ALICE’S OVERTURES ARE DECLINED.
Being an early riser, Sir Reginald took a walk with his son and
improved their acquaintance before breakfast the following morning.
They found their way to the stables by mutual consent. Sir Reginald was
astounded at their empty condition.
“Where are the carriage-horses?--where are the brown cobs?” he asked
authoritatively.
“Please, sir, Lady Fairfax sent them back to Looton more than two
years ago, as she never used them. She never drives,” said the groom
gloomily.
“Then what are these two hunters doing here?”
“Her ladyship rides ’em reg’lar!”
“Rides them! Do you mean to say that she rides that chestnut,
‘Cardigan’--the most ungovernable brute I ever owned? There must have
been some great mistake in their coming here at all. These are not the
horses I ordered to be sent down.”
“I allus thought so, Sir Reginald; but her ladyship would not hear
of any change, and I must say she do manage that mad cracked beast
uncommon. But he is no ways fit for a lady, nor indeed for a gentleman.”
“Well, see that you never saddle him for her again. Those are my
orders,” he said, turning away. “She must have thought that I wanted
to break her neck. Ignorance has certainly been bliss in my case. Many
a wretched hour I would have spent had I known that Alice had adopted
Cardigan as her park hack,” he muttered to himself as he walked towards
the house in answer to the gong which summoned him to breakfast.
The same afternoon the Mayhews and Geoffrey arrived. After five-o’clock
tea under the cedar, and a turn round the garden with Reginald, Helen
was escorted to her room by her hostess.
“Shut the door and come here, Alice; I want to speak to you,” she said
imperatively.
Alice, knowing from the tone of her voice that a lecture was coming,
took a seat in the deep window-sill, and clasping her hands round her
knees, looked up at her mentor with grave expectant eyes.
“There is _no_ use in your looking at me with the air of a Christian
martyr, you tiresome girl. What is this amazing piece of folly that I
hear from Reginald?”
“I am sure I don’t know,” replied Alice innocently.
“He tells me that you received him as an utter stranger!”
“Of course I did.”
“I assure you, Alice, most solemnly,” said her friend, brandishing
her hairbrush to give emphasis to her words, “that his patience is
well-nigh exhausted, and you have bitterly, sorely disappointed him.
Your power over him is rapidly waning, and no wonder. He told me in
plain English that he would trouble himself no longer about you. He
came home softened towards you by illness, time, and absence, and,
little as you deserved it, laid his laurels at your feet. From all
accounts you flung them in his face! What a foolish reckless girl you
are! Your happiness comes to you, and you spurn it. ‘Too late, too
late!’ will be the answer when you yourself go to seek it ere long.”
“But listen to me for one second, Helen,” interrupted Alice, vainly
endeavouring to stem the torrent of her friend’s eloquence. “Hear me
for an instant. I never expected him to come here; he took me utterly
by surprise. Would you have had me volunteer an embrace--after our
chilly parting, after three years’ absolute silence? I _did_ humble
myself to the very dust before him, and all in vain.”
“When? How? You are talking nonsense!” exclaimed Helen excitedly.
“Nonsense I fail to understand.”
“Promise me, my dear Helen, that you will _never_ breathe it to
mortal, not even to Mark,” she whispered.
“Yes, yes, I promise,” returned her cousin with almost tragic solemnity.
“It was before Maurice was born. He never took any notice. I blush when
I think of it,” she continued, burying her face in her hands. “I sent
him Maurice’s photo too,” she murmured.
“Well!” with a gasp of amazement, “I cannot understand it. But you
must remember that you treated him horribly. Do not despair of his
forgiveness yet. I am sure that in your heart you love him dearly.
Make one effort to win him back for yourself. I know how hard it is to
conquer one’s pride, but surely the happiness of your whole life is
worth a little humility, just as much as the throne of France was worth
a mass.” Laying her hands on Alice’s shoulders, and looking down at
her gravely, she said: “If Reginald leaves this to-morrow evening in
his present state of mind, you will never see him again as long as you
live! that is my firm belief.”
“Oh Helen! do you really mean it?” she faltered.
