Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/412

 tie up this rose-tree—there, hold the knot while I fasten it—now run and fetch me the scissors, they are lying by my flowers on the step. Quick—or it will slip out of my hands! So there is my Provence rose at last—truly a rose without a thorn!"

And Florian did her bidding like a dog, watched her eye, followed her about, and seemed to take a dog's pleasure in the mere fact of being near her. His reward, too, was much the same as that faithful animal's, a kind word, a bright look, a wave of the white hand, denoting a mark of approval rather than a caress. Sometimes, for a minute or two, he could almost fancy he was happy.

And Sir George—did Sir George approve of this constant intercourse, this daily companionship? Were his hawks and his hounds, his meetings with his neighbours for the administration of justice and the training of militia, for the excitement of a cock-fight or the relaxation of a bowling-*match, so engrossing that he never thought of his fair young wife, left for hours in that lonely mansion on the hill to her own thoughts and the society of a Jesuit priest? It was hard to say—Sir George Hamilton's disposition was shrewd though noble, ready to form suspicion but disdaining to entertain it, prone more than another to suffer from misplaced confidence, but the last in the world to confess its injuries even to himself.

He had never seemed more energetic, never showed better spirits than now. His hawks struck their quarry, his hounds ran into their game, his horses carried him far ahead of his fellow-sportsmen. His advice was listened to at their meetings, his opinions quoted at their tables, his popularity was at its height with all the country gentlemen of the neighbourhood. He cheered lustily in the field, and drank his bottle fairly at the fire-side, yet all the time, under that smooth brow, that jovial manner, that comely cheek, their lurked a something which turned the chase to penance, and the claret to gall.

He was not jealous, far from it. He jealous—what degradation! And of Cerise—what sacrilege! No, it was not jealousy that thus obtruded its shadow over those sunny moors, athwart that fair autumn sky; it was more a sense of self-reproach, of repentance, of remorse, as if he