There were servants, plenty of them, at Hamilton Hill, who would literally have shed their blood in defence of their mistress, but they showed neither the blind obedience of the negro nor the shrewd readiness of the Parisian domestic. On the contrary, they seemed persuaded that length of service entitled them to be obstinate, perverse, and utterly negligent of orders. There were two or three seniors of whom Lady Hamilton positively stood in awe, and an old grey-headed butler, perfectly useless from gout and obesity, would expostulate angrily with his mistress for walking bareheaded on the terrace in an east wind. That same east wind, too, was another trial to Cerise. It gave her cold, it made her shiver, and she was almost afraid it sometimes made her cross. There were drawbacks, you see, even to a love-match, a fortune, and Hamilton Hill!
Yet she was very happy. She continually repeated to herself how happy she was. To be sure, she missed her mother’s society, missed it far more than she expected when at first she acquired the freedom of the Matron’s Guild. Perhaps, too, she may have missed the incense of flattery so delicately offered at the receptions of the Marquise; nay, even the ponderous and well-turned compliments of the Prince-Marshal, who, to do him justice, treated her with a chivalrous affection, compounded of romantic devotion to her mother, and paternal regard for herself. But I am sure she would never have allowed that a drop could be wanting in the full cup of her happiness, for was not George the whole world to her, and had she not got him here all to herself?
She walked thoughtfully on the terrace, surrounded by the glorious beauty of earth and sky, looking, and seeing not. Perhaps she was back in Touraine amongst the vineyards, perhaps she was in the shady convent-garden, cooling her temples in the pure fresh breeze that whispered to the beeches how it had gathered perfumes from the orchards and the hedgerows and the scented meadows of pleasant Normandy. Perhaps she was rustling through a minuet in the same set with a daughter of France, or fanning mamma in the hot West Indian evening, or straining her eyes to windward from the deck of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ with George’s arm round her waist, and his telescope pointing to the distant sail, that seemed plain to every eye on board but hers. At any rate, she appeared to be leagues off in mind, though her dainty feet, with slow, measured steps, were pacing to and fro on the terrace at Hamilton Hill. All at once her colour came, her eyes sparkled, she brightened up like one who wakes from sleep, for her heart still leaped to the trample of boot and jingle of spur, as it had leaped in the days gone by, when a certain Musketeer would visit his guard at unseasonable hours, that he might have an excuse for passing under her window.
She ran across the terrace to meet him, with a little exclamation of delight. “How long you have been, George!” she said, smiling up in his face; “why did you not ride faster? It is so dull here without you.”
She had him by the arm, and clasped her pretty white hands across his sleeve, leaning her weight on his wrist. He looked affectionately down in the fair young face, but he had come at a gallop for five or six miles across the moor, as the state of his boots no less than his flushed face indicated, and he did not feel inclined to admit he had been dilatory, so his answer was less that of the lover than the husband.
“Dull, Cerise! I am sorry you find this place so dull, seeing that you and I must spend the greater part of our lives here. I thought you liked England, and a country life!”
Why is a man flattered by those exactions in a mistress that gall him so in a wife? Perhaps it is because a generous nature concedes willingly the favour, but is stern to resist the claim. When his mistress says she cannot do without him, all the protective instincts, so strong in masculine affection rise in her behalf, but the same sentiment expressed by one who assumes a right to his time and attention, rather awakes a sense of apprehension, and a spirit of revolt. Where woman only sees the single instance, man establishes the broad principle. If he yields on this occasion, he fears his time will never again be his own, and such misgivings show no little ignorance of the nature with which he has to deal, a nature to be guided rather than taught, persuaded rather than convinced, sometimes advised, but never confuted, and on which close reasoning is but labour thrown away. I think that woman wise who is careful never to weary her husband. The little god thrives well on smiles, and is seldom stronger than when in tears. While he frowns and sets his teeth, he is capable of a lion’s efforts and a mule’s endurance, but when he begins to yawn, he is but like other children, and soon falls fast asleep.
Cerise hated George to speak to her in that grave tone. It grated on the poor girl’s nerves, and frightened her besides, which was indeed unreasonable, for he had never said a harsh word to her in his life. She looked timidly in his face, and answered meekly enough—
“Every place is dull to me, George, without you. I wish I could be always with you—to help you with the tenants, to dine with you at the court-house, to sit behind you on Emerald when you go for a gallop across the moor. Why could I not ride with you this morning?”