answer the
purpose of unpretending secrecy better than any other mode of conveyance,
especially when they approached London. Thence, without delay, they would
post to the seaboard, charter a fast-sailing lugger, and so proceed in
safety to the coast of France. Once there, they would be on equal terms,
and no power on earth should come between them then. He liked to think of
the level sand, the grey sky overhead, the solitary shore, the moaning
wave, not a soul in sight or hearing but his enemy and his own point
within six inches of that enemy’s throat!
Sir George’s night was disturbed and restless, but he slept sound towards
morning, as he had accustomed himself in his former life to sleep at any
given time, after he had placed his sentries on an outpost, or gone below
to his cabin for an hour’s rest while giving chase to a prize.
When he awoke a cold grey sky loured overhead, and a light fall of snow
sprinkled the ground. It was the first morning of winter, come earlier
than usual even to those bleak moorlands, and strange to say, a foolish,
hankering pity for Lady Hamilton’s roses was the feeling uppermost in
his mind while he looked gloomily out upon the terrace. “Poor Cerise!”
he muttered. “Bleak sky and withered flowers—lover and husband both gone
by this time to-morrow! She will be lonely at first, no doubt, and it
is fortunate her mother should have arrived last night. But she will
console herself. They always do. Ah! these women, these women! That a man
should ever be such an idiot as to entrust his honour. Psha! his honour
has nothing to do with it—his happiness, nay, his mere comfort in their
hands. There is something even ludicrous in the infatuation. It reminds
me of Madame Parabére’s monkey playing with the Regent’s porcelain
flower-basket!—a laugh, a chatter, a stealthy glance or two, and down
goes the basket. What does it matter? They are all alike, I suppose, and
cannot help themselves. A man’s dog is faithful, his horse is honest, his
very hawk stoops to no lure but her master’s, while his wife. And I loved
her—I loved her. Fool that I am, I love her still! By the faith of a
gentleman, Monsieur de St. Croix, you will need every trick of the trade
to keep my point off your body if I once get you within distance!”
Then Sir George descended to meet his guest with a quiet manner and an
unclouded brow, though the murderous smile still hovered about his mouth.
“Florian,” said he, “do not condemn my hospitality if I announce
that you must depart this evening. Hamilton Hill is no longer a
sure refuge, though I believe that my company can still afford you
protection—therefore I travel with you. I do not leave you till I see you
landed in France. Till I have placed you in safety it concerns my honour
that you should be my care. But not a moment longer—not a moment longer,
remember that! You had better walk quietly down to the ‘Hamilton Arms’
during the day. I will follow with your luggage and my own. We shall
proceed to London in the weekly coach, which passes southward to-night.
We can be across the water by the fifth day. Do you understand? The fifth
day. You must be well armed. Take any sword of mine that pleases you,
only be sure you choose one with two feet six inches of blade, and not
too pliant; you might meet with an adversary who uses brute force rather
than skill. A strong arm drives a stiff blade home. In the meantime I
recommend you to make your farewell compliments at once to the Marquise
and—and Lady Hamilton.”
Florian assented, confused and stupefied like one in a dream. The hour he
had expected was come at last, and seemed none the more welcome for his
expectation. He must go—must leave the woman he worshipped, and the man
whom, strange to say, he loved as a brother, though that woman’s husband.
His senses seemed numbed, and he felt that to-day he could scarcely
appreciate his desolate condition. To-morrow it would not matter. There
was no to-morrow for him. Henceforth everything would be a blank. What
was it Sir George had said about a sword? Ah! the weapon might prove his
best friend. One home-thrust would put an end to all his sufferings. His
heart was dead within him, but he would see Cerise once more before he
left. A quick sharp pang warned him that his heart was not yet paralysed,
when he reflected how the Marquise was here, and he would not, therefore,
see Lady Hamilton alone.
But the latter, pitiful, perhaps, because of her own sorrow, met him by
one of those accidents that are essentially feminine, as he traversed the
hall, booted and cloaked for his departure. She gave him her hand kindly,
and he pressed it to his lips. He knew then, while she passed on, that
never in this world was he to set eyes on her again.
The door clanged to, the wind moaned, the crisp brown leaves eddied round
his feet on the frozen path, the cold struck to his very heart. How
dreary looked the white outline of those swelling moors against the black
laden clouds that scowled behind the hill.
But Sir George was careful to avoid an uninterrupted interview with his
wife. He shut himself into his own apartment, and found the time pass
quicker than he expected, for he had many dispositions to make, many
affairs of business to arrange. If he came alive out of that prospective
conflict, he meant to be absent from England for an indefinite period.
Come what might, he would never see Cerise again. Not that he believed
her guilty—no, he said to himself, a thousand times, but she was as bad
as guilty—she had deceived him—she could never have loved him. It was all
over. There was nothing more to be said.
The early night began to close ere his last pile of papers was burned,
his last packet sealed. Then Sir George took the compromising list of
his friends and neighbours with which Florian had entrusted him, and
placed it carefully in his breast. It might be an effective weapon, he
thought, if the Jesuit should prove restive about leaving England, or if
he himself should meet with opposition from any of the confederates. A
brace of pistols were now to be loaded and disposed in the large pockets
of his riding-coat, the trusty rapier to be buckled on, hat, gloves,
and cloak to be placed on the hall-table, Slap-Jack summoned to be in
readiness with the luggage, and Sir George was prepared for his journey.
Not till these arrangements were made did he seek Lady Hamilton’s
withdrawing-room, where, perhaps to his disappointment, he found the
Marquise alone.
His wife, however, soon entered, and accosted him with a very wife-like
inquiry—
“Have you had no dinner, George? and before travelling, too? We would
have waited, but the servants said you had given orders not to be
disturbed.”
“Sleep is food,” observed the Marquise. “I believe you have been
preparing for your journey with a _siesta_?”
How homelike and comfortable looked the pretty room, with its blazing
fire and its beautiful occupants! And perhaps he was never to see it
again; was certainly never again to hear the voice he loved in that
endearing and familiar tone.
But he would not pain his wife even now. As far as _he_ could spare
her she should be spared. They must not part on any terms but those of
kindness and good-will. He drew her towards his chair and called her by
her Christian name.
“I would have dined with you, indeed, but I had not a moment to bestow,”
said he, “and the Marquise will excuse ceremony in such a family party as
ours. You will take care of Cerise, madame, when I am gone? I know I can
trust her safely with _you_.”
The tears were standing in Lady Hamilton’s eyes, and she bent her face
towards her husband.
“You will come back soon, George?” said she in a broken voice. “London is
not so far. Promise me you will only be a week away.”
He drew her down and kissed her, once, twice, fondly, passionately, but
answered not a word. Then he took leave of the Marquise with something
less than his usual composure, which she did not fail to remark, and
notwithstanding a certain delay in the hall, of which Cerise tried in
vain to take advantage for another embrace, he summoned Slap-Jack and
departed.
“My head must be going,” thought Sir George, as he walked with his old
foretopman across the frozen park. “I could have sworn I put both gloves
on the hall-table with my hat. Never mind, I have _one_ left at least for
Monsieur de St. Croix to take up. Five days more—only five days more! and
then―”
Slap-Jack, looking into his master’s face under the failing light, saw
something there that strangely reminded him of the night when the captain
of ‘The Bashful Maid’ passed his sword through Hippolyte’s black body at
_Cash-a-crou_.