“A KISS, AND NOTHING MORE.”
Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew had gone on a visit to some friends at the other
end of the county, and the young people, left to their own devices,
instituted a riding-party into Manister. Alice was mounted on a new
purchase--a perfect animal in appearance and manner--a bay mare with
black points, who fully justified the name she had brought with
her--“Look at Me”--and the three hundred guineas Sir Reginald had paid
to her late owner. Cardigan he reserved for himself, and Cardigan,
in mad spirits, kept plunging and shying and indulging in formidable
antics all the way down the avenue, setting an infamous example to the
other horses.
“I must take it out of this fellow,” said his master, sending him at
a low fence that separated the road from a long series of large grass
fields.
In another instant Look at Me was beside him. Together they galloped
the length of three or four fields, their riders just steadying them
at their fences, which consisted of one or two low hedges, a couple of
sheep hurdles, and a semi-Irish bank.
The pace, the breeze, and, above all, the exhilarating exercise, made
Alice’s spirits rise to quite their former standard. With brilliant
cheeks and sparkling eyes she looked the Alice of other days.
Bringing his horse to a walk, and casting an approving glance at his
companion, her husband said:
“I see you ride as well as ever, Alice, if not better!”
“I am fonder of it, if that is anything,” she replied, giving her habit
a businesslike twitch. “It’s the only thing I care for in the way of
amusement. I seem to be able to ride away from myself, to forget all my
troubles, and to be Alice Saville once more.”
“You would like to be Alice Saville again, no doubt,” said her husband
quietly, looking at her steadily.
No answer.
“Alice, did you hear me?” leaning towards her and placing his hand on
her horse’s crest.
“Yes, I heard you. You are not my father confessor, be pleased to
remember,” she replied, closing her lips resolutely. She felt an
insane desire to tease him, and proceeded: “Perhaps, if you tell me two
or three things, I will tell you.”
“Go on, then. What do you wish to know?”
“In the first place, am I as pretty as I was as Alice Saville?”
“Really--I--I have never given the subject a thought.” (Oh Reginald!)
“Well; go on. I’m waiting.”
“Yes”--looking at her boldly and taking in every item of her fair
high-bred face, mischievous smile, and lovely laughing eyes--“I suppose
you are.”
What a rude, indefinite way of putting it!
“Is my riding as good as ever?”
“Yes,” most emphatically.
“Is my temper improved?”
“How can I tell? I have had no practical demonstration of one of your
passions as yet. But I should say--your temper was now as equable and
unruffled as the corn in that field.”
“How is _yours_?” abruptly.
“Mine! Much as usual, thank you,” with an amused, superior smile.
“Well, now, as you have answered my questions, it is only fair to
answer yours.”
“Yes,” he replied, looking at her eagerly.
“I would rather”--emphasizing every word--“be Alice _Somebody_ than
anyone else in the whole world. _Now_ are you much wiser?” she added,
giving him a mischievous glance.
“Of course! I KNOW, Alice, although you won’t tell me. But even if
we had never met, you would not be Alice Saville now; so what is the
good of wishing for your maiden-name? You would have been married
long ago--subject to my consent,” with a sardonic smile he could not
express.
“We _were_ very happy once, Reg,” she said with a deep sigh. “Neither
of us had tempers--once. Have you forgotten?”
He has not forgotten; he never can forget. Nevertheless, he abruptly
put an end to her reminiscences, saying:
“Alice, there is nothing to be gained by referring to the past, nothing
but pain. My past is dead and buried; the sooner you put yours under
the ground the better. _Never_ allude to our married life again. Let it
be as though it had never been; it was a _fiasco_, a MISTAKE! We have
only to deal with the present and the future.”
“The present and the future,” she echoed, choking back her tears.
The sound of their horses’ hoofs on the soft springy turf was the only
sound that broke the silence for more than ten minutes. Presently she
said:
“What is _your_ future?--what are you going to do?”
“I mean to have a look at Looton, a winter’s hunting in the shires, and
to return to India in the spring.”
“To India!” she gasped. “Reginald, does it ever, _ever_ strike you how
cruel you are to me?”
“Cruel!” he echoed, looking into her wistful beautiful eyes with stern
self-command. “God help you, Alice, if I was ever as cruel to you as
you have been to me. Come,” he added, putting his horse into a canter,
“here is the lane to the Manister road; we had better get on.”
