CHAPTER XLV

THE LITTLE RIFT

_From Lady Hamilton to Madame la Marquise de Montmirail._

“MY VERY DEAR MAMMA,—

“You shall not again have cause to complain of my negligence in writing, nor to accuse me of forgetting my own dear mother, amongst all the new employments and dissipations of my English home.

“You figure to yourself that both are extremely engrossing, and so numerous that I have not many moments to spare, even for the most sacred of duties. Of employments, yes, these are indeed plentiful, and recur day by day. Would you like to know what they are? At seven every morning my coffee is brought by an English maid, who stares at me open-mouthed while I drink it, and wonders I do not prefer to breakfast like herself, directly I am up, on salt beef and small beer. She has not learned any of my dresses by name; and when she fastens my hair, her hands tremble so, that it all comes tumbling about my shoulders long before I can get downstairs. She is stupid, awkward, slow, but gentle, willing, and rather pretty. Somehow I cannot help loving her, though I wish with all my heart she was a better maid.

“If George has not already gone out on some sporting expedition—and he is passionately fond of such pursuits, perhaps because they relieve the monotony of married life, which, I fear, is inexpressibly tedious to men like him, who have been accustomed to constant excitement—I find him in the great hall eating as if he were famished, and in a prodigious hurry to be off. I fill him his cup of claret with my own hands, for my darling says he can only drink wine in the morning when I pour it out for him myself; and before I have time to ask a single question he is in the saddle and gallops off. Mamma, I never _have_ time to ask him any questions. I suppose men are always so busy. I sometimes think I too should like to have been a man. Perhaps, then, this large, dark, over-furnished house would not look so gloomy when he is gone.

“Perhaps, too, the housekeeper would not tell me such long stories about what they did in the time when Barbara, Lady Hamilton, reigned here. By all accounts she must have been an ogress, with a mania for accumulating linen. You will laugh at me, dear mamma—you who never feared the face of any human being—but I am a little afraid of this good Dame Diaper, and so glad when our interview is over. I wish I had more courage. George must think me such a coward, he who is so brave. I heard him say the other day that the finest sight he ever saw in his life was the _beautiful Marquise_ (meaning you, mamma) at bay. I asked him if he did not see poor frightened me at a sad disadvantage? and he answered by—No, I won’t tell you how he answered. Ah! dear mother, I always wished to be like you from the time I was a little girl. Every day now I wish it more and more. After my release from Dame Diaper I go to the garden and look at my Provence roses—there are seven buds to flower yet; and the autumn here, though finer than I expected, is much colder than in France. Then I walk out and visit my poor. I wish I could understand their _patois_ better, but I am improving day by day.

“The hours do not pass by very quick till three o’clock; but at three we dine, and George is sure to be back, often bringing a friend with him who stays all night, for in this country the gentlemen do not like travelling after dinner, and perhaps they are very right. When we have guests I see but little of George again till supper-time, and then I am rather tired, and he is forced to attend to his company, so that I have no opportunity of conversing with him. Would you believe it, mamma, for three days I have wanted to speak to him about an alteration in my garden, and we have never yet had a spare five minutes to go and look at it together?

“Our employments in England, you see, are regular, and perhaps a little monotonous, but they are gaiety itself, compared with our amusements. I like these English, or rather, I should say, I respect them (mind, mamma, I do not call my husband a regular Englishman), but I think when they amuse themselves they appear to the greatest disadvantage.

“We were invited, George and I, the other day, to dine with our neighbour, Sir Marmaduke Umpleby. Heavens! what a strange name! We started at noon, because he lives three leagues off, and the roads are infamous; they are not paved like ours, but seem mere tracts through the fields and across the moor. It rained the whole journey; and though we had six horses, we stuck twice and were forced to get out and walk. George carried me in his arms that I might not wet my feet, and swore horribly, but with good humour, and only, as he says, _en Mousquetaire_! I was not a bit frightened—I never am with _him_. At last there we are arrived, a party of twenty to meet us, and dinner already served. I am presented to every lady in turn—there are nine of them—and they all shake hands with me; but, after that, content themselves with hoping I am not wet, and then they stare—how they stare! as if I were some wild animal caught in a trap. I do not know where to look. You cannot think, mamma, what a difference there is between a society in England and with us. The gentlemen are then presented to me, and I like these far better than the ladies; they are rather awkward perhaps and unpolished in manner, but they seem gentlemen at heart, terribly afraid of a woman, one and all, yet respecting her, obviously because she _is_ a woman; and though they blush, and stammer, and tread on your dress, something seems to tell you that they are really ready to sacrifice for you their own vanity and convenience.

