CHAPTER XLVI

THE MUSIC MUTE

When Cerise found herself alone, she naturally read her mother’s letter once again, and made a variety of resolutions for her future conduct which she could not but acknowledge were derogatory to her own dignity the while. It was her duty, she told herself, to yield to her husband’s prejudices, however unreasonable; to give way to him in this, as in every other difference of married life—for she felt it _was_ a difference, though expressed only by a turn of his eyebrow, a contraction of his lip—and to trample her own pride under foot when he required it, however humiliating and disagreeable it might be to herself. If George was so absurd as to think she showed an over-anxiety for the safety of their guest, why, she must bear with his folly because he was her husband, and school her manner to please him, as she schooled her thoughts. After all, was she not interested in Florian only as _his_ friend? What was it, what _could_ it be to her, if the priest were carried off to York gaol, or the Tower of London, to-morrow? Lady Hamilton passed very rapidly over this extreme speculation, and perhaps she was right; though it is easy to convince yourself by argument that you are uninterested in any one, the actual process of your thoughts is apt to create something very like a special interest which increases in proportion to the multitude of reasons adduced against its possibility, and that which was but a phantom when you sat down to consider it has grown into a solid and tangible substance when you get up. Lady Hamilton, therefore, was discreet in reverting chiefly to what her husband thought of _her_, not to what _she_ thought of Monsieur de St. Croix.

“He is jealous!” she said to herself, clasping her hands with an emotion that was not wholly without pleasure. “Jealous, poor fellow, and that shows he loves me. Ah! he little knows! he little knows!”

By the time the two gentlemen had finished their wine, and come to her small withdrawing-room, according to custom, for coffee, Cerise had worked herself up into a high state of self-sacrifice and wife-like devotion. It created rather a reaction to find that Sir George’s manner was as cordial and open as ever. He was free with his guest, and familiar with herself, laughing and jesting as if the cloud that had overshadowed his spirits before dinner was now completely passed away and forgotten. She was a little disappointed—a little provoked. After all, then, what mountains had she been making of mole-hills! What a deep grief and abject penitence that had been to _her_, which was but a chance moment of ill-humour, an unconsidered thoughtless whim of her husband, and what a fool had she been so to distress herself, and to resolve that she would even relax the rules of good breeding—fail in the common duties of hospitality, for such a trifle!

She conversed with Florian, therefore, as usual, which was a little. She listened to him also as usual, which was a good deal. Sir George forced the thought from his mind again and again, yet he could not get rid of it. “How bright Cerise looks when he is talking to her! I never saw her so amused and interested in any one before!”

Now, Monsieur de St. Croix’s life at Hamilton Hill ought to have been sufficiently agreeable, if it be true that the real way to make time pass pleasantly is to alternate the labour of the head and the hands; to be daily engaged in some work of importance, varied by periods of relaxation and moderate excitement. Florian’s correspondence usually occupied him for several hours in the morning, and it was remarked that the voluminous packets he received and transmitted were carried by special couriers who arrived and departed at stated times. Some of the correspondence was in cipher, most of it in French, with an English translation, and it seemed to refer principally to the geological formation of the neighbourhood, though a line or two of political gossip interspersed would relieve the dryness of that profound subject. Perhaps many of these packets, ciphers, scientific information, and all, were intended to be read by the authorities at St. James’s. Perhaps every courier was entrusted with a set of despatches on purpose to be seized, and a line in the handle of his whip, a word or two spoken in apparent jest, a mere sign that might be forwarded to a confederate looker-on, signifying the real gist of his intelligence.

At any rate the papers required a deal of preparation, and Florian was seldom able to accompany his host on the sporting expeditions in which the latter took such delight.

Sir George, then, would be off soon after daylight, to return at dinner-time, and in a whole fortnight had not yet found that spare five minutes for a visit to Lady Hamilton’s garden, while Florian would be at leisure by noon, and naturally devoted himself to the service of his hostess for the rest of the day.

They read together—they walked together—they gardened together. Some of those special packets that arrived from France, even contained certain seeds which Cerise had expressed a wish to possess, and they talked of their future crop, and the result of their joint labours next year, as if Florian had become an established member of the family, and was never to depart.

This mode of life might have been interrupted by her ladyship’s misgivings at first, but she reflected that it would be absurd for her to discontinue an agreeable companionship of which her husband obviously approved, only because she had misapplied her mother’s letter, or her mother had misunderstood hers; also it is difficult to resume coldness and reserve, where we have given, and wish to give, confidence and friendship, so Florian and Cerise were to be seen every fine day on the terrace at Hamilton Hill hard at work, side by side, like brother and sister, over the same flower-bed.

