CHAPTER LIIIFAIR FIGHTING
So the duel began. The moral battle that a man wages with his own temper, his own passions, words, actions, his very thoughts, and a few days of the uncongenial struggle seemed to have added years to Sir George’s life. Of all the trials that could have been imposed on one of his nature, this was, perhaps, the severest, to live day by day, and hour by hour, on terms of covert enmity with the woman best loved—the friend most frankly trusted in the world. Two of the chief props that uphold the social fabric seemed cut away from under him. Outward sorrows, injuries, vexations can be borne cheerfully enough while domestic happiness remains, and the heart is at peace within. They do but beat outside, like the blast of a storm on a house well warmed and water-tight. Neither can the utmost perfidy of woman utterly demoralise him who owns some staunch friend to trust, on whose vigorous nature he can lean, in whose manly counsel he can take comfort, till the sharp anguish has passed away. But when love and friendship fail both at once, there is great danger of a moral recklessness which affirms, and would fain believe, that no truth is left in the world. This is the worst struggle of all. Conduct and character flounder in it hopelessly, because it affords no foothold whence to make an upward spring, so that they are apt to sink and disappear without even a struggle for extrication.
Sir George had indeed a purpose to preserve him from complete demoralisation, but that purpose was in itself antagonistic to every impulse and instinct of his nature. Itdid violence to his better feelings, his education, his principles, his very prejudices and habits, but he pursued it consistently nevertheless, whilst it poisoned every hour of his life. He went about his daily avocations as usual. He never thought of discontinuing those athletic exercises and field sports which were elevated into an actual business by men of his station at that period, but except for a few thrilling moments at long intervals, the zest seemed to be gone from them all.
He flung his hawks aloft on the free open moor, and cursed them bitterly when they failed to strike. He cheered his hounds in the deep wild dales through which they tracked their game so busily, and hurried Emerald or Grey Plover along at the utmost speed those generous animals could compass, but was with a grim sullen determination to succeed, rather than with the hearty jovial enthusiasm that naturally accompanies the chase. Hawks, hounds, and horses were neither cordials nor stimulants now. Only anodynes, and scarcely efficacious as such for more than a few minutes at a time.
It had been settled that for a short period, depending on the alarm felt by the country at the proposed rising, and consequent strictness of search for suspected characters, Florian should remain domiciled as before at Hamilton Hill. It was only stipulated that he should not show himself abroad by daylight, nor hold open communication with such of his confederates as might be prowling about the “Hamilton Arms.” With Sir Marmaduke’s good-will, and the general laxity of justice prevailing in the district, he seemed to incur far less peril by hiding in his present quarters than by travelling southward even in disguise on his way to the coast.
There were plenty more of his cloth, little distinguished by the authorities indeed, from non-juring clergymen of the Church of England, who remained quietly unnoticed, on sufferance as it were, in the northern counties. Even if watched, Florian might pass for one of these, so his daily life went on much as before Sir Marmaduke’s visit. He did not write perhaps so many letters, for his correspondence with the continent had been discontinued, but this increase of leisure only gave him more time for LadyHamilton’s society, and as he could not accompany her husband to the moor, for fear of being seen, he now spent every day till dinner-time under the same roof with Cerise.
Sir George used to wonder sometimes in his own heavy heart what they could find to talk about through all those hours that seemed so long to him in the saddle amongst the dales—the dales he had loved so dearly a few short weeks ago, that seemed so wearisome, so gloomy, and so endless now—wondered what charm his wife could discover in this young priest’s society; in which of the qualities, he himself wanted, lay the subtle influence that so entwined her when Florian first arrived, that had changed her manner and depressed her spirits of late since they had been more thrown together, and caused her to look so unhappy now that they were soon to part. Stronger and stronger, struggle as he might, grew a horrible conviction that she loved the visitor in her heart. Like a gallant swimmer, beating against the tide, he strove not to give way, battling inch by inch, gaining less with every effort—stationary—receding—till, losing head and heart alike, and wheeling madly with the current, he struck out in sheer despair for the quicksands, instinctively preferring to meet rather than await destruction.