“This is to me more flattering than the external politeness of our French gallants, who bow indeed with an air of inimitable courtesy, and use the most refined phrases, while all the time they are saying things that make you feel quite hot. Now, George never puts one in a false position—I mean, he never used. He has an Englishman’s heart, and the manners of a French prince; but then, you know, there is nobody like my own Musketeer.

“At last we go to dinner. Such a dinner! Enormous joints of sheep and oxen steaming under one’s very nose! In England, to amuse oneself, it is not only necessary to have prodigious quantities to eat, but one must also sit among the smoke and savour of the dishes till they are consumed.

“It took away my appetite completely, and I think my fan has smelt of beef ever since. I sat next Sir Marmaduke, and he good-naturedly endeavoured to make conversation for me by talking of Paris and the Regent’s Court. His ideas of our manners and customs were odd, to say the least, and he seemed quite surprised to learn that unmarried ladies never went into general society alone, and even married ones usually with their husbands. I hope he has a better opinion of us now. I am quite sure the poor old gentleman thought the proprieties were sadly disregarded in Paris till I enlightened him.

“The English ladies are scrupulously correct in their demeanour; they are, I do believe, the most excellent of wives and mothers; but oh! mamma, to be virtuous, is it necessary to be so ill-dressed? When we left the gentlemen to their wine, which is always done here, and which, I think, must be very beneficial to the wine-trade, we adjourned to a large cold room, where we sat in a circle, and had nothing to do but look at each other. I thought I had never seen so many bright colours so tastelessly put together. My hostess herself, a fresh, well-preserved woman of a certain age, wore a handsome set of amethysts with a purple dress—Amethysts and purple! great Heaven! It would have driven Célandine mad!

“It was dull—figure to yourself how dull—nine women waiting for their nine husbands, and not a subject in common except the probability of continued rain! Still we talked—it must be admitted we contrived to talk—and after a while the gentlemen appeared, and supper came; so the day was over at last, and next morning we were to go home. Believe me, I was not sorry.

“Yesterday we had a visitor, and imagine if he was welcome, since he brought me news of my dear mamma. He had seen Madame la Marquise passing the Palais Royal in her coach before she left Paris for Touraine. ‘How was she looking?’ ‘As she always does, avowedly the most beautiful lady in France.’ ‘Like a damask rose,’ says George, with a laugh at poor pale me. Our visitor did not speak to Madame, for he has not the honour of her acquaintance; ‘but it is enough to see her once in a season,’ said he, ‘and do homage from a distance.’

“Was not all this very polite, and very prettily expressed? Now can you guess who this admirer of yours may be? I will give you ten chances; I will give you a hundred. Monsieur de St. Croix! the priest who was my director at the convent, and who appeared so opportunely at the little white chapel above Port Welcome. Is it not strange that he should be here now? I have put him into the oak-room on the _entresol_, because it is warm and quiet, and he looks so pale and ill. He is the mere shadow of what he used to be, and I should hardly have known him but for his dark expressive eyes. So different from George, who is the picture of health, and handsomer, I think, than ever. He (I mean Monsieur de St. Croix) is very agreeable and full of French news. He is also an excellent gardener, and helps me out-of-doors almost every day, now that George is so much occupied. He says that the priests of his Order learn to do everything; and I believe if I asked him to dress an omelette, he would manage to accomplish it. At least, I am sure he would try. To-day he is gone to see some of his colleagues who have an establishment far up in the Dales, as we call them here, and George is out with his hawks, so I am rather dull; but do not think that is the reason I have sat down to write you this foolish letter. Next to hearing from you, it is my greatest pleasure to tell you all about myself, and fancy that I am speaking to you even at this great distance. Think of me, dear mamma, very often, for scarcely an hour passes that I do not think of you.”

The letter concluded with an elaborate account of a certain white dress, the result of a successful combination, in which lace, muslin, and cherry-coloured ribbons formed the principal ingredients, which George had admired very much—not, however, until his attention was called to it by the wearer—and which was put on for the first time the day of Monsieur de St. Croix’s arrival.

