WAITING FOR AN ANSWER.
Alice had found all prepared for her reception at Monkswood. A moderate
staff of servants, culled from Looton, was awaiting her arrival. They
accorded her a cold, not to say sullen, welcome; as they unanimously
blamed her, and her alone, for their master’s sudden freak of
shutting up Looton and sailing for India. Their attitude of dignified
disapproval was entirely thrown away on their young mistress, who
spent most of her time out of doors, and quickly accustomed herself
to a life of complete solitude. In company with her dog Tory, a
fox-terrier, given her by her husband before she was married, she would
spend hours roaming through the garden and pleasure-grounds, and, above
all, the woods. They had a special attraction for her--she liked their
aromatic piny smell, and they were leafless, deserted, and dreary, and
seemed exactly to match her own frame of mind. Here, in utter solitude
and silence, only broken by the snapping of a twig beneath her feet,
the flutter of a falling leaf, or the short sharp barks of Tory in hot
pursuit of a rabbit, she could think without interruption.
To Tory these woods were Elysium itself, and his most happy
hunting-grounds. Although always baffled by the agile bunny, he
returned to the chase each day with renewed enthusiasm. As he sat, much
out of breath, on his haunches directly in front of his mistress,
seated on a log, his eyes rolling, his tongue lolling, and his sides
palpitating, perhaps he wondered in his own mind what could be the
matter with her. Why did those great round drops roll down her cheeks
and go splash on her sealskin coat and small clasped hands? Why did she
take him up, and hug him, and kiss him, and say: “Tory, no one in all
the world loves me as well as you do”?
Although Alice had spoken to Geoffrey of her husband’s departure with
easy indifference, her indifference was assumed. Her heart quailed when
she thought of India, sickness, and the field of action. Each day,
instead of deadening, only intensified her grief. It will be seen that
her feelings towards her husband had undergone a revulsion, and since
she had been out of the hearing of Miss Fane’s oracular sayings, her
opinion of his misdeeds had become greatly modified. If he was utterly
innocent, as in her secret heart she began to believe, what was to be
her fate? Twice he had given her an opportunity to make amends, and
twice she had declined the olive branch. She would never have another
chance, _that_ was very certain.
As she looked down the dreary path before her, strewn with fallen
leaves and branches, at the bare, gaunt, gray and brown trees
interlaced overhead, it was not a cheerful prospect; and yet a far more
dismal vista presented itself to her mind’s eye. A long, solitary,
monotonous life at Monkswood, where youth and beauty would alike fade
away unnoticed and unregretted; her husband implacable, following with
ardour his beloved profession; her friends indifferent and forgetful;
what a miserable existence seemed to be in store for her! Could the
haughty stern man, who had so bitterly upbraided her on Southsea Pier,
and bidden her such a cold and almost contemptuous farewell, have
been the bridegroom who had sauntered by her side through the deep
green glades of the forest of Fontainebleau? It seemed impossible.
What delightful mornings they had spent among those old trees--she
with her work, he lying at her feet reading aloud Tennyson, _Punch_,
_Galignani_, whatever came first; what rambles they had taken among
French farms and fields, exchanging tastes, opinions, confidences; what
delightful drives and excursions they had made in the neighbourhood,
exploring the country in every direction, losing their way, stopping
to dine at little out-of-the-way villages, and meeting with numerous
amusing adventures.
Then there had been that short trip through Normandy, and home by the
Channel Islands; and what a welcome she had received at Looton!--rich
and poor testified their regard for its master by the reception they
gave his bride. How proud he had seemed of her in those days, as,
dressed in one of Worth’s gowns, which he had helped to choose in
Paris, he led her up to the Duchess of Dover, who was giving a ball in
their honour--the very last she had been at. How she had enjoyed it
too, although Reginald never danced with her _once_, telling her, when
she remonstrated with him as they went home in the brougham, “That he
did not approve of bride and bridegroom dancing together, as they had
quite enough of each other’s company, and might spare a few hours to
the claims of society;” and he had cut short all her arguments with
a kiss. She remembered saying to him the day that Geoffrey had been
expected: “I suppose we may consider our honeymoon over now?” “No,”
he had replied, “I hope ours will last as long as we live, and that,
no matter what happens, we shall never love each other less than we
do at present. I can answer for myself, at any rate,” he had said
emphatically.