“Florian!” she would say, for Cerise had so accustomed herself to his Christian name in talking of him with her husband, that she did not always call him Monsieur de St. Croix to his face. “Florian! come and help me to tie up this rose-tree—there, hold the knot while I fasten it—now run and fetch me the scissors, they are lying by my flowers on the step. Quick—or it will slip out of my hands! So _there_ is my Provence rose at last—truly a rose without a thorn!”

And Florian did her bidding like a dog, watched her eye, followed her about, and seemed to take a dog’s pleasure in the mere fact of being near her. His reward, too, was much the same as that faithful animal’s, a kind word, a bright look, a wave of the white hand, denoting a mark of approval rather than a caress. Sometimes, for a minute or two, he could almost fancy he was happy.

And Sir George—did Sir George approve of this constant intercourse, this daily companionship? Were his hawks and his hounds, his meetings with his neighbours for the administration of justice and the training of militia, for the excitement of a cock-fight or the relaxation of a bowling-match, so engrossing that he never thought of his fair young wife, left for hours in that lonely mansion on the hill to her own thoughts and the society of a Jesuit priest? It was hard to say—Sir George Hamilton’s disposition was shrewd though noble, ready to form suspicion but disdaining to entertain it, prone more than another to suffer from misplaced confidence, but the last in the world to confess its injuries even to himself.

He had never seemed more energetic, never showed better spirits than now. His hawks struck their quarry, his hounds ran into their game, his horses carried him far ahead of his fellow-sportsmen. His advice was listened to at their meetings, his opinions quoted at their tables, his popularity was at its height with all the country gentlemen of the neighbourhood. He cheered lustily in the field, and drank his bottle fairly at the fire-side, yet all the time, under that smooth brow, that jovial manner, that comely cheek, there lurked a something which turned the chase to penance, and the claret to gall.

He was not jealous, far from it. _He_ jealous—what degradation! And of Cerise—what sacrilege! No, it was not jealousy that thus obtruded its shadow over those sunny moors, athwart that fair autumn sky; it was more a sense of self-reproach, of repentance, of remorse, as if he had committed some injustice to a poor helpless being, that he could never now repay. A lower nature incapable of the sentiment would in its inferiority have been spared much needless pain. It was as if he had wounded a child, a lamb, or some such weak loveable creature, by accident, and could not stanch the wound. It would have been cowardly had he meant it, but he did not mean it, and it was only clumsy; yet none the less was he haunted by the patient eyes, the mute appealing sorrow that spoke so humbly to his heart.

What if this girl, whose affection he had never doubted, did really not love him after all? What if the fancy that he knew she had entertained for him was but a girl’s fancy for the first man who had roused her vanity and flattered her self-esteem? It might be that she had only prized him because she had seen so few others, that her ideal was something quite different, he said in bitterness of spirit, to a rough ignorant soldier, a mere hunting, hawking, north-country baronet, whose good qualities, if he had any, were but a blunt honesty, and an affection for herself he had not the wit to express; whose personal advantages did but consist in a strong arm, and a weather-browned cheek, like any ploughman on his estate. Perhaps the man who would really have suited her was of a different type altogether, a refined scholar, an accomplished courtier, one who could overlay a masculine understanding with the graceful trickeries of a woman’s fancy, who could talk to her of sentiment, romance, affinity of spirits, and congeniality of character. Such a man as this pale-faced priest—not him in particular, that had nothing to do with it! but some one like him—there were hundreds of them whom she might meet at any time. It was not that he thought she loved another, but that the possibility now dawned of her not loving him.

He did not realise this at first. It was long before he could bring himself to look such a privation in the face—the blank it would make in his own life was too chilling to contemplate—and to do him justice his first thought was not of his own certain misery, but of her lost chances of happiness. If now, when it was too late, she should find one whom she could really love, had he not stood between her and the light? Would he not be the clog round her neck, the curse rather than the blessing of her existence?

Of all this he was vaguely conscious, not actually thinking out his reflections, far less expressing them, but aware, nevertheless, of some deadening, depressing influence that weighed him down like a nightmare, from which, morning after morning, he never woke.

But this inner life which all men must live, affected the outer not at all. Sir George flung his hawks aloft and cheered his hounds with unabated zest, while Florian held Lady Hamilton’s scissors, and helped to tie up her roses, under the grey and gold of the soft autumnal sky.

They had a thousand matters to talk about, a thousand reminiscences in common, now that the old intimacy had returned. On many points they thought alike, and discoursed pleasantly enough, on many they differed, and it was to these, I think, that they reverted with the keenest relish again and again.

Cerise was a rigid Catholic—the more so now that she lived in a Protestant country, and with a husband whose antecedents had taught him to place little value on the mere external forms of religion. One of the dogmas on which she chiefly insisted was the holiness of the Church, and the separation of the clergy from all personal interests in secular pursuits.

