Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

It may please a woman to feel that she can make her lover jealous, it may even please her, in her feminine relish for dominion, to mark the painful effect of her power; but if it were possible to love and be wise, he would know that he had better hold his hand in the fire without wincing, than let her discover the force of the engine with which she can thus place him on the rack. Some women are generous enough not to inflict a torture so readily at command, but even these take credit for their forbearance, and assume, in consequence, a position of authority, which is sometimes fatal to the male interest in such a partnership. The sweetest kisses to a woman are those she gives on tiptoe. A man, at least such a one as is best worth winning, cares for a woman because she loves him. A woman, I imagine, is never so devoted as when she feels there is yet something more to be gained of that dominion at which she is always striving, but which she is apt to undervalue when attained.

Now, if she has taken it into her head to make her lover jealous, and finds his equanimity utterly undisturbed, the result is a mortifying and irremediable defeat to the aggressive Amazon. She has hazarded a large stake and won nothing. Worse than this, she is led to suspect the stability of her empire, and sees it (because women always jump to conclusions) slipping like ice out of her grasp. Besides, she has put herself in the wrong, as after a burst of tears and a storm of unfounded reproaches, she will herself acknowledge; and the probable result of her operations will be a penitent and unqualified submission. Let the conqueror be high-minded enough to abstain from ever casting this little vagary in her teeth, and he will have reason to congratulate himself on his own self-command for the rest of the alliance.

But if the indulgence of jealousy be thus impolitic in a lover, it is not only an unworthy weakness, but a fatal mistake on the part of a husband. The doubts and fears, the uncertainties and anxieties, that are only ludicrous in the outer courts of Cupid, become contemptible at the fire-side of Hymen, derogatory to the man’s dignity, and insulting to the woman’s faith. There are few individuals of either sex, even amongst the worst natures, but can be safely trusted, if only the trust be complete and unqualified. It is the little needless reservation, the suspicion rather inferred than expressed, that leads to breach of confidence and deceit. With ninety-nine women out of every hundred, the very fact of possessing full and unquestioned freedom constitutes the strongest possible restraint from its abuse. To suspect a wife, is to kindle a spark of fire that eats into, and scorches, and consumes the whole comfort of home; to let her know she is suspected, is to blow that spark into a conflagration which soon reduces the whole domestic edifice to ruins.

There are some noble natures, however, that unite with generosity of sentiment, keen perceptive faculties, and a habit of vigilance bordering on suspicion. These cannot but suffer under the possibility of betrayal, the more so that they despise themselves for a weakness which yet they have not power to shake off. They stifle the flame indeed, and it burns them all the deeper to the quick—they scorn to cry out, to groan, even to remonstrate, but the sternest and bravest cannot repress the quiverings of the flesh under the branding-iron, and perhaps she, of all others, from whom it would be wise to conceal the injury, is the first to find it out. Wounded affections chafe in silence on one side, insulted pride scowls and holds aloof on the other; the evil festers, the sore spreads, the breach widens, the gloom gathers; it is well if some heavy blow falls to bring the sufferers to their senses, if some grand explosion takes place to clear the conjugal atmosphere, and establish a footing of mutual confidence once more.

Cerise could hardly keep her tears back when Sir George, passing hastily through the hall, booted as usual for the saddle, would stop to address her in a few commonplace words of courtesy, with as much deference, she told herself bitterly, as if she had been an acquaintance of yesterday. There were no more little foolish familiarities, no more affected chidings, betraying in their childish absurdities the overflowing of happy affection, no more silly jests of which only themselves knew the import. It was all grave politeness and ceremonious kindness now. It irritated, it maddened her—the harshest usage had been less distressing. If he would only speak cruel words! If he would only give her an excuse to complain!

She could not guess how this change had been caused, or if she did guess, she was exceedingly careful not to analyse her suppositions; but she hunted her husband about wistfully, looking penitent without a fault, guilty without a crime, longing timidly for an explanation which yet she had not courage to demand.

The room at Hamilton in which Sir George spent his mornings on those rare occasions when he remained indoors, was, it is needless to observe, the gloomiest and most uncomfortable apartment in the house. Its furniture consisted chiefly of guns, fishing-rods, and jack-boots. It was generally very untidy, and contained for its only ornaments a model of a brigantine and a sketch in crayons of his wife. Whenever Sir George thought he had anything very particular to do, it was his habit to retire here and barricade himself in.

The morning after Florian’s interview with Malletort, Cerise took up her post at the door of this stronghold, with a vague hope that chance might afford an opportunity for the explanation she desired.

“If he is really angry,” thought poor Cerise, “and I am sure he must be, perhaps he will have taken my picture down, and I can ask him why, and he will scold me, and I shall put my arms round his neck, and he cannot help forgiving me then! Nobody else would be so unkind without a reason. And yet he is not unkind; I wish he were; and I wish, too, I had courage to speak out! Ah! it would be so much easier if I did not care for him!”

Lady Hamilton’s hands were very cold while she stood at the door. After waiting at least five minutes she took courage, gave a timid little knock, and went in.