CHAPTER XLIV

“BOX IT ABOUT”

When the door had closed on his wife, Sir George settled himself comfortably in his chair, filled a bumper from the claret jug, and, passing it to Florian, proposed the accustomed toast, drank at many hundred tables in merry England about the same hour.

“Church and King!” said the baronet, and quaffed off a goodly draught, as if he relished the liquor no less than the pledge.

It gave the Jesuit an opening, and, like a skilful fencer, he availed himself of it at once.

“The _true_ Church,” said he, wetting his lips with wine, “and the _true_ King.”

Sir George laughed, and looked round the hall.

“Ashore,” he observed, “I respect every man’s opinions, though nobody has a right to think differently from the skipper afloat; but let me tell you, my friend, such sentiments as your qualification implies had better be kept to yourself. They might shorten your visit to Hamilton, and even cause your journey to end at Traitor’s Gate in the Tower of London.”

He spoke in his usual reckless, good-humoured tone. Despite the warning, Florian perceived that the subject was neither dreaded nor discouraged by his host. He proceeded, therefore, to feel his ground cautiously, but with confidence.

“Your English Government,” said he, “is doubtless on the watch, and with good reason. In the Trades, I remember, we used to say that ‘The Bashful Maid’ might be left to steer herself but when we got among the squalls of the Caribbean Sea, we kept a pretty sharp look-out, as you know, to shorten sail at a moment’s warning. Your ship up there in London is not making very good weather of it even now, and the breeze is only springing up to-day that will freshen to a gale to-morrow. At least, so we think over the water. Perhaps we are misinformed.”

Sir George raised his eyebrows, and pondered. He had guessed as much for some time. Though with so many new interests, he had busied himself of late but little with politics, yet it was not in his nature to be entirely unobservant of public affairs. He had seen plenty of clouds on the horizon, and knew they portended storms; but the old habits of military caution had not deserted him, and he answered, carelessly—

“That depends on what you think, you know. These Jesuits—pardon me, comrade, I cannot help addressing you as a Musketeer—these Jesuits sometimes know a great deal more than their prayers, but rather than prove mistaken, they will themselves create the complications they claim to have discovered. Frankly, you may speak out here. Our oak panels have no ears, and my servants are most of them deaf, and all faithful. What is the last infallible scheme at St. Omer? How many priests are stirring hard at the broth? How many marshals of France are longing to scald their mouths? Who is blowing the fire up, to keep it all hot and insure the caldron’s bubbling over at the right moment?”

Florian laughed. “Greater names than you think for,” he replied; “fewer priests, more marshals. Peers of France to light the fire, and a prince of the blood to take the cover off. Oh! trust me this is no _soupe maigre_. The stock is rich, the liquid savoury, and many a tempting morsel lies floating here and there for those who are not afraid of a dash with the flesh-hook, and will take their chance of burnt fingers in the process.”

“That is all very well for people who are hungry,” answered Sir George; “but when a man has dined, you can no longer tempt with a _ragoût_. The desire of a full man is to sit still and digest his food.”

“Ambition has never dined,” argued the other; “ambition is always hungry and has the digestion of an ostrich. Like that insatiable bird, it can swallow an earl’s patent, parchment, ribbons, seals, and all, thankfully and at a gulp!”

The baronet considered, took a draught of claret, and spoke out.

“Earls’ patents don’t go begging about in a Jesuit’s pocket without reason; nor are they given to the first comer who asks, only because he can swallow them. Tell me honestly what you mean Eugène—Florian. How am I to call you? With _me_, you are as safe as in the confessional at St. Omer. But speak no more in parables. Riddles are my aversion. A hidden meaning is as irritating as an ugly woman in a mask, and I never in my life could fence for ten minutes with an equal adversary, but I longed to take the buttons off the foils!”

Thus adjured, Florian proceeded to unfold the object of his mission.