“Yes, of course I do. He will go out into the world and mix in society,
where he will be made much of; petted by women, for whom a hero _has_
attractions. Basking in the world’s smiles, rich, handsome, and
successful, he will soon forget the proud, heartless, obstinate girl he
once called wife. All sympathy will be for him. For you, living here in
remote seclusion, eating your heart out with unavailing regrets, what
will you do? You will not even have the comfort of your own compassion;
all you can say will be, ‘It serves me right!’ And as year by year
snatches a portion of your youth and beauty from you, you will settle
down into a miserable, dejected, hopeless woman.”
“My goodness, Helen, what a horoscope! what a picture!”
“Then, Alice, unless you would see it a reality, be up and doing; rouse
yourself, endeavour to be the gay lighthearted Alice of former days.
Instead of cold looks and short answers, try once more smiles and
jests, assume a virtue if you have it not; get out some of your former
perfect wardrobe and make yourself as lovely as you can, and I promise
you you will find yourself much happier ere long. You _will_ make
an effort to make friends, will you not, my dear girl?” said Helen,
smoothing Alice’s shining hair and kissing her on the forehead. “As a
wife, it is your _duty_ to be submissive.”
“It is a very painful, difficult duty,” said Alice, laying her face
against Helen’s arm.
“Do you wish to lose him altogether, Alice?” exclaimed Helen
impatiently.
“No, no, I could not, I will not,” she whispered without raising her
head. During the last few moments Alice’s love and pride had struggled
in mortal conflict, and pride had been slain. After a silence of
nearly five minutes, she raised her head and stood up, and turning her
tear-stained colourless face to her cousin said:
“What shall I do if Reginald repulses me, as he most probably will,
since you say he is so angry?”
“Never mind; after all he is your husband, in spite of the folly you
both talk about ward and guardian. He is as much your husband as Mark
is mine, and you need not be bashful in making stray little advances to
him. It is not as if you were a stranger.”
“It will be just as bad as if he were. I told him we were to be
strangers for the future.”
“You told him _that_!” exclaimed Helen with a gesture of incredulity.
“I never heard of such madness--never! Impress upon him without delay
that you have exercised your sex’s privilege and changed your mind. Run
away now and get ready for dinner; the first bell was rung ten minutes
ago. And let me see that you will be a good sensible girl for once,
and, what is more important still, a good wife. Remember that we have
always to give in.”
“If you only had any idea of the task you have set me, and how small
and miserable I feel,” replied Alice, with her hand on the door-handle.
“Come, be off. Don’t talk nonsense. You have no time to lose. Don’t let
me see that face at dinner--you look as if Melancholy had marked you
for her own. Away with you,” cried Mrs. Mayhew, playfully pushing her
out of the room.
Parker was amazed to hear her lady say:
“Get me out my white silk and gauze dinner-dress, please, as quickly as
possible, and run down to the pleasure-grounds, and bring me a bunch of
crimson roses.”
Twenty minutes later Alice appeared in the drawing-room, where she was
the cynosure of all eyes except her husband’s; he merely swept her face
with one cold glance, and resumed his conversation with Geoffrey.
She wore a long and exquisitely-made square-cut white silk, with a
bunch of red roses in her bosom. A piece of black velvet was fastened
at her throat by a diamond star, with solitaires in her ears to
correspond. Dinner went off much more cheerfully than on the previous
day. Alice and Geoffrey seemed to have forgotten their feud and fallen
into their old ways; their gay repartees and small jokes provoked
general amusement. Alice caught her husband’s eyes fixed on her more
than once in grave, puzzled amazement.
In the drawing-room, Alice went unasked to the piano and sang two
songs, “Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave,” and “The Rhine Maiden.”
She sang the former with such intense pathos and feeling that Mrs.
Mayhew and Mary were on the very verge of tears. Her pure, deliciously
sympathetic voice called forth pleasure on every face except the one on
which she wished to see it reflected.
Her husband continued his occupation of pulling Tory’s ears as
unconcernedly as if there was not a note of music within ten miles.
After a time a round game was proposed.
“Come along, Alice,” said Geoffrey, “and help me to count the
markers,” emptying, as he spoke, a basketful of mother-o’-pearl fish
on the crimson cloth. As she stood beside the table in the full
light of the lamp, busily reckoning dozens of counters, her husband
realised how lovely she was--lovelier than ever, as Helen had said.