Abroad all the morning from daybreak, forcing himself to leave the house lest he should be unable to resist the temptation of watching her, Sir George gave Cerise ample opportunities to indulge in Florian’s society, had she been so inclined. He thought she availed herself of them to the utmost, he thought that while he was away chafing and fretting, and eating his own heart far away on those bleak moors, Lady Hamilton, passing gracefully amongst her rose-trees on the terrace, or sitting at ease in her pretty boudoir, appreciated the long release from his company, and made the most of it with her guest. He could fancy he saw the pretty head droop, the soft cheek flush, the white hands wave. He knew all her ways so well. But not for him now. Not forhim!
Then Grey Plover would wince and swerve aside, scared by the fierce energy of that half-spoken oath, or Emerald would plunge wildly forward, maddened by the unaccustomed spur, the light grasp bearing suddenly so hard uponthe rein. But neither Emerald nor Grey Plover, mettled hunters both, could afford more than a temporary palliative to the goad that pricked their rider’s heart.
Sir George had better have beenmoreorlesssuspicious. Had he chosen to lower himself in his own eyes by ascertaining how Lady Hamilton spent her mornings, he would have discovered that she employed herself in filling voluminous sheets with her neat, illegible French hand, writing in her boudoir, where she satalone. Very unhappy poor Cerise was, though she scorned to complain. Very pale she grew and languid, going through her housekeeping duties with an effort, and ceasing altogether from the carolling of those French ballads in which the Yorkshire servants took an incomprehensible delight.
She seemed, worst sign of all, to have no heart even for her flowers now, and did not visit the terrace for five days on a stretch. The very first time she went there, George happened to spend the morning at home.
From the window of his room he could see one end of the terrace with some difficulty, and a good deal of inconvenience to his neck; nevertheless, catching a glimpse of his wife’s figure as she moved about amongst her rose-trees, he could not resist watching it for a while, neither suspiciously nor in anger, but with something of the dull aching tenderness that looks its last on the dead face a man has loved best on earth. It is, and it isnot. The remnant left serves only to prove how much is lost, and that which makes his deepest sorrow affords his sole consolation—to feel that love remains while the loved one is for ever gone.
Half a dozen times he rose from his occupation. It was but refitting some tackle on the model brigantine, yet it connected itself, like everything else, withher. Half a dozen times he sat down again with a crack in his neck, and an inward curse on his own folly, but he went back once more just the same. Then he resumed his work, smiling grimly while his brown face paled, for Monsieur de St. Croix had just made his appearance on the terrace.
“As usual, I suppose,” muttered Sir George, waxing an inch or two of twine with the nicest care, and fitting it into a block the size of a silver penny. But somehow he couldnot succeed in his manipulation; he was inventing a self-reefing topsail, but he couldn’t get the four haulyards taut enough, and do what he would the jack-stay came foul of the yard. “As usual,” he repeated more bitterly. “Easy it is! He’s the best helmsman who knows when to let the ship steer herself!” Then he applied once more to his task, whistling an old French quickstep somewhat out of time.
Florian had been watching his opportunity, and took advantage of it at once. He, too, had suffered severely during the past few days. Perhaps, in truth, his greatest torture was to have been deprived of Lady Hamilton’s society. He fancied she avoided him, though in this he was wrong, for lately she had hardly given him a thought, except of friendly pity for his lot. Had it been otherwise, Cerise would have taken care to allow no such interviews as the present, because she would have suspected their danger. Young, frank, and as little of a coquette as it was possible for her mother’s daughter to be, she had never yet even thought of analysing her feelings towards Florian.
And he, too, was probably fool enough to shrink from the idea of her shunning him, forgetting (as men always do forget, the fundamental principles of gallantry in regard to the woman they really love) that such a mistrust would have been a step, and a long one, towards the interest he could not but feel anxious to inspire.