“You were surprised, perhaps,” said he, “to learn from Slap-Jack, who no doubt thought me a ghost till I spoke first, that your old comrade would be sitting with his legs at the same table as yourself this afternoon. You were gratified, I am sure, but you must have been puzzled. Now, Sir George, if you believe that my only reason for crossing the Channel, and riding post a couple of hundred miles, was that I might empty a stoup of this excellent claret in your company, you are mistaken.” He stopped, blushed violently, somewhat to his host’s astonishment, and hid his confusion by replenishing his glass.

“I had another object of far more importance both to yourself and to your country. Besides this, I am but fulfilling the orders of my superiors. They employed me—Heaven knows why they employed me!” he broke out vehemently, “except that they thought you the dearest friend I had on earth. And so you _are_! and so you _shall_ be! Listen, Sir George. The last person I spoke with before leaving France, had dined with Villeroy, previous to setting out for St. Omer. The young King had just seen the Marshal, the latter was charged with his Majesty’s congratulations to the King of England (the real King of England) on his infant’s recovery. The boy who had been ailing is still in arms, and his Majesty asked if the young Prince Charles could speak yet? ‘When he does,’ said Villeroy, who has been a courtier for forty years, ‘the first sentence he ought to say is ‘God bless the King of France.’ ‘Not so,’ answered his Majesty, laughing, ‘let him learn the Jacobite countersign, “Box it about, it will come to my father!” If they only “box it about” enough,’ he added, ‘that child in arms should be as sure of the British crown as I am of the French!’ This is almost a declaration in form. It is considered so in Paris. The King’s sentiments can no longer be called doubtful, and with the strong party that I have every reason to believe exists in England disaffected to your present Government, surely the time for action has arrived. They thought so at St. Omer, in a conclave to which I am a mere mouthpiece. I should think so myself, might a humble novice presume to offer an opinion; and when the movement takes place, if Sir George Hamilton is found where his blood, his antecedents, his high spirit and adventurous character are likely to lead him, I have authority to declare that he will be Sir George Hamilton no longer. The earl’s patent is already made out, which any moment he pleases may be swallowed at a gulp, for digestion at his leisure. I have said my say; I have made a clean breast of it; send for Slap-Jack and your venerable butler; put me in irons; hand me over to your municipal authorities, if you have any, and let them drag me to prison; but give me another glass of that excellent claret first, for my throat is dry with so much talking!”

Sir George laughed and complied.

“You are a plausible advocate, Florian,” he observed, after a moment’s thought, “and your powers of argument are little inferior to your skill in fence. But this is a lee-shore, my good friend, to which you are driving, a lee-shore with bad anchorage, shoal water, and thick weather all round. I like to keep the lead going on such a course, and only to carry sail enough for steerage-way. As far as I am concerned, I should wish to see them ‘box it about’ a little longer, before I made up my mind how the game would go!”

“That is not like _you_!” exclaimed the Jesuit hotly. “The Hamiltons have never yet waited to draw till they knew which was the winning side.”

“No man shall say that of me,” answered the other, in a stern, almost an angry tone, and for a space, the two old comrades sat sipping their wine in silence.

Sir George had spoken the truth when he said that a full man is willing to sit still—at least as far as his own inclinations were concerned. He had nothing to gain by a change, and everything to lose, should that change leave him on the beaten side. Moreover, he relished the advantages of his present position far more than had he been born with the silver spoon in his mouth. Then, perhaps, he would have depreciated the luxury of plate and believed that the pewter he had not tried might be equally agreeable. People who have never been really hungry hardly understand the merits of a good dinner. You must sleep on the bare ground for a week or two before you know the value of sheets and blankets and a warm soft bed. Sir George had got into safe anchorage now, and it required a strong temptation to lure him out to sea again. True, the man’s habits were those of an adventurer. He had led a life of action from the day he first accompanied his father across the Channel in an open boat, at six years old, till he found himself a prosperous, wealthy, disengaged country gentleman at Hamilton Hill. He might grow tired of that respectable position—it was very likely he would—but not yet. The novelty was still pleasant; the ease, the leisure, the security, the freedom from anxiety, were delightful to a man who had never before been “off duty,” so to speak, in his life. Then he enjoyed above all things the field sports of the wild country in which he lived. His hawks were the best within a hundred miles. His hounds, hardy, rough, steady, and untiring, would follow a lean travelling fox from dawn to dark of the short November day, and make as good an account of him at last as of a fat wide-antlered stag under the blazing sun of August. He had some interest, some excitement for every season as it passed. If all his broad acres were not fertile in corn, he owned wide meres covered with wild-fowl, streams in which trout and grayling leaped in the soft May mornings, like rain-drops in a shower, where the otter lurked and vanished, where the noble salmon himself came arrowing up triumphant from the sea. Woods, too, in which the stately red deer found a shelter, and swelling hills of purple heather, where the moorcock pruned his wing, and the curlew’s plaintive wail died off in the surrounding wilderness.