What could surpass the exquisite symmetry of her slender figure, her
delicately-chiselled profile, or the graceful poise of her haughty
little head? What her face had lost in its perpetual ripple of
smiles it had more than gained in expression. She had grown, too,
he discovered, at least an inch; her head was far above Geoffrey’s
shoulder. How young and girlish she looked, not more than nineteen
at the outside! _Who_ would believe that she was the mother of that
great boy upstairs? It seemed absurd. How well he knew her half-foreign
tricks and gesticulations with her pretty taper hands, as she
indignantly accused Geoffrey of purloining a dozen counters more than
his share. Would anyone think, as they looked at her standing there,
that she was utterly without heart, as cold and callous as a block of
marble, a miracle of obstinacy, and unreasonable beyond belief?
Presently she approached him, outwardly with graceful composure,
inwardly with much trepidation, and said, without raising her eyes
above his enamel solitaire shirt-stud:
“You will play, will you not, Reginald?”
“Thanks, no,” he replied, leaning still farther back in his chair and
languidly drawing Tory towards him by both ears.
“Oh do,” she persisted, nervously twisting her bangles round and round
her wrist; “we are so few, and Geoffrey says you can teach us a new
game.”
“No, thank you, Alice, I feel too stupid this evening.”
This speech was evidently said with intention, and a look that baffled
and chilled her accompanied the shaft as it went home.
“Nonsense, my good fellow!” exclaimed Geoffrey from the card-table, “of
course you’ll play. I never heard of such laziness. You will have to
come to make up the number.”
Thus adjured, he was obliged to join the circle, where he
ostentatiously selected the farthest seat from Alice. All the same
he sat opposite her, and was forced during the game to address her
frequently; but his tone was coolly formal, and frozen indifference was
in his glance. Nevertheless, it was as much as he could do to keep
his head cool, with those lovely wistful eyes opposite him. “What, in
Heaven’s name, does she mean?” he muttered to himself over his cards,
as more than once she made some remark and smiled at him across the
table.
“_Souvent femme varie, folle qui se fie._ She has perhaps changed her
mind in spite of her assurance to me yesterday. I shall not change
_mine_, come what may.”
His answers to her questions were curtly polite, and he appeared
totally absorbed in the game, and nothing but the game, and the
enormous heap of counters that were piled before him.
“Just look at Reginald,” said Geoffrey, pointing enviously at his
riches; “did you ever see such luck? What’s that saying about love and
play? Something beginning, ‘_Malheureux en jeu_----’”
“Never mind French quotations,” interrupted Helen precipitately, and
frowning and signing at Geoffrey, “but pay me the six counters you owe
me.”
“What are you nodding your head and frowning for?” inquired this
exasperating youth. “I’ve not said anything, have I?” looking round
with an air of injured innocence.
“I’m bankrupt!” exclaimed Alice, suddenly folding her hands on the
table and looking with a mock-melancholy face at Mark.
A reckless gambler, she had just seen her last counter swept away, and
was utterly penniless. Loans were freely offered by Helen and Geoffrey.
Helen was only too glad to divert the conversation, but much to their
astonishment she declined their assistance, saying, as she held a pink
palm across the table: “Reginald is the richest of you all; he has
made a fortune, and he is the proper person to pay my gambling debts.”
With a look of unqualified amazement he divided his heap of counters
into two portions, and without a single remark pushed one of them
towards Alice. In doing so she observed for the first time a deep scar
across his wrist.
“What is that dreadful cut, Reginald?” she asked timidly.
“Nothing,” he replied shortly, pulling down his shirt-cuff and rapidly
dealing out the cards.
“One of his many honourable scars,” explained Geoffrey. “It’s an
uncommonly deep sabre cut he got that time he took the standard, and
only----”
“Never mind standards and scratches, but go on with the game,”
interrupted Reginald with a tinge of asperity in his tone; “it’s you
to lead, Geoffrey.”
“I say, Rex,” returned Geoffrey, as if struck by a happy thought as
he leisurely sorted his hand, “wouldn’t it be fun if you were to give
a lecture, a _public_ lecture, on the Afghan war, say in the Assembly
Room at Manister? It would fill like mad, and you might send the
proceeds----”
“To an asylum for idiots,” interrupted Sir Reginald impatiently. “Will
you play or not, Geoffrey?”