Somehow, Alice’s attempts at explanation or reconciliation were always
failures. Her husband declined to meet her halfway. He looked so cold
and so unsympathetic that the words that came trembling to her lips
died away unspoken, frozen into silence by the icy chilliness of his
demeanour. Firm and intrepid resolutions she had made to brave him
came to nothing when she found herself alone with him face to face. He
would talk on any other topic but themselves--their past. He cantered
up the lane in front of her without even turning his head. Had he
glanced backwards, he would have seen what would have surprised him
considerably--Alice hastily searching in the saddle-pocket for her
handkerchief and furtively wiping away some distinctly visible tears.
The long grass lane terminated in a locked gate--a gate opening on the
Manister road--over which Cardigan showed the way in gallant style,
closely followed by the bay and blue habit.
“Oh how pretty! How easy it looks!” exclaimed Mary Ferrars, as she and
Geoffrey trotted up just in time to witness the performance.
“It’s not often you see a married couple ride like _that_,” returned
Geoffrey complacently, “and it’s just the only subject on which they
agree.”
They all rode into the town together, where they again
divided--Geoffrey and Mary to go to the confectioner’s--an errand for
Maurice--Alice and Reginald to despatch a telegram. When they came to
the post-office, two carriages were already drawn up, containing some
of the Steepshire _monde_.
They favoured Alice and her cavalier with an impertinent stare, or
looked over her head with fixed attention.
One old lady adjusted her pince-nez, and amused herself by staring
Alice out of countenance.
When her husband had despatched the telegram he came out, and saw at a
glance the contemptuous looks levelled at his wife, her burning cheeks
and downcast eyes. In a second he grasped the situation, and turning
on the carriages a look of scathing indignation, he mounted his horse,
and, unintentionally ramming in the spurs, that fiery animal became
almost unmanageable, and, rearing erect, nearly overbalanced into one
of the landaus; but having regained his equilibrium, went plunging
violently down the street.
“Who is the young man she has the effrontery to ride with?” asked the
old lady with the glasses.
“Don’t know, I’m sure. Looks like a cavalry man,” responded her
daughter languidly. “Better ask Smith.”
Mr. Smith, postmaster, who was standing at his shop-door, looking after
the equestrians, and briskly rubbing his hands, said, in reply to her
question:
“Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” clearing his throat and preparing to
deliver what he knows will be a startling announcement. “You mean the
gentleman on the chestnut horse, just turning into Market Street?”
An eager nod of assent.
“That is Sir Reginald, Lady Fairfax’s husband.”
“Impossible!”
“Well, ma’am, he has just sent off a telegram in that name.”
Sensation!
As the Monkswood party were leaving the town they encountered a very
dashing victoria and pair, which stopped, and Alice was beckoned to by
a sprightly dark-eyed lady with a rose-lined parasol.
“My _dear_ Lady Fairfax, this is most apropos! I have been over to
Monkswood to tell you that I won’t take _any_ refusal, but must insist
on you and Miss Ferrars coming to my dance on Wednesday. You will
stay and sleep of course. The excuse you gave was most frivolous and
ridiculous.”
“Many thanks, Lady Rufford. Let me introduce my husband, who has just
returned from India.”
Lady Rufford received the dark _distingué_-looking gentleman who was
presented to her with effusion, and plied him with questions more or
less embarrassing. Before they parted it was agreed that they would all
be present at her ball without fail.
Alice and Geoffrey dropped behind together, on the way home, exchanging
lively sallies and critical observations.
“I say, Alice, doesn’t it look as if Rex was getting up a strong
flirtation with Miss Ferrars? What is he leaning over, and saying to
her? Are you jealous?”
“Don’t be absurd, Geoff.”
“I suppose you think Rex can’t flirt, you pretty little confiding
innocent! _Can’t_ he though! They used to say that when he did go in
for it, which was seldom enough, he could give any fellow a week’s
start with a girl and cut him out after all.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” commencing to trot.
“Oh, you can please yourself about that. Remember you are warned. Come
along, and let us interrupt their _tête-à-tête_ before your domestic
peace is wholly destroyed.”
Riding close up behind the other pair he sang:
“Will you walk a little faster,
Said a whiting to a snail,
There’s a lobster close behind me,
And he’s treading on my tail.
“Miss Ferrars,” he continued, “there’s a glorious bit of turf; come and
have a canter.”
This well-meant effort had no effect in readjusting the party; they
all started together, and the ride was completed by a spirited
neck-and-neck race between Alice and Geoffrey across the park.