All this afforded pleasant pastime, none the less pleasant that his limbs were strong, his health robust, and the happy, hungry sportsman could return at sundown to a comfortable house, an excellent table, and a cellar good enough for the Pope. Such material comforts are not to be despised—least of all by men who have known the want of them. Ask any old campaigner whether he does not appreciate warmth, food, and shelter; even idleness, so long as the effects of previous fatigue remain. These things may pall after a time, but until they _do_ so pall they are delightful, and not to be relinquished but for weighty motives, nor even then without regret.

Sir George, too, in taking a wife, had “given pledges to fortune,” as Lord Bacon hath it. He loved Cerise very dearly, and although an elevating affection for a worldly object will never make a man a coward, it tones down all the wild recklessness of his nature, and bids the boldest hesitate ere he risks his earthly treasure even at the call of ambition. It is the sore heart that seeks an anodyne in the excitement of danger and the confusion of tumultuous change.

Moreover, men’s habits of thought are acted on far more easily than they will admit, by the opinions of those amongst whom they live.

Sir George’s friends and neighbours, the honest country gentlemen with whom he cheered his hounds or killed his game abroad, and drank his claret at home, were enthusiastic Jacobites in theory, but loyal and quiet subjects of King George in practice. They inherited, indeed, much of the high feeling, and many of the chivalrous predilections that had instigated their grandfathers and great-grandfathers to strike desperately for King Charles at Marston Moor and Naseby Field, but they inherited also the sound sense that was often found lurking under the Cavalier’s love-locks, the dogged patriotism, and strong affection for their church, which filled those hearts that beat so stoutly behind laced shirts and buff coats when opposed to Cromwell and his Ironsides.

With the earlier loyalists, to uphold the Stuart was to fight for principle, property, personal freedom, and liberty of conscience, but to support his grandson now was a different matter altogether. His cause had but one argument in its favour, and that was the magic of a name. To take up arms on his behalf was to lose lands, position, possibly life, if defeated, of which catastrophe there seemed every reasonable prospect; while, in the event of victory, there was too much ground to suppose that the reward of these efforts would be to see the Church of England, the very institution for which they had been taught by their fathers to shed their blood, oppressed, persecuted, and driven from her altars by the Church of Rome.

As in a long and variable struggle between two wrestlers, each of the great contending parties might now be said to stand upon the adversary’s ground, their tactics completely altered, their positions exactly reversed.

It was only in the free intercourse of conviviality, with feelings roused by song, or brains heated by claret, that the bulk of these Northern country gentlemen ever thought of alluding to the absent family in terms of affection and regret. They were for the most part easy in their circumstances and happy in their daily course of life; their heads were safe, their rents rising, and they were satisfied to leave well alone.

George had that day met some dozen of his new companions, neighbouring gentlemen with whom he was now on friendly and familiar terms, at a cock-fight; this little assemblage represented fairly enough the tone of feeling that prevailed through the whole district, these jovial squires might be taken as fair representatives of their order in half a dozen counties north of the Trent. As he passed them mentally in review, one by one, he could not think of a single individual likely to listen favourably to such proposals as Florian seemed empowered to make, at least at an earlier hour than three in the afternoon.