Rash promise! Three months of unutterable happiness, and all was over!
That he _had_ loved was certain. Never a very demonstrative lover;
yet a look, a word, a caress from him were ten times more precious
from their rarity, and because they bore the stamp of a tender, almost
reverent affection, than if another man of more shallow feelings had
overwhelmed her with perpetual adoration.
Such thoughts as these, and such happy recollections, only made the
contrast between past and present trebly painful. Day by day, Alice
became more miserably unhappy. She spent her time aimlessly wandering
about the woods or sitting indoors before the fire, with Tory on her
lap, talking half to him and half to herself. Society she had none:
with the exception of the clergyman’s family, the neighbours and county
held completely aloof, and left her entirely to her own devices. They
knew that Sir Reginald had gone abroad, that Looton was shut up. “There
is something very mysterious about the whole thing,” they said, “and we
will not be in a hurry to call on Lady Fairfax.”
Consequently Lady Fairfax was left entirely to herself.
At last Alice made up her mind to write to her husband. She could no
longer believe in that false marriage certificate; it was all a wicked
lie from first to last. Oh that she had thought so before! She had
determined to abase herself before him and entreat his pardon. These
feelings came to a climax one dim spring afternoon, and, hastily
glancing at the paper, she saw that it was mail-day. She had just half
an hour before post time, and so she hurriedly sat down and wrote a
short but truly penitent and loving letter to Sir Reginald (the fate of
which will afterwards be disclosed).
“What a change in her life that single sheet of foreign paper might
make,” she thought, as she kissed it and folded it, and enclosed in it
two or three violets taken from a little bunch in front of her dress.
Ere the letter had gone out of the house a load seemed lifted off
her mind. In eight weeks at most the answer would come back; and the
foolish girl sat down on the hearth-rug and began to reckon up the days!
“He will come back himself,” she whispered to Tory, as he laid his head
on her arm and blinked his eyes sagaciously. “And how glad we shall be
to see him, Tory, you and I! He will sit between us here, at the fire,
and he will scold me. He will lecture me dreadfully, Tory, but he is
sure to be very pleased with you. I will tell him what a good boy you
have been, and how you have kept me company.”
In vain she watched and waited for an answer to her letter. Every
morning, wet or dry, accompanied by Tory, she walked to the
avenue-gates, and herself received the post-bag. How she looked out
for the arrivals of the mails _viâ_ Brindisi, and reckoned up the days
and hours till her much-desired letter could come! When the allotted
two months had elapsed, and it did not appear, hope, instead of being
silent, told a still more flattering tale.
“He is coming himself; he may be here any day,” it said. For days, and
even weeks, Alice deluded herself with this idea. A step, the sudden
opening of a door, made her start and flush crimson. But time went
on, her boy was born, and still no letter; so her heart hardened once
more. Not only was she herself slighted and despised, but what outraged
her feelings in their most sensitive point, her child was ignored.
“He might have sent me even one little line; he is barbarous, cruel,
unnatural,” were some of her bitter reflections.
Miss Saville, a good-tempered, sensible, elderly lady, very fond of her
niece, had come to Monkswood, and with her a new _régime_ commenced; no
more untouched meals, no more “moping,” as she called it, permitted.
But now that Alice had her baby to engross her mind, she was not so
much inclined to live in the past as in the present. When she did think
of her husband, it was with an indescribable mixture of remorse,
indignation, and regret. The “confessions” from Cheetapore were duly
forwarded to Alice, and were safely locked up in her dressing-case; but
as he had not deigned to take any notice of her abject apology before
the matter had been cleared up, it was unnecessary to trouble him with
another appeal, even supposing her own pride would have permitted a
second abasement, which it would not.