“I’ll play, of course!” returned that youth tranquilly, “but why should
we not temper cards with conversation? Here”--nodding towards Alice--“I
play the Queen of Hearts!”
* * * * *
After breakfast the next morning, the ladies of the party sauntered
about the garden and grounds. An easy-chair, a cigar, and _The Times_
supplied the Honorable Mark’s requirements. Sir Reginald, declining
Geoffrey’s challenge to a game of tennis, repaired to the library to
write letters.
Alice having done the honours of the garden and shown Helen the most
reliable fruit trees, ran back to the house for a basket, in order
to gather some plums for dessert. In returning, she nearly came into
collision with her husband at the garden-gate. Very much to her
surprise he accosted her, saying:
“Alice, the carriage-horses and cobs will be here this evening. I beg
that you will not send them away again.”
“But they are of no use to me, really. Auntie has her ponies, and I
never drive.”
“But for the use of your visitors, and returning calls, a carriage is
indispensable.”
“I never have any visitors, nor have I any calls to return.”
“Pray why not?”
“No one has called on me. Is not that an excellent excuse?”
“Am I to understand that you have no acquaintances?”
“With the exception of the clergyman’s family and the Ruffords, who
live at the other end of the county, and the Grantleys, who are
abroad--I may say, none.”
“Is this by your own wish?”
“Well, no; not that I care two straws for society, but I will not
conceal from you”--with a faint smile and drawing a pattern on the
gravel with her pretty little shoe--“that I am _not_ a social success.”
“Do you mean me to understand that you are what is called ‘not
visited’?”
“If you look at it in that light, I suppose I am _not_,” she replied,
glancing towards the garden-gate, and moving a few steps in its
direction.
“Will you permit me to inquire the reason?” he asked, following her and
interposing himself between her and the garden.
“I would rather not tell you,” she answered in a low voice, picking off
the blossoms of syringa that embowered the gate, and putting them into
her basket.
“But you will have to tell me,” he exclaimed, leaning his back against
the gate and setting his straw hat with its zingari ribbon still
farther over his eyes.
“I cannot,” she faltered, blushing furiously. “There is no good in
telling you; it will only make you--I mean,” correcting herself, “it
may annoy you.”
“Annoy me!” he echoed; “I am quite accustomed to that. Pray don’t study
me in the matter; I am used to being _annoyed_, as you call it. Come,
do not trifle with me any longer--tell me at once why you are not
visited in the neighbourhood.”
“I told you before I could not,” looking down the gravel path that
lay between them and the house, and evidently preparing for an abrupt
departure.
“You shall not go!” he exclaimed, seizing her by the wrist, as if he
had divined her intention. “Neither shall you pass through this gate
till you answer my question,” putting his shoulder against it and
looking the very picture of resolution.
“Why do you tease me like this, Reginald? Do not detain me. Please
do not ask me to answer your question,” she urged, endeavouring to
withdraw her hand.
“You must, and you _shall_ tell me,” he said angrily, involuntarily
squeezing her wrist still tighter. “Neither you nor I shall stir until
I know. As your guardian it is my duty to inquire into the reason that
you are excluded from society.”
“Only as my guardian--not as my husband?” she asked in a low voice.
“Certainly--only as your guardian. You gave your husband a lesson
lately that he is not likely to forget. Never allude to him again, if
you please.”
“But I did not mean--at least I am sorry--I was hasty,” she stammered.
“Your sorrow comes too late--your sincerity is doubtful. Pray excuse
my rudeness, but remember that it is to your guardian _only_ you are
speaking,” letting go her hand at last.
“Then, as my guardian, I don’t mind telling you,” turning away her
face, and becoming perfectly scarlet as far as the ear and cheek that
were visible were concerned.
“They think--they say----”
“Go on,” he urged inexorably.
“That I am a _divorcée_. There!” she cried, facing him, “the murder is
out!”
“What!” he exclaimed in a voice that, although not loud, made her
start. “You dare,” he said slowly, “to repeat such a tale to me?”
