Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

He ought to have known, he did know, his danger. If he was not sure of it during his ride to the coast, while he crossed the Channel, and felt the wild spray dash against his face like the greeting of an old friend, nor in the long journey that took him northward through many a smiling valley and breezy upland of that country which he had once thought so gloomy and desolate, which seemed so fair and sunny now, because it was hers, he ought to have realised it when he rode under the old oaks at Hamilton Hill, and dreaded, even more than he longed, to see her white dress glancing among their stems. Above all, he ought to have been warned, when, entering the house, though Lady Hamilton herself did not appear, he felt surrounded by her presence, and experienced that sensation of repose which, after all his tumult of anxiety and uncertainty, pervades a man’s whole being in the home of the woman he loves. There were her gardening gloves, and plain straw hat, perhaps yet warm from her touch, lying near the door. There were flowers that surely must have been gathered by her hands but a few hours ago, on the table where he laid his pistols and riding-wand. There was her work set aside on a chair, her shawl thrown over its back, the footstool she had used pushed half across the floor, and an Iceland hawk, with hood, bell, and jesses, moving restlessly on the perch, doubtless in expectation of its mistress’s return.

He tried hard to deceive himself, and he succeeded. He felt that in all his lawless infatuation for this pure, spotless woman, he had never loved her so well as now—now, that she was his friend’s wife! But he argued, he pleaded, he convinced himself in his madness, that such a love as his, even a husband must approve. It was an affection, he repeated, or rather a worship, completely spiritualised and self-sacrificing, to outlast the material trammels of this life, and follow her, still faithful, still changeless, into eternity. So true, so holy, however hopeless, however foolish, could such a love as this, deprived of all earthly leaven, be criminal, even in him, the priest, for her, the wedded wife? No, no, he told himself, a thousand times, no! And all the while the man within the man, who sits, and mocks, and judges, and condemns us all, said Yes—a thousand times—Yes!

There is but one end to such debate, when the idol is under the same roof with the worshipper. He put the question from him for the present, and only resolved that, at least, he might love all belonging to her, for her sake. All, even to the very flowers she gathered and the floor she trod. He took up the work she had set aside, and pressed it passionately to his lips, his heart, his eyes. The door opened, and he dropped it, scared, startled, guilty, like a man detected in a crime. It was a disappointment, yet he felt it a relief, to find that the intruder was not Cerise. He had scarcely yet learned to call her Lady Hamilton. There was no disappointment, however, in the new-comer’s face, as he stood for a moment with the door in his hand, looking at Florian with a quaint comical smile, in which respect for Sir George’s guest was strangely mingled with a sailor’s hearty welcome to his shipmate. The latter sentiment soon predominated, and Slap-Jack, hurrying forward with a scrape of his foot and a profusion of sea-bows, seized the visitor by both hands, called him “my hearty!” several times over; and, finally, relapsing with considerable effort into the staid and confidential servant of the family, offered him, in his master’s absence, liquid refreshment on the spot.

“It’s a fair wind, whichever way it blowed, as brought you here,” exclaimed the late foretopman, when the energy of his greeting had somewhat subsided; “and so the skipper, I mean Sir George, will swear, when he knows his first lieutenant’s turned up in this here anchorage, and my lady too, askin’ your reverence’s pardon once more, being that I’m not quite so sure as I ought to be of your honour’s rating.”

Slap-Jack was becoming a little confused, remembering the part played by Beaudésir on the last occasion of their meeting.

“Sir George does not expect me,” answered Florian, returning the seaman’s greeting with cordial warmth; “but unless he is very much altered, I think his welcome will be no less hearty than your own.”

“That I’ll swear it will—that I’ll swear he doesn’t,” protested Slap-Jack, taking upon himself the character of confidential domestic more and more. “Sir George never ordered so much as a third place to be laid at dinner; but we’ll make that all ship-shape with a round turn in no time; an’ if you don’t drink ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ to-day in a flagon of the best, why, say I’m a Dutchman! When I see them towing your nag into harbour, and our old purser’s steward, butler, as we calls him ashore, he hails me and sings out as there’s a visitor between decks, I knowed as something out of the common was aboard. I can’t tell you for why; but I knowed it as sure as the compass. I haven’t been pleased since I was paid off. If it wasn’t that my lady’s in the room above this, and it’s not discipline to disturb her, blowed if I wouldn’t give three such cheers as should shake the acorns down at the far end of the west avenue. But I’ll do it to-night after quarters, see if I won’t, Lieutenant Bo—askin’ your pardon, your honour’s reverence.”

Thus conversing, and occupying himself the whole time with the guest’s comforts, for Slap-Jack, sailor-like, had not forgotten to be two-handed, he showed Florian into a handsome bed-chamber, and unpacked with ready skill the traveller’s valise, taken off his horse’s croup, that contained the modest wardrobe, which in those days of equestrian journeys was considered sufficient for a gentleman’s requirements. He then assured him that Sir George’s arrival could not be long delayed, as dinner would be served in half an hour, and the waiting-woman had already gone upstairs to dress her ladyship; also, that there was a sirloin of beef on the spit and ale in the cellar brewed thirty-five years ago next October; with which pertinent information he left the visitor to his toilet and his reflections.

The former was soon concluded; the latter lasted him through his labours, and accompanied him downstairs to the great hall, where Slap-Jack had told him he would find dinner prepared. His host and hostess were already there. Of Lady Hamilton’s greeting he was unconscious, for his head swam, and he dared not lift his eyes to her face; but Sir George’s welcome was hearty, even boisterous. Florian could not help thinking that, had he been in the hospitable baronet’s place, he would have been less delighted with the arrival of a visitor.