Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/441

 habit of vigilance bordering on suspicion. These cannot but suffer under the possibility of betrayal, the more so that they despise themselves for a weakness which yet they have not power to shake off. They stifle the flame indeed, and it burns them all the deeper to the quick—they scorn to cry out, to groan, even to remonstrate, but the sternest and bravest cannot repress the quiverings of the flesh under the branding-iron, and perhaps she, of all others, from whom it would be wise to conceal the injury, is the first to find it out. Wounded affections chafe in silence on one side, insulted pride scowls and holds aloof on the other; the evil festers, the sore spreads, the breach widens, the gloom gathers; it is well if some heavy blow falls to bring the sufferers to their senses, if some grand explosion takes place to clear the conjugal atmosphere, and establish a footing of mutual confidence once more.

Cerise could hardly keep her tears back when Sir George, passing hastily through the hall, booted as usual for the saddle, would stop to address her in a few commonplace words of courtesy, with as much deference, she told herself bitterly, as if she had been an acquaintance of yesterday. There were no more little foolish familiarities, no more affected chidings, betraying in their childish absurdities the overflowing of happy affection, no more silly jests of which only themselves knew the import. It was all grave politeness and ceremonious kindness now. It irritated, it maddened her—the harshest usage had been less distressing. If he would only speak cruel words! If he would only give her an excuse to complain!

She could not guess how this change had been caused, or if she did guess, she was exceedingly careful not to analyse her suppositions; but she hunted her husband about wistfully, looking penitent without a fault, guilty without a crime, longing timidly for an explanation which yet she had not courage to demand.

The room at Hamilton in which Sir George spent his mornings on those rare occasions when he remained indoors, was, it is needless to observe, the gloomiest and most uncomfortable apartment in the house. Its furniture consisted chiefly of guns, fishing-rods, and jack-boots. It was generally very untidy, and contained for its only orna