The game was proceeding with much noise and hilarity, especially from Sir George. Florian, an adept at every pastime demanding bodily skill, had already acquired a proficiency not inferior to his host’s, who was no mean performer. They were a capital match, particularly without lookers-on; but the baronet remarked, with prim inward sarcasm, that he could generally beat his adversary in the presence of Cerise. The very sound of Lady Hamilton’s voice seemed to take Florian’s attention off the game.
She was watching the players now with affected interest—smiling encouragement to her husband with every successful rub—bringing all her artless charms to bear on the man whom she had resolved to win back if she could. She was very humble to-day, but no less determined to make a desperate struggle for her lost dominion, feeling how precious it was now, and that her heart would break if it was really gone for ever.
And Sir George saw everything through the distorted glass of his own misgivings.
“All these caressing ways—all these smiles and glances,” thought he, bitterly, “only prove her the most fickle of women, or the most hypocritical of wives!”
He could not but acknowledge their power, and hated himself for the weakness. He could not prevent their thrilling to his heart, but he steeled it against her all the more. The better he loved her, the deeper was her treachery, the blacker was her crime. There should be no haste, no prejudice, no violence, and—no forgiveness!
All the while he poised his bowl with a frank brow and a loud laugh. He sipped from a tankard on the rustic table with a good-humoured jest. With a success which surprised him, and for which he hated himself while he admired, he acted the part of a confiding, indulgent husband towards Cerise—of a hearty, unsuspicious friend towards St. Croix.
And the latter was miserable, utterly and confessedly miserable! Every caress lavished on her husband by the wife, was a shaft that pierced him to the marrow. Every kind word addressed by the latter to himself, steeped that shaft in venom, and sent the evil curdling through his blood.
“Penance,” he murmured inwardly. “They talk of penance—of punishment for sin—of purgatory—of hell! Why, this is hell! I am in hell already!”
The arrival of Sir Marmaduke, therefore, with his broad brown face, his old-fashioned dress, and his ungainly manners, was felt as a relief to the whole party; and, probably, not one of them separately would have given him half so gratifying a reception as was now accorded him by all three.
Nevertheless, his greeting to Lady Hamilton was so ludicrous in its ceremonious awkwardness, that she could scarcely repress a laugh. Catching Florian’s eye, she did, indeed, indulge in a smile, which she hoped might be unobserved. So it was by Sir Marmaduke, whose faculties were completely absorbed in his bow; but her husband noted the glance of intelligence exchanged, and scored it up as an additional proof against the pair.