“A priest,” said Cerise, snipping off the ends of the matting with which she had tied up her rose-tree, “a priest is priest _avant tout_—that of course. But in my opinion his character is not one bit less sacred outside, in the street, than when he is saying high mass before the altar. He should never approach the line of demarcation that separates him from the layman. So long as he thinks only the thoughts of the Church, and speaks her words, he is infallible. When he expresses his own opinions and yields to his own feelings, he is no longer the priest, but the man. He might as well, perhaps better, be a courtier or a musketeer!”

He stooped low down over the rose-tree, and his voice was very sad and gentle while he replied—

“Far better—far better—a labourer, a lackey, or a shoe-black. It is a cruel lot to bear a yoke that is too heavy for the neck, and to feel that it can never be taken off. To sit in a prison looking into your empty grave and knowing there is no escape till you fill it—perhaps not even then—while all the time the children are laughing at their play outside, and the scent of the summer roses comes in through the bars—the summer roses that your hands shall never reach, your lips shall never press! Ah! that is the ingenuity of the torture, when perhaps, to wear one of these roses in your bosom for an hour, you would barter your priesthood here, and your soul hereafter!”

“It must be hard sometimes,” answered Cerise, kindly—“very hard; but is not that the whole value of the ordeal? What do _we_ give up for our faith—even we poor women, who hold ourselves good Catholics?—three hours at most in the week, and a slice of the sirloin or the haunch on Friday. Oh, Florian, it is dreadful to me to think how little I can do to further the work of the Church! I feel as if a thousand strong men were pulling, with all their might, at a load, and I could only put one of my poor weak fingers on the rope for a second at a time.”

“My daughter,” he answered, assuming at once the sacerdotal character, “the weakest efforts, rendered with a will, are counted by the Church with the strongest. St. Clement says that ‘if one, going on his daily business, shall move out of his way but two steps towards the altar, he shall not be without his reward.’ Submit yourself to the Church and her ministers, in thought, word, and deed, so will she take your burden on her own shoulders, and be answerable for your welfare in this world and the next.”

It was the old dangerous doctrine he had learned by rote and repeated to so many penitents during his ministration. He saw the full influence of it now, and wished, for one wild moment, that he could be a better Christian, or a worse! But when she turned her eyes on him so hopefully, so trustfully, the evil spirit was rebuked, and came out of the man, tearing him the while, and almost tempting him to curse her—the woman he worshipped—because, for the moment, her face was “as the face of an angel.” He had a mind then to return to St. Omer at once—to trust himself no longer with this task, this duty, this penance, whatever their cruelty chose to call it—to confess his insubordination without reserve, and accept whatever penalty the Order might inflict! But she put her hand softly on his arm, and spoke so kindly, that evil desires and good resolutions were dispelled alike.

“Florian,” said she, “you will help me to do right, I know. And I, too—I can be of some small aid even to you. You are happy here, I am sure.”

“Happy!” he repeated, almost with a sob; and, half-conquering his enemy, half-giving in, adopted at last that middle course, which runs so smooth and easy, like a tram-way down the broad road. “I am happy in so far as that, by remaining at Hamilton, I can hope to speed the interests of the true Church. You say that a priest should never mix himself with secular affairs. You little know how, in these evil days, our chief duties are connected with political intrigue—our very existence dependent on the energy we show as men of action and men of the world. Why am I here, Lady Hamilton, do you think? Is it to counsel you, as I used at the convent, and hold your gloves, and look in your face, and tie up your roses? It would be happy for me, indeed, if such were all my duties; for I could live and die, desiring no better. Alas! it is not so. My mission to England does not affect you. Its object is the aggrandisement of your husband.”

“Not affect _me_!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly. “Oh, Florian! how can you say so? Tell me what it is, quick! I am dying to know. Is it a secret? Not now. Here he comes!”

Sir George may, perhaps, have heard these last words, as he ascended the terrace steps. Whether he heard them or not, he could scarce fail to mark his wife’s excited gestures—her brightened eyes—her raised colour—and the sudden check in the conversation, caused by his own arrival.

Again that dull pain seemed to gnaw at his heart, when he thought how bright and eager and amused she always seemed in Florian’s company.

He had seen the two on the terrace as he rode home across the park, and joined them by the shortest way from the stable, without a tinge of that suspicion he might not be wanted, which was so painful now. Still he kept down all such unworthy feelings as he would have trampled an adder under his heavy riding-boots.

“Bring me a rose, Cerise,” he said, cheerily, as he passed his wife. “There are not many of them left now. Here, Florian,” he added, tossing him a packet he held in his hand. “A note from pretty Alice at the ‘Hamilton Arms.’ Have a care, man! there are a host of rivals in the field.”

Florian looked at the writing on the cover, and turned pale. This might easily be accounted for, but why should Cerise, at the same instant, have blushed so red—redder even than the rose she was plucking for her husband?

Perhaps that was the question Sir George asked himself as he walked moodily into the house to dress.