Cerise: A Tale of the Last Century

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

He resolved, therefore, that he and Florian should depart forthwith. His own character for loyalty stood so high, his intimacy with Sir Marmaduke Umpleby and other gentlemen in authority was so well known, that he anticipated no danger of discovery to any one who travelled under his protection. Monsieur St. Croix should simply assume the ordinary dress of a layman; they would not even ride on horseback. Every precaution should be taken to avoid notice, and the ‘Flying Post’ coach, with its interminable crawl, and innumerable delays, would probably answer the purpose of unpretending secrecy better than any other mode of conveyance, especially when they approached London. Thence, without delay, they would post to the seaboard, charter a fast-sailing lugger, and so proceed in safety to the coast of France. Once there, they would be on equal terms, and no power on earth should come between them then. He liked to think of the level sand, the grey sky overhead, the solitary shore, the moaning wave, not a soul in sight or hearing but his enemy and his own point within six inches of that enemy’s throat!

Sir George’s night was disturbed and restless, but he slept sound towards morning, as he had accustomed himself in his former life to sleep at any given time, after he had placed his sentries on an outpost, or gone below to his cabin for an hour’s rest while giving chase to a prize.

When he awoke a cold grey sky loured overhead, and a light fall of snow sprinkled the ground. It was the first morning of winter, come earlier than usual even to those bleak moorlands, and strange to say, a foolish, hankering pity for Lady Hamilton’s roses was the feeling uppermost in his mind while he looked gloomily out upon the terrace. “Poor Cerise!” he muttered. “Bleak sky and withered flowers—lover and husband both gone by this time to-morrow! She will be lonely at first, no doubt, and it is fortunate her mother should have arrived last night. But she will console herself. They always do. Ah! these women, these women! That a man should ever be such an idiot as to entrust his honour. Psha! his honour has nothing to do with it—his happiness, nay, his mere comfort in their hands. There is something even ludicrous in the infatuation. It reminds me of Madame Parabére’s monkey playing with the Regent’s porcelain flower-basket!—a laugh, a chatter, a stealthy glance or two, and down goes the basket. What does it matter? They are all alike, I suppose, and cannot help themselves. A man’s dog is faithful, his horse is honest, his very hawk stoops to no lure but her master’s, while his wife. And I loved her—I loved her. Fool that I am, I love her still! By the faith of a gentleman, Monsieur de St. Croix, you will need every trick of the trade to keep my point off your body if I once get you within distance!”

Then Sir George descended to meet his guest with a quiet manner and an unclouded brow, though the murderous smile still hovered about his mouth.

“Florian,” said he, “do not condemn my hospitality if I announce that you must depart this evening. Hamilton Hill is no longer a sure refuge, though I believe that my company can still afford you protection—therefore I travel with you. I do not leave you till I see you landed in France. Till I have placed you in safety it concerns my honour that you should be my care. But not a moment longer—not a moment longer, remember that! You had better walk quietly down to the ‘Hamilton Arms’ during the day. I will follow with your luggage and my own. We shall proceed to London in the weekly coach, which passes southward to-night. We can be across the water by the fifth day. Do you understand? The fifth day. You must be well armed. Take any sword of mine that pleases you, only be sure you choose one with two feet six inches of blade, and not too pliant; you might meet with an adversary who uses brute force rather than skill. A strong arm drives a stiff blade home. In the meantime I recommend you to make your farewell compliments at once to the Marquise and—and Lady Hamilton.”

Florian assented, confused and stupefied like one in a dream. The hour he had expected was come at last, and seemed none the more welcome for his expectation. He must go—must leave the woman he worshipped, and the man whom, strange to say, he loved as a brother, though that woman’s husband. His senses seemed numbed, and he felt that to-day he could scarcely appreciate his desolate condition. To-morrow it would not matter. There was no to-morrow for him. Henceforth everything would be a blank. What was it Sir George had said about a sword? Ah! the weapon might prove his best friend. One home-thrust would put an end to all his sufferings. His heart was dead within him, but he would see Cerise once more before he left. A quick sharp pang warned him that his heart was not yet paralysed, when he reflected how the Marquise was here, and he would not, therefore, see Lady Hamilton alone.

But the latter, pitiful, perhaps, because of her own sorrow, met him by one of those accidents that are essentially feminine, as he traversed the hall, booted and cloaked for his departure. She gave him her hand kindly, and he pressed it to his lips. He knew then, while she passed on, that never in this world was he to set eyes on her again.

The door clanged to, the wind moaned, the crisp brown leaves eddied round his feet on the frozen path, the cold struck to his very heart. How dreary looked the white outline of those swelling moors against the black laden clouds that scowled behind the hill.

But Sir George was careful to avoid an uninterrupted interview with his wife. He shut himself into his own apartment, and found the time pass quicker than he expected, for he had many dispositions to make, many affairs of business to arrange. If he came alive out of that prospective conflict, he meant to be absent from England for an indefinite period. Come what might, he would never see Cerise again. Not that he believed her guilty—no, he said to himself, a thousand times, but she was as bad as guilty—she had deceived him—she could never have loved him. It was all over. There was nothing more to be said.