When not occupied in the nursery, Alice spent a good deal of time in
taking long rides in the neighbourhood. In company with Martin, the old
family groom, she scoured the country for miles far and near, very much
to her own enjoyment and greatly to the indignation of the surrounding
_élite_, who had no idea that a young woman sent to Monkswood by her
husband in the deepest disgrace should be permitted so much relaxation
and amusement. Her horses were first-rate, her riding undeniable,
and once in the saddle she half forgot her troubles, and seemed more
like herself once more. The perfect equanimity with which she met
the cold hard stare of the county people, and the inimitable grace
with which she managed her thoroughbred, made them feel--the ladies
especially--more wickedly disposed towards her than ever.
The whisper of scandal was busy with her name in a way that she, poor
girl, had little idea of; and stories were circulated that would have
made her absent husband’s blood boil had he only known. The accepted
legend was, “that she had been on the point of eloping with her cousin,
Mr. Saville, during her husband’s temporary absence; that he had
fortunately returned just in time to frustrate their plans, and, to
save a public _ésclandre_ and the Fairfax good name, had relegated his
erring wife to Monkswood, and had himself volunteered for the East.”
“But she is all the same as a _divorcée_. He has left her for ever,”
her kind neighbours whispered over their five-o’clock tea; “and she is
not to be tolerated in Steepshire society.”
The Mayhews occasionally sent Sir Reginald’s missives to his wife, and
she observed that, although her boy was often alluded to with interest
and affection, her own name was never mentioned. She had done violence
to her pride in sending him Maurice’s photograph, and he had treated it
with the same disdain as her letter.
When the Afghan war broke out, all his epistles to Mark or Helen were
regularly forwarded to her, and she received the news of his having
gained the Victoria Cross with a pride that she did not attempt to
conceal; but her fears and anxieties far outweighed any pleasure the
intelligence afforded her. It did not delight her to hear that he had
gained the _sobriquet_ of “Fighting Fairfax”--far from it; and when
Captain Vaughan’s letter arrived her agony was beyond description. How
she bore the miserable week that intervened before the next mail was
only known to herself. She endured in silence, opening her heart to no
one--taking no one into her confidence; not shedding a single tear,
but going about her usual duties with a white set face that fairly
frightened her aunt. “If he is dead,” she would say to herself as she
paced her room, “he has gone without forgiving me. As I stand here
he may be already weeks in his lonely foreign grave, and I, without
knowing it, am his _widow_. If this is the case, I believe it will
kill me.” Never very robust at any time, she looked now so worn, so
thin, so altered, even with the suspense of less than a week, that it
seemed as if it would not take much to snap her hold on life.
She heard from the Mayhews of her husband’s approaching return, and saw
by his letters how very reluctant he was to come home.
He little knew that his wife’s eyes would rest on the lines he was
penning when he said:
“I have no wish to return to England; I am ten times happier out here
than I shall be at home; and excepting to see you and Helen, and my son
and heir, I do not wish to set foot in my native land for years. All my
interests and all I care about most are bound up in the fortunes of the
Seventeenth Royal Hussars. I hope to get command of the regiment ere
long, and if I do I would not change places with any king or emperor
you could name.”
Alice read the above with apparent composure and handed it back
to Helen, to whom she was paying a short visit. Indignation and
disappointment were depicted in her face, in spite of her heroic
efforts to appear indifferent. She went and stood at the window, to
hide the tears that would come into her eyes.
“He does not mean it, Alice,” said Helen soothingly.
“It is nothing to me whether he does or not,” replied Alice hotly,
“but he does mean it; at any rate we will not talk about him.” Then
continued, with womanly consistency: “I can read between the lines of
that letter. _I_ am the cause of his reluctance to come home; he does
not wish to be in the same country with me; he hates to remember that
he is a married man; he is afraid that we shall meet; but he need not
be. England is wide enough for both of us, and I have no wish to see
a husband who has completely ignored me for nearly three years.” So
saying, and rapidly collecting her hat, umbrella, and gloves (having
just come in from the park), she swept indignantly out of the room.