“It’s far better that such boasters as the captain should be frightened than hurt,” observed gentle Alice. “If I’d my way, he should be well scared once for all, like a naughty child, and then perhaps he’d never come here any more.”
Smoke-Jack listened as if spell-bound to hear a woman speak so wisely; but her sweetheart objected—
“It’s not so easy to frighten a man, Alice. I don’t quite see my bearings how to set about it.”
“He’s not like you, dear,” answered Alice, with a loving smile, and showing some insight into the nature of true courage. “It would be easy enough to scare him, for I’ve heard him say many a time he feared neither man nor devil, and if Satan himself was to come across him, he’d turn him round and catch him by the tail.”
“I should like to see them grapple-to!” exclaimed both seamen simultaneously.
“Well,” answered Alice, in her quiet voice, “old Robin skinned our black bullock only yesterday. Hide, and horns, and tail are all together in the corner of the cow-house now. I’m sure I quite shuddered when I went by. It’s an ugly sight enough, and I’m very much mistaken if it wouldn’t frighten a braver man than Captain Bold!”
CHAPTER LVI
FOREARMED
Notwithstanding the excitement under which she laboured, and the emotion she painfully though contemptuously kept down, Madame de Montmirail could not but smile at the unpretending mode in which she reached her daughter’s new home. Slap-Jack, leading an old pony, that did all the odd work of the “Hamilton Arms,” and that now swayed from side to side under the traveller’s heavy valises, showed the way across the moor, while the Marquise, on a pillion, sat behind Smoke-Jack, who, by no means at home in the position, bestrode a stamping cart-horse with unexampled tenacity, and followed his shipmate with perhaps more circumspection, and certainly less confidence than if he had been steering the brigantine through shoal water in a fog. He was by no means the least rejoiced of the three to “make the lights” that twinkled in the hospitable windows of Hamilton Hill.
It is needless to enlarge on the reception of so honoured a guest as Lady Hamilton’s mother, or the delighted welcome, the affectionate inquiries, the bustle of preparation, the running to and fro of servants, the tight embrace of Cerise, the cordial greeting of Sir George, the courteous salute of Florian, and the strange restraint that, after the first demonstrative warmth had evaporated, seemed to lour like a cloud over the whole party. Under pretext of the guest’s fatigue, all retired earlier than usual to their apartments; yet long before they broke up for the night the quick perception of the Marquise warned her something was wrong, and this because she read Sir George’s face with a keener eye than scanned even her daughter’s. How handsome he looked, she thought, standing stately in the doorway of his hall, to greet her with the frank manly courtesy of which she knew the charm so well. Yes, Cerise was indeed a lucky girl! and could she be unworthy of her happiness? Could she have mismanaged or trifled with it? This was always the way. Those who possessed the treasure never seemed to appreciate its worth. Ah! It was a strange world! She had hoped Cerise would be so happy! And now—and now! Could the great sacrifice have been indeed offered up in vain?