Had she been more experienced or less preoccupied, she must have learned the truth from his changing colour, his faltering step, his awkward address, to all others so quiet, graceful, and polite. She was thinking of George, she was low-spirited and unhappy. Florian’s society was a change and a distraction. She welcomed him with a kind greeting and a bewitching smile.
The more anxious men are to broach an interesting subject, the more surely do they approach it by a circuitous route. Florian asked half a dozen questions concerning the budding, grafting, and production of roses in general, before he dared approach the topic nearest his heart. Cerise answered good-humouredly, and became more cheerful under the influence of fresh air, a gleam of sun, and the scent of her favourite flowers.
Bending sedulously over an especial treasure, she did not remark how long a silence was preserved by her companion, though rising she could not fail to observe the agitation of his looks nor the shaking hands with which he strove to assist her in a task already done.
“These are very late roses,” said he, in a tone strangely earnest for the enunciation of so simple a remark. “There are still half a dozen more buds to blow, and winter has already arrived.”
“That’s why I am so fond of them,” she replied. “Winter comes too early both in the garden and in the house. I like to keep my flowers as long as I can, and my illusions too.”
She sighed while she spoke, and Florian, looking tenderly in her face, noticed its air of languor and despondency. A wild, mad hope shot through his heart, and coming close to her side, he resumed—
“It will be a week at least before this green bud blows, and in a week, Lady Hamilton, I shall be gone.”
“So soon?” she said, in a low, tender voice, modulated to sadness by thoughts of her own in no way connected with his approaching departure. “I had hoped you would stay with us the whole winter, Monsieur de St. Croix. We shall miss you dreadfully.”
“I shall be gone,” he repeated, mournfully, “and a man in my position can less control his own movements than a wisp of seaweed on the wave. In a day or two, perhaps in a few hours, I must wish you good-bye, and—and—it is more than probable that I shall never see you again.”
Clasping her hands, she looked at him with her blue eyes wide open, like a child who is half-grieved, half-frightened, to see its plaything broken, yet not entirely devoid of curiosity to know what there is inside. Like a flash came back to him the white walls, the drooping laburnums, the trellised beech-walk in the convent garden, and before him stood Mademoiselle de Montmirail, the Cerise of the old, wild, hopeless days, whom he ought never to have loved, whom least of all should he dare to think of now.
“Do you remember our Lady of Succour?” said he; “do you remember the pleasant spring-time, the smilingfields, and the sunny skies of our own Normandy? How different from these grey, dismal hills! And do you remember the day you told me your mother recalled you to Paris? You cannot have forgotten it! Lady Hamilton, everything else is changed, but I alone remain the same.”
The broken voice, the trembling gestures betrayed deep and uncontrollable emotion. Even Cerise could not but feel that this man was strangely affected by her presence, that his self-command was every moment forsaking him, and that already words might be hovering on his lips to which she must not listen. Perhaps, too, there was some little curiosity to hear what those words could be—some half-scornful reflection that when spoken it would be time enough to disapprove—some petulant triumph to think that everybody was not distant, reserved, impenetrable, like Sir George.
“And who wishes you to change?” said she, softly. “Not I for one.”
“I shall remember those words when I am far away,” he answered, passionately. “Remember them! I shall think of them day by day, and hour by hour, long after you have forgotten there was ever such a person in existence as Florian de St. Croix. Your director, your worshipper. Cerise! your slave!”
She turned on him angrily. All her dignity was aroused by such an appeal in such a tone, made toher, a wedded wife, but her indignation, natural as it was, changed to pity when she marked his pale, worn face, his imploring looks, his complete prostration, as it seemed, both of mind and body. It was no fault of hers, yet was it the wreck she herself had made. Angry! No, she could not be angry, when she thought of all he must have suffered, and forher; when she remembered how this man had never so much as asked for a kind word in exchange for the sacrifice of his soul.
