It was all over with the scheme, he felt. Ere such intelligence could have reached his thick-witted neighbour, he argued, it must be known in other, and more dangerous quarters. If he had ever suffered the promised earldom to dazzle him for an instant, his eyes were opened now; that bit of parchment was but a patent for the gallows. He could hang the tempter who had offered it him, within a week! At this reflection the whole current of his passions turned—the man’s nature was of the true conquering type—stern, fierce, almost savage, while confronted with his adversary; generous, forbearing, even tender, when the foe was at his feet.
The noblest instincts of chivalry were at work within his bosom; they found expression in the simple energy with which he inwardly ejaculated, “No! D—n it! I’ll fight fair!”
“My advice,” said he, quietly, “is easily followed. Do nothing in a hurry—this country is not like France; these cancers often die out of themselves, because the whole body is healthy and full of life, but, for that very reason, if you eradicate them with the knife, your loss of blood, is more injurious than the sore itself. Get all the information you can, Sir Marmaduke, and when the time arrives, act with your usual vigour and good sense. Come! Fifty pieces for the grey horse? my man shall fetch him from Brentwood to-morrow.”
Sir Marmaduke was well pleased. He flattered himself that he had fulfilled his delicate mission with extraordinary dexterity, and sold Grey Plover very fairly, besides. His friends were warned now, and if they chose to persist in thrusting their heads through a halter, why he could do no more. He was satisfied Sir George had taken the hint he meant to offer. Very likely the conspiracy would come to nothing after all, but, at any rate, it was time to hang Captain Bold. He must see about it that afternoon, so he would take his leave at once, and return to Brentwood by the way he came.
Conscious of the disadvantage under which he laboured for want of the red waistcoat, Sir Marmaduke sturdily refused his host’s hospitable offer of refreshment, and was steering Grey Plover through the oaks at the end of the avenue by the time George had rejoined his wife and Florian on the terrace. Walking back, the latter smiled and shook his head. He was thinking, perhaps, how his neighbour’s loyalty was leavened with a strong disinclination to exertion, and no little indulgence for those whose political opinions differed from his own.
But the smile clouded over as he approached the terrace. Together again—always together! and in such earnest conversation. He could see his wife’s white hands waving with the pretty trick of gesticulation he loved so dearly. What could they have to say? what could she have to say that demanded so much energy? If he might only have heard. She was talking about himself; praising his horsemanship, his strength, his courage, his manly character, in the fond, deprecatory way that a woman affects when speaking of the man she loves. Every word the sweet lips uttered made Florian wince and quiver, yet her husband, striding heavily up the terrace-steps, almost wished that he could change places with the Jesuit priest.
The latter left her side when Sir George approached; and Cerise, who was conscious of something in her husband’s manner that wounded her feelings and jarred upon her pride, assumed a colder air and a reserved bearing, not the least natural to her character, but of late becoming habitual. Everything conspired to increase the distance between two hearts that ought to have been knit together by bonds no misunderstanding nor want of confidence should ever have been able to divide.
Sir George, watching his wife closely, addressed himself to Florian—
“Bad news!” said he, whereat she started and changed colour. “But not so bad as it might have been. The hounds are on the scent, my friend. I told you I expected it long ago, and if the fox breaks cover now, as Sir Marmaduke would say, they will run into him as sure as fate. Halloa, man! what ails you? You never used to hoist the white ensign thus, when we cleared for action!”
The Jesuit’s discomposure was so obvious as to justify his host’s astonishment. Florian felt, indeed, like a man who, having known an earthquake was coming, and wilfully kept it out of his mind, sees the earth at last sliding from beneath his feet. His face grew livid, and the drops stood on his brow. In proportion to his paleness, Lady Hamilton’s colour rose. Sir George looked from one to the other with a curling lip.