Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/368

 towards the bowling-green. "I want you to help me in my garden. Come and look at my Provence roses."

But Sir George had no time to spare even for so tempting a pursuit. A fresh horse was even now waiting to carry him ten miles off to a training of the militia, in which constitutional force, as became his station, he took a proper interest. He was the country gentleman now from head to heel, and frequented all gatherings and demonstrations in which country gentlemen take delight. Of these, a cock-fight was not the most refined, but it was the fashion of his time and class, so we must not judge him more severely than did Cerise, who, truth to tell, thought he could not possibly do wrong, and would have given him absolution for a worse crime, in consideration of his accompanying her to the garden to look at her Provence roses."

"To-morrow," said he; husbandlike, missing the chance of a compliment about the roses, which a lover would not have let slip; the latter, indeed, if obliged to depart, would probably have ridden away with one of the flowers in his bosom. "To-morrow, Cerise. I have a press of business to-day, but will get back in time for dinner." And touching her forehead lightly with his lips, Sir George was gone before she could stop him, and in another minute his horse's hoofs were clattering out of the stableyard.

From the terrace where she stood, Cerise watched his receding figure as he galloped merrily down the park, knee-*deep in fern, threading the old oaks, and sending the deer scampering on all sides across the open; watched him with a cloud upon her young face, and a quiver about her mouth, that was near akin to tears; watched long after he was out of sight, and then turned wearily away with a languid step and a deep-drawn sigh.

She was but going through the ordeal that sooner or later must be endured by every young wife who dearly loves her husband. She was but learning the unavoidable lesson that marriage is not courtship, that reality is not illusion, that the consistent tenderness of a husband, if more practical, is less flattering than the romantic adoration of a lover. She was beginning to shape into suspicion certain vague misgivings which had lately haunted her, that although George was all the world to her, she was only