Madame de Montmirail received this missive in little more than a week after it was written, and replied at once.

_Madame de Montmirail to Lady Hamilton._

“It rejoiced me so much to hear from you, my dear child. I was getting anxious about your health, your spirits, a thousand things that I think of continually; for my darling Cerise is never out of my mind. What you say of your society amuses me, and I can well imagine my shy girl feeling lost amongst an assemblage of awkward gentlemen and stupid ladies, far more than in a court ball at the Palais Royal, or a reception at Marly as it used to be; alas! as it will be no more. When you are as old as I am—for I am getting very old now, as you would say if you could see me closeted every morning over my accounts with my intendant—when you are as old as I am, you will have learned that there is very little difference between one society and another, so long as people are of a certain class, of course, and do not eat with their knives. Manner is but a trick, easily acquired if we begin young, but impossible to learn after thirty. Real politeness, which is a different thing altogether, is but good nature in its best clothes, and consists chiefly in the faculty of putting oneself in another person’s place, and the wish to do as one would be done by. I have often seen people with very bad manners exceedingly polite. I have also even oftener seen the reverse. If you do not suffer yourself to find these English tedious, you will extract from them plenty of amusement; and the talent of being easily entertained is one to be cultivated to the utmost.

“Even in Paris, they tell me to-day, such a talent would be most enviable; for all complain of the dulness pervading society, and the oppressive influence of the Court. I cannot speak from my own observation, for I have been careful to go nowhere while in the capital, and to retire to my estates here in Touraine as quickly as possible. I have not even seen the Prince-Marshal, nor do I feel that my spirits would be good enough to endure his importunate kindness. I hear, moreover, that he devotes himself now to Mademoiselle de Villeroy, the old Marshal’s youngest daughter; so you will excuse me of pique rather than ingratitude.

“I am not unhappy here, for I think I like a country life. My intendant is excessively stupid, and supplies me with constant occupation. I pass my mornings in business, and see my housekeeper too, but am not the least afraid of her, and I write an infinity of letters, some of them to Montmirail West. Célandine is still there with her husband, and they have got the estate once more under cultivation. Had I left it immediately after the revolt, I am persuaded every acre of it would have passed out of our possession. We had a narrow escape, my darling, though I think I could have held out five minutes longer; but I shall never forget the flash of Sir George’s sword as he leaped in, nor, I think, will _you_. He is a brave man, my child, and a resolute. Such are the easiest for a woman to manage; but still the art of guiding a husband is not unlike that of ruling a horse. You must adapt yourself instinctively to his movements; but, although you should never seem mistrustful, you must not altogether abandon the rein. Whilst you feel it gently, he has all imaginable liberty; but you know _exactly where he is_. Above all, never wound yours in his self-love. He would not show he was hurt, but the injury with him would, therefore, be incurable. I do not think he would condescend to expostulate, or to give you a chance of explanation; but day by day you would find yourselves farther and farther apart. You would be miserable, and perhaps so would he.

“You will wonder that I should have studied his character so carefully; but is not your happiness now the first, my only object, in the world?

“Monsieur de St. Croix seems to be an agreeable addition to your family _tête-à-tête_. Not that such an addition can be already required; but I suppose, as an old comrade and friend, your husband cannot but entertain him so long as he chooses to remain. Was not he the man with the romantic story, who had been priest, fencing-master, pirate, what shall I say? and priest again? I cannot imagine such avocations imparting a deeper knowledge of flowers than is possessed by your own gardener at home; and if I were in your place, I should on no account permit him to interfere with the omelette in any way. Neither in a flower-garden nor a kitchen is a priest in his proper place. I think yours would be better employed in the saddle _en route_ for St. Omer, or wherever his college is established.

“Talking of the last-named place reminds me of Malletort. The Abbé, strange to say, has thrown himself into the arms of the Jesuits. Though I have seen him repeatedly, I cannot learn his intentions, nor the nature of his schemes, for scheme he will, I know, so long as his brain can think. He talks of absence from France, and hints at a mission from the Order to some savage climes; but if he anticipates martyrdom, which I cannot easily believe, his spirits are wonderfully little depressed by the prospect, and he seems, if possible, more sarcastic than ever. He even rode with me after dinner the last time he was here, and asked me a thousand questions about you. I ride by myself now, and I like it better. I can wander about these endless woods, and think—think. What else is left when the time to act is gone by?

