Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

Sir George used to wonder sometimes in his own heavy heart what they could find to talk about through all those hours that seemed so long to him in the saddle amongst the dales—the dales he had loved so dearly a few short weeks ago, that seemed so wearisome, so gloomy, and so endless now—wondered what charm his wife could discover in this young priest’s society; in which of the qualities, he himself wanted, lay the subtle influence that so entwined her when Florian first arrived, that had changed her manner and depressed her spirits of late since they had been more thrown together, and caused her to look so unhappy now that they were soon to part. Stronger and stronger, struggle as he might, grew a horrible conviction that she loved the visitor in her heart. Like a gallant swimmer, beating against the tide, he strove not to give way, battling inch by inch, gaining less with every effort—stationary—receding—till, losing head and heart alike, and wheeling madly with the current, he struck out in sheer despair for the quicksands, instinctively preferring to meet rather than await destruction.

Abroad all the morning from daybreak, forcing himself to leave the house lest he should be unable to resist the temptation of watching her, Sir George gave Cerise ample opportunities to indulge in Florian’s society, had she been so inclined. He thought she availed herself of them to the utmost, he thought that while he was away chafing and fretting, and eating his own heart far away on those bleak moors, Lady Hamilton, passing gracefully amongst her rose-trees on the terrace, or sitting at ease in her pretty boudoir, appreciated the long release from his company, and made the most of it with her guest. He could fancy he saw the pretty head droop, the soft cheek flush, the white hands wave. He knew all her ways so well. But not for him now. Not for him!

Then Grey Plover would wince and swerve aside, scared by the fierce energy of that half-spoken oath, or Emerald would plunge wildly forward, maddened by the unaccustomed spur, the light grasp bearing suddenly so hard upon the rein. But neither Emerald nor Grey Plover, mettled hunters both, could afford more than a temporary palliative to the goad that pricked their rider’s heart.

Sir George had better have been more or less suspicious. Had he chosen to lower himself in his own eyes by ascertaining how Lady Hamilton spent her mornings, he would have discovered that she employed herself in filling voluminous sheets with her neat, illegible French hand, writing in her boudoir, where she sat alone. Very unhappy poor Cerise was, though she scorned to complain. Very pale she grew and languid, going through her housekeeping duties with an effort, and ceasing altogether from the carolling of those French ballads in which the Yorkshire servants took an incomprehensible delight.

She seemed, worst sign of all, to have no heart even for her flowers now, and did not visit the terrace for five days on a stretch. The very first time she went there, George happened to spend the morning at home.

From the window of his room he could see one end of the terrace with some difficulty, and a good deal of inconvenience to his neck; nevertheless, catching a glimpse of his wife’s figure as she moved about amongst her rose-trees, he could not resist watching it for a while, neither suspiciously nor in anger, but with something of the dull aching tenderness that looks its last on the dead face a man has loved best on earth. It is, and it is not. The remnant left serves only to prove how much is lost, and that which makes his deepest sorrow affords his sole consolation—to feel that love remains while the loved one is for ever gone.

Half a dozen times he rose from his occupation. It was but refitting some tackle on the model brigantine, yet it connected itself, like everything else, with her. Half a dozen times he sat down again with a crack in his neck, and an inward curse on his own folly, but he went back once more just the same. Then he resumed his work, smiling grimly while his brown face paled, for Monsieur de St. Croix had just made his appearance on the terrace.

“As usual, I suppose,” muttered Sir George, waxing an inch or two of twine with the nicest care, and fitting it into a block the size of a silver penny. But somehow he could not succeed in his manipulation; he was inventing a self-reefing topsail, but he couldn’t get the four haulyards taut enough, and do what he would the jack-stay came foul of the yard. “As usual,” he repeated more bitterly. “Easy it is! He’s the best helmsman who knows when to let the ship steer herself!” Then he applied once more to his task, whistling an old French quickstep somewhat out of time.

Florian had been watching his opportunity, and took advantage of it at once. He, too, had suffered severely during the past few days. Perhaps, in truth, his greatest torture was to have been deprived of Lady Hamilton’s society. He fancied she avoided him, though in this he was wrong, for lately she had hardly given him a thought, except of friendly pity for his lot. Had it been otherwise, Cerise would have taken care to allow no such interviews as the present, because she would have suspected their danger. Young, frank, and as little of a coquette as it was possible for her mother’s daughter to be, she had never yet even thought of analysing her feelings towards Florian.

And he, too, was probably fool enough to shrink from the idea of her shunning him, forgetting (as men always do forget, the fundamental principles of gallantry in regard to the woman they really love) that such a mistrust would have been a step, and a long one, towards the interest he could not but feel anxious to inspire.