“I had no choice; you _would_ hear it. There is no use in being angry
with _me_; it is not my fault. You know very well that I do not deserve
such a stigma--that every thought in my heart belongs to Maurice, and,”
she added almost under her breath--“_you_.”
His sharp ears caught the last word.
“That _is_ putting it strongly indeed. Nothing could be more forcible,”
he replied with a sneer. “So they say you are a _divorcée_?” he
continued, his passion repressed but at a white heat all the same,
looking her over from head to foot. “Where are the grounds for this
most infernal scandal that ever was hatched by evil-tongued old women?
What is the story?” he asked vehemently.
“I do not know,” replied Alice, now perfectly composed. “Of course I
would be the _last_ to hear.”
“It does not appear to concern you much,” he exclaimed angrily.
“No, not _much_,” she replied, looking at him with her clear, frank,
truthful eyes.
“By Jove, then it concerns _me_! Society about here wants a lesson in
good manners and hospitality if in nothing else. If I can find out
the originator of this outrageous calumny it will be worse for him. I
believe, if he was here now, I would----But never mind, what is the
good of blustering about it to you? I shall _act_, that is more to
the purpose. How can you be thought a _divorcée_ when you were never
divorced? The story is senseless; you imagine it, perhaps.”
“It is not imagination that no one ever calls here, is it?” she asked
dryly. “I believe it is thought that you sent me to Monkswood to hush
up scandal and to save the Fairfax name, and that I am really as bad as
ever I can be.”
“As bad as ever you can be!” he repeated, with remarkable fluctuations
of countenance, and half under his breath. “As bad as ever you can be!”
he repeated, his eyes alight with a sombre fire.
“I do not see that you need be so _very_ angry, Reginald. Remember that
it is my _guardian_,” emphasizing the word; “it does not concern you so
much.”
“It does concern me. Nothing could concern me more,” he answered
vehemently.
“If I had known you would have been so fearfully angry I never would
have told you. How unreasonable and inconsistent you are. You insisted
on an answer; you made me speak by main force”--holding up her slender
wrist, which still retained the red mark of his fingers--“and when
your wish is gratified you are furious. You are encroaching on the
privileges of my sex; now are you not?” she asked with a smile.
“Did _I_ do that, Alice?” he exclaimed aghast, pointing to her wrist.
“I most sincerely beg your pardon. I was so determined to hear the
truth that I forgot it was not a man’s arm I was grasping. I have been
downright brutal, but the idea of anyone casting a slur on _you_ of all
people drives me beside myself. I am afraid I have been very rude and
violent altogether; but you are acquainted with my temper of old, and
time, as you may observe, has not improved it,” he concluded with a
short laugh.
“May I look at your wrist?” he asked with real concern depicted in his
face.
“You may,” she replied, frankly placing her thin little hand in his.
“I hope you will forgive me, Alice. I must have hurt you,” he added
after a pause, dropping her hand with a respectful distant gesture, as
if he had suddenly recollected himself.
“You did hurt me. You have no idea how strong you are; your hand feels
as if it were made of steel. ‘I’ll forgive you _this_ time,’ as Madame
Daverne used to say, ‘but don’t let it occur again,’” she added with an
assumed gaiety she was far from feeling.
After a silence of some minutes he said:
“I can promise you one thing, Alice, and that is, that you shall resume
your proper position in society, and be treated with the respect to
which you have every claim. Your good name and mine are one. We will
not talk any more on the subject, and I need not detain you longer,”
opening the garden-gate politely and standing aside to allow her to
pass. But Alice was apparently in no hurry; she continued pulling the
syringa mechanically.
“I want you to promise me something else, Reginald. Will you be friends
with me,” she asked, raising her sweet wet eyes to his.
“Friends!” he echoed, fairly staggered by the question. “Friends!” he
reiterated in a slow deliberate tone, “of course. As your guardian, I
must be your friend; and I am,” he replied stiffly.
“That is not the sort of friend I mean. A guardian seems to me to
be a sort of stern surly old gentleman, who doles out money, and
orders one about, and keeps one in order, and is altogether horribly
disagreeable.”
“Charming picture! May I ask if I am the original?” he inquired.
“No, of course not; you may be stern and disagreeable, but you are not
old and surly.”
“You are really _too_ flattering!”