“You tell me little about Sir George; his health, his looks, his employments. Does he mingle with the society of the country? Does he interest himself in politics? Whatever his pursuits, I am sure he will take a leading part. Give him my kindest regards. You will both come and see me here some day before very long. Write again soon to your loving mother. They brought me a half-grown fawn last week from the top of the Col St. Jacques, where you dropped your glove into the waterfall. We are trying to tame it in the garden, and I call it Cerise.”

No letter could be more affectionate, more motherly. Why did Lady Hamilton shed the first tears of her married life during its perusal? She wept bitterly, confessed she was foolish, nervous, hysterical; read it over once more, and wept again. Then she bathed her eyes, as she used at the convent, but without so satisfactory a result, smoothed her hair, composed her features, and went downstairs.

Florian had been absent all the morning. He had again ridden abroad to meet a conclave of his Order, held at an old abbey far off amongst the dales, and was expected back to dinner. It now occurred to her, for the first time, that the hours passed less quickly in his absence. She was provoked at the thought, and attributed her ill-humour, somewhat unfairly, to her mother’s letter. The tears nearly sprang to her eyes again, but she sent them back with an effort, and descended the wide old staircase in an uncomfortable, almost an irritable, frame of mind, for which she could give no reason even to herself.

Strange to say, George was waiting for her in the hall. He had returned wet from hunting, and was now dressed and ready for dinner a few minutes before the usual time. Florian had not yet made his appearance.

“What has become of our priest?” called out the baronet, good-humouredly, as his wife descended the stairs. “I thought, Cerise, he was tied to your apron-strings, and would never be absent at this hour of the day. I wish he may not have met with some disaster,” he added more gravely; “there are plenty of hawks even in this out-of-the-way place, to whom Florian’s capture, dead or alive, would be worth a purse of gold!”

It was impossible to help it, coming thus immediately on her mother’s letter, and although she was fiercely angry with herself for the weakness, Cerise blushed down to the very tips of her fingers. George could not but remark her confusion, and observed, at the same time, that her eyelids were red from recent tears. He looked surprised, but his voice was kindly and reassuring as usual.

“Good heavens, my darling! What has happened?” he asked, putting his arm round her waist. “You have had bad news, or you are ill, or something is amiss!”

She was as pale now as she had been crimson a moment before. How could she explain to _him_ the cause of her confusion? How could she hope to make a _man_ understand her feelings? Her first impulse was to produce her mother’s letter, but the remarks in it about their guest prevented her following so wise a course, and yet if she ignored it altogether would not this be the first secret from her husband? No wonder she turned pale. It seemed as if her mother’s warning were required already.

In such a dilemma she floundered, of course, deeper and deeper. By way of changing the subject, she caught at her husband’s suggestion, and exclaimed with her pale face and tearful eyes—

“Capture! Monsieur de St. Croix captured! Heavens, George, we cannot go to dinner unconcerned if our guest is in real danger. You can save him, you _must_ save him! What shall we do?”

He had withdrawn his arm from her waist. He looked her scrutinisingly in the face, and then turned away to the window.

“Make yourself easy, Cerise,” he answered, coldly. “I see him riding up the avenue. Your suspense will be over in less than five minutes now.”

Then he began to play with the hawk on its perch, teasing the bird, and laughing rather boisterously at its ruffled plumage and impotent anger.

She felt she had offended, though she scarcely knew how, and after a moment’s consideration determined to steal behind him, put her arms round his neck and tell him so. The very conflict showed she loved him, the victory over her own heart’s pride proved how dearly, but unfortunately at this moment Florian entered full of apologies for being late, followed by Slap-Jack and a line of servants bringing dinner.

Unfortunately, also, and according to the usual fatality in such cases, Monsieur de St. Croix addressed most of his conversation to Lady Hamilton during the meal, and she could not but betray by her manner an embarrassment she had no cause to feel. Sir George may possibly have observed this, some womanly intuition told Cerise that he did, but his bearing was frank and good-humoured to both, though he filled his glass perhaps oftener than usual, and laughed a little louder than people do who are quite at ease. The wife’s quick ear, no doubt, detected so much, and it made her wretched. She loved him very dearly, and it seemed so hard that without any fault of her own she should thus mark “the little rift within the lute,” threatening her with undeserved discord; “the little pitted speck in the garnered fruit,” eating into all the bloom and promise of her life.