CHAPTER LVIFOREARMED
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 akeener 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 acknowledgedwith 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 tothatfamily. 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 monkeyplaying 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 desolatecondition. 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 theconfederates. 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 asiesta?”
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 ashecould 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 withyou.”
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 triedin 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 haveoneleft 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 atCash-a-crou.