When dinner was pretty well advanced, many men, in those days, were wont to display an enthusiastic readiness for any wild scheme broached, irrespective of their inability to comprehend its bearings, and their impatience of its details; but when morning brought headache and reflection, such over-hasty partisans were, of all others, the least disposed to encounter the risk, the expense, and especially the trouble, entailed by another Jacobite rising in favour of the Stuarts. Sir George could think of none who, in sober earnest, would subscribe a shilling to the cause, or bring a single mounted soldier into the field.

There was also one more reason, touching his self-interest very closely, which rendered Sir George Hamilton essentially an upholder of the existing state of things. He had broad acres, indeed, but the men with broad acres have never in the history of our country been averse to meddling with public affairs—they have those acres to look to in every event. If worst comes to worst, sequestration only lasts while the enemy remains in power, and landed property, though it may elude its owner for a while, does not vanish entirely off the face of the earth. But Sir George had made considerable gains during his seafaring career, with the assistance of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ and these he had invested in a flourishing concern, which, under the respectable title of the Bank of England, has gone on increasing in prosperity to the present day. The Bank of England had lent large sums of money to the Government, and as a revolution would have forced it to stop payment, Sir George, even if he had chosen to accept his earl’s patent, must have literally bought it with all the hard cash he possessed in the world.

Such a consideration alone would have weighed but little, for he was neither a timid man nor a covetous; but when, with his habitual quickness of thought, he reviewed the whole position, scanning all its difficulties at a glance, he made up his mind that unless his old lieutenant had some more dazzling bait to offer than an earl’s coronet, he would not entertain his proposals seriously for a moment.

“And what have _you_ to gain?” he asked, good-humouredly, after a short silence, during which each had been busy with his own meditations. “What do they offer the zealous Jesuit priest in consideration of his services, supposing those services are successful? What will they give you? The command of the Body-Guard in London, or the fleet at Sheerness? Will they make you a councillor, a colonel, or a commodore? Lord Mayor of London, or Archbishop of Canterbury? On my honour, Florian, I believe you are capable of filling any one of these posts with infinite credit. Something has been promised you, surely, were it only a pair of scarlet hose and a cardinal’s hat.”

“_Nothing_! as I am a gentleman and a priest!” answered Florian, eagerly. “My advocacy is but for your own sake! For the aggrandisement of yourself and those who love you! For the interests of loyalty and the true religion!”

“You were always an enthusiast,” answered the baronet, kindly, “and enthusiasts in every cause are juggled out of their reward. Take a leaf from the book of your employers, and remember their own watchword: ‘Box it about, it will come to my father.’ Do you let them box it about, till it has nearly reached the—the—well—the claimant of the British crown, and when he has opened his hands to seize the prize, _you_ give it the last push that sends it into his grasp—the Pope could not offer you better counsel. If you have drunk enough claret, let us go to our coffee in Lady Hamilton’s boudoir.”

But Florian excused himself on the plea of fatigue and business. He had letters to write, he said, which was perfectly true, though they might well have been postponed for a day, or even a week—but he wanted an hour’s solitude to survey his position, to look steadily on the future, and determine how far he should persevere in the course on which he had embarked. Neither had he courage to face Cerise again so soon. He felt anxious, agitated, unnerved, by her very presence, and the sound of her voice. To-morrow he would feel more like himself. To-morrow he could learn to look upon her as she must always be to him in future, the wife of his friend. Of course, he argued, this task would become easier day by day; and so, to begin it, he leaned out of window, watching the stars come one by one into view, breathing the perfume from the late autumn flowers in her garden, and thinking that, while to him she was more beautiful than the star, more loveable than the flower, he might as well hope to reach the one as to pluck _her_ like the other, and wear her for himself.

Still, he resolved that his affection, mad, hopeless as it was, should never exceed the limits he had marked out. He would watch over her steps and secure her happiness; he would make her husband great and noble for her sake; everything belonging to her should be for him a sacred and inviolable trust. He would admire her as an angel, and adore her as a saint! It was good, he thought, for both of them, that he was a priest!

Enthusiasm in all but the cause of Heaven is, indeed, usually juggled out of its reward, and Sir George had read Florian’s character aright when he called him an enthusiast.