“If you knew how few friends I have, how alone in the world I feel, you
would not say _no_,” she urged.
“Did I say no?” he inquired with raised brows.
“You certainly have not met my advances halfway,” she replied with
a forced laugh. “You _will_ be my friend, will you not, Regy?” she
pleaded, laying her hand timidly on his coat-sleeve.
“I thought we were to be strangers?” he returned, coolly and politely
removing her fingers.
With a gesture of impatience Alice turned away, struggling hard to
repress her tears, and with a fair assumption of dignity endeavoured to
open the gate which a moment before had closed itself with a bang. She
could hardly see as she bungled at the bolt.
“Allow me!” said her husband, starting forward to her assistance. To
her unutterable dismay and disgust, one of her too ready tears fell
with a splash on his slim brown hand. It had the effect of melting him
at once. He gazed at Alice steadfastly, and with a softer look in his
dark eyes than they had known for many a day.
“You foolish girl! if you really think my friendship worth having--do
you not know very well that it is yours, and that, in spite of
everything, I am always your best friend? How can I be otherwise? Much
and often as I have wished it, I am not one of those who can forget.”
“Nor are you one of those who can forgive!”
“How can you tell?”
“How can you ask me such a question?”
“Well, we won’t argue about it. You say you want a friend?”
“I often want a friend to advise me--someone older, wiser, and better
than I am.”
“I can hardly flatter myself that you allude to me,” he said, surveying
his wife with the gravest astonishment.
“Yes, of course I do.”
“To obtain your good opinion has always been my ambition; but I had no
idea that I held such a high place in your esteem. You have quite taken
my breath away.”
“I wish you would not talk in this horribly satirical manner; it is
not at all nice of you, Reginald--not a bit like what you used to be!
What has changed you?”
“I am not the least like what I used to be; in many respects I was a
fool,” he replied with perfect equanimity.
“Were you, really?” she said, stopping and looking at him with
wide-open eyes. “What makes you say so? You are joking.”
“All right! let us imagine that I am joking. You say you want a
friend ready with counsel and advice. What more can you desire than
Helen?” waving his hand towards the garden. “If you are fond of taking
advice--of which ‘I hae me doots,’ as the Scotchman said--there is no
one who loves imparting it better. It will be a mutual satisfaction for
both parties.”
“Now you are down on Helen’s little weakness; that’s rather a shame,
you know. Of course I have Helen for a friend and adviser, but----”
“Excuse me for interrupting you, but may I light a cigar? It has the
same effect on me that music is popularly supposed to have on the
savage.”
“Go on, Alice,” he said, when he had lit up to his satisfaction; “you
were telling me something very interesting just now about a friend. Why
will not Helen meet all the requirements of the case?” he asked, with a
mocking expression in his eyes.
“Do be serious.”
“Very well, I will,” he answered with sudden gravity. “You say you want
an intimate, confidential, particular friend, and have done me the
honour to offer me the post.”
She nodded.
“I beg to decline it in the most unqualified manner. I am your friend
in the best sense of the word--I would cut off my right arm to serve
you--but a friend at a distance, one that you will seldom hear of,
much less see. The friendship of which you have visions is out of the
question between us, and only possible between husband and wife. Be
satisfied with your own arrangements; we are ward and guardian, nothing
more. Do not be vexed with me for speaking plainly; you asked me to be
serious, and I am serious. It seems to me that you do not know your
own mind two consecutive hours, but I am not so changeable. You had
everything in your hands the other day; it was a question of now or
never. Two words would have bridged the gulf between us; you did not
speak those two words, and now the occasion for them will never occur
again--you let slip your last opportunity.”
“I do not in the least understand you,” she faltered.
“If you reflect for a moment, I think you will remember the two
words--the key to the riddle.--Here comes Geoffrey,” he observed, as
Geoffrey, in a cool gray suit, with a flower in his button-hole, came
bounding towards them.
“Well, upon my word,” he exclaimed, “I’ve been watching you two for the
last twenty minutes, talking away nineteen to the dozen, and had I not
previously known I should have declared it one of the most promising
flirtations I ever interrupted.”
“You are always thinking of flirtations,” said Alice, hastily turning
away. “Come along, and help me to gather some plums; Helen is waiting
for the basket.”