CHAPTER LVI
FOREARMED
Notwithstanding the excitement under which she laboured,
and the emotion she painfully though contemptuously kept
down, Madame de Montmirail could not but smile at the
unpretending mode in which she reached her daughter's new
home. Slap-Jack, leading an old pony, that did all the odd
work of the "Hamilton Arms," and that now swayed from
side to side under the traveller's heavy valises, showed the
way across the moor, while the Marquise, on a pillion, sat
behind Smoke-Jack, who, by no means at home in the
position, bestrode a stamping cart-horse with unexampled
tenacity, and followed his shipmate with perhaps more
circumspection, and certainly less confidence than if he had
been steering the brigantine through shoal water in a fog.
He was by no means the least rejoiced of the three to
"make the lights" that twinkled in the hospitable windows
of Hamilton Hill.
It is needless to enlarge on the reception of so honoured a guest as Lady Hamilton's mother, or the delighted welcome, the affectionate inquiries, the bustle of preparation, the running to and fro of servants, the tight embrace of Cerise, the cordial greeting of Sir George, the courteous salute of Florian, and the strange restraint that, after the first demonstrative warmth had evaporated, seemed to lour like a cloud over the whole party. Under pretext of the guest's fatigue, all retired earlier than usual to their apartments; yet long before they broke up for the night the quick perception of the Marquise warned her something was wrong, and this because she read Sir George's face with a