The tears stood in her eyes, and when she spoke again her voice was very low and pitiful.
“Florian,” said she, “listen to me. If not for your own sake, at least for mine, forbear to speak words that can never be unsaid. You have been to me, I hope and believe, the truest friend man ever was to woman. Do you think Ihave forgotten the white chapel above Port Welcome, or the bright morning that made me a happy wife?” Her face clouded, but she resumed in a more composed tone, “We have all our own burdens to bear, our own trials to get through. It is not formeto teachyouthat this world is no place of unchequered sunshine. You are right. I shall, perhaps, never see you again. Nay; it is far better so. But let me always remember you hereafter as the Florian St. Croix, on whose truth, and unselfishness, and right feeling Cerise Hamilton could rely, even if the whole world besides should fail, and turn against her at her need!”
He was completely unmanned. Her feminine instinct had taught her to use the only weapon against which he was powerless, and she conquered, as a woman always does conquer, when madly loved by him who has excited her interest, her pity, and her vanity, but who has failed to touch her heart.
“And youwillremember me? Promise that!” was all he could answer. “It is enough; it is my reward. What happiness have I, but to obey your lightest wish?”
“You go to France?” she asked, cheerfully, opining with some discretion that it would be well to turn the conversation as soon as possible into a less compromising channel. “You will see the Marquise? You will be near her, at any rate? Will you charge yourself with a packet I have been preparing for days, hoping it would be conveyed to my dear mother by no hand but yours?”
It was a masterly stroke enough. It not only changed the whole conversation, but gave Cerise an opportunity of escaping into the house, and breaking up the interview.
He bowed assent of course. He would have bowed assent had she bid him shed his own blood then and there on the gravel-walk at her feet; but when she left him to fetch her packet, he waited for her return with the open mouth and fixed gaze of one who has been vouchsafed a vision from another world, and looks to see it just once again before he dies.
The rigging of the brigantine proceeded but slowly. Sir George could not apply himself to his task for five minutes at a time; and had the tackle of the real ‘Bashful Maid’ever become so hopelessly fouled and tangled as her model’s, she must have capsized with the first breeze that filled her sails. His right hand had forgotten its cunning, and his very head seemed so utterly confused that, to use his own professional metaphor, “He didn’t know truck from taffrail; the main-brace from the captain’s quadrant.”
What a lengthened interview was held by those two on the terrace! Again and again rising and dislocating his neck to look—there they were still! In the same place, in the same attitude, the same earnest conversation! What subject could there be but one to bear all this discussion from two young people like these? So much at least he had learneden mousquetaire, but it is difficult to look at such mattersen mousquetaire, when they affect oneself. Ha! She is gone at last. And he, why does he stand there watching like an idiot? Sir George turned once more to the brigantine, and her dolphin-striker snapped short off between his fingers.
Again to the window. Florian not gone yet! And with reason, too, as it seems; for Lady Hamilton returns, and places a packet in his hand. He kisses hers as he bends over it, and hides the packet carefully away in his breast. Zounds! This is too much. But Sir George will command himself. Yes, he will command himself from respect to his own character, if for nothing else.
So with an affectation of carelessness, so marked as to be utterly transparent, the baronet walked down to the garden-door, where he could not fail to meet his wife as she re-entered the house for a second time, leaving Florian without. It added little to his peace of mind that her manner was flurried, and traces of recent tears were on her face.
“Cerise,” said he, and she looked up smiling; “I beg your pardon, Lady Hamilton, may I ask what was that packet you brought out even now, and delivered to Monsieur de St. Croix?”
She flashed at him a glance of indignant reproach, not, as he believed, to reprove his curiosity, but because he had checked himself in calling her by the name he loved.
“They are letters for Madame le Marquise, Sir George,” she answered, coldly; and, without turning her head, walked haughtily past him into the house.