Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/485

 have forgotten the white chapel above Port Welcome, or the bright morning that made me a happy wife? Her face clouded, but she resumed in a more composed tone, "We have all our own burdens to bear, our own trials to get through. It is not for me to teach you that this world is no place of unchequered sunshine. You are right. I shall, perhaps, never see you again. Nay; it is far better so. But let me always remember you hereafter as the Florian St. Croix, on whose truth, and unselfishness, and right feeling Cerise Hamilton could rely, even if the whole world besides should fail, and turn against her at her need!"

He was completely unmanned. Her feminine instinct had taught her to use the only weapon against which he was powerless, and she conquered, as a woman always does conquer, when madly loved by him who has excited her interest, her pity, and her vanity, but who has failed to touch her heart.

"And you will remember me? Promise that!" was all he could answer. "It is enough; it is my reward. What happiness have I, but to obey your lightest wish?"

"You go to France?" she asked, cheerfully, opining with some discretion that it would be well to turn the conversation as soon as possible into a less compromising channel. "You will see the Marquise? You will be near her, at any rate? Will you charge yourself with a packet I have been preparing for days, hoping it would be conveyed to my dear mother by no hand but yours?"

It was a masterly stroke enough. It not only changed the whole conversation, but gave Cerise an opportunity of escaping into the house, and breaking up the interview.

He bowed assent of course. He would have bowed assent had she bid him shed his own blood then and there on the gravel-walk at her feet; but when she left him to fetch her packet, he waited for her return with the open mouth and fixed gaze of one who has been vouchsafed a vision from another world, and looks to see it just once again before he dies.

The rigging of the brigantine proceeded but slowly. Sir George could not apply himself to his task for five minutes at a time; and had the tackle of the real 'Bashful Maid'