The same evening, after dinner, it being a splendid moonlight night,
they all strolled out about the pleasure-ground, except Miss Saville,
who had too much regard for her rheumatic old bones. The French windows
in the drawing-room opened on a terrace which led down by a flight of
steps to a broad gravel walk. Mary and Reginald had come in, and were
standing just inside the open window. Alice and Geoffrey had lingered
behind, quarrelling, as usual. They could hear their fresh young voices
coming up the walk in high argument. Reaching the steps, Alice sat
down on the lowest and said:
“Now, Geoff, a truce to nonsense. Be a good boy, and I’ll tell your
fortune with this daisy.”
“I’d much rather you would give me a kiss,” he replied, stealing a
black arm round her taper white waist.
Mary felt Reginald, who was standing close to her, wince. “Ah, my
friend,” she thought, “you are not altogether so cold or indifferent as
you seem!”
Alice, perfectly unconscious of the close proximity of her cousin’s
arm, went on:
“He loves me--a little, very much, passionately; not at all, a
little, very much. She loves you--_very much_. I was sure of it! The
red-haired girl at Southsea. It’s all very well to know the state of
_her_ affections, but you must not think of it. I would never give my
consent--never, much less a wedding present.”
“I would a great deal rather have a kiss now, my pretty little cousin.”
“What on earth put kisses into your head, you ridiculous boy?”
“_You!_” said he, drawing her towards him and endeavouring to imprint a
salute on her fair cheek.
But he reckoned without his hostess. Like lightning she sprang to her
feet and confronted him with flaming cheeks and dilated eyes.
“How dare you forget yourself? How--how dare you insult me--me, a
married woman? If you _had_ kissed me I should have considered myself
degraded indeed, and never spoken to you again as long as I lived.”
“Indeed!” sarcastically; “what a loss!”
“What do you mean by such conduct, sir?” stamping her foot. Her
breast was heaving, her hands trembling. She looked, and she was, in a
towering passion.
“What a little cat you are! What a little fury! No _wonder_ Rex had a
rough time of it. What harm if I did kiss you, my own sweet-tempered
first cousin?” said Geoffrey. “I often kiss Dolly and Mary Saville--and
why not you?”
“It would have been an outrage. No one ever has, ever shall kiss me,
except--except----” she stammered.
“Except--how many? Don’t be bashful.”
“Except Reginald, of course,” she replied with passionate vehemence.
“What a good joke! You don’t really say so?” he exclaimed with a
sneering laugh. “By all accounts _he_ has never had many of your
kisses. He wouldn’t be _bothered_ with them,” proceeded this extremely
aggravating youth. “He would rather be leading a squadron of cavalry
than kissing the prettiest girl in England; and he is not such a dog in
the manger as to refuse me a few of what he never takes himself.”
“Let me pass, sir!” cried Alice, sweeping him aside and dashing up the
steps, where she found herself face to face with her husband and Mary.
“Eavesdroppers!” she exclaimed with a start.
“Quite unintentionally so,” replied Mary. “And at any rate you have not
committed yourself in any way.”
“More than you can say for Geoffrey!” cried Alice, giving him a glance
of ineffable contempt as he leisurely ascended the steps, not the least
disconcerted by the situation.
“He only meant it as a joke, or at least as a mark of cousinly
affection,” said Reginald, who, _had_ Geoffrey succeeded in robbing
Alice of a kiss, would have probably acted in a manner that would
have surprised them both considerably. Fortunately, Geoffrey had been
baffled, those pure sweet lips were still sacred to him; Alice was as
loyal to him as he had been to her. The mere thought of this opened his
heart to all the world, Geoffrey included.
“Forgive him this once,” Reginald said, “and I’ll be surety it never
occurs again.”
“_You_ take his part then?” she retorted hotly.
The more indignant she was the more her husband’s spirits rose.
“Pardon me, I said nothing of taking anyone’s part; but I am quite
certain that Geoffrey will never offend again.”
Seeing that Alice made no reply, and looked anything but appeased as
she stood tapping one foot impatiently on the flags:
“Shall I,” he continued, with one of his old and now very rare smiles,
“parade Geoffrey at twelve paces to-morrow on the tennis-ground? I’m
afraid there will be some difficulty about weapons and seconds. My
revolver and Maurice’s pop-gun are the only pistols available. We might
toss for the revolver, eh, Geoffrey?”
“Oh, of course, if you are going to treat the whole thing as a jest,”
broke in Alice indignantly, “there is no more to be said,” turning away
to enter the house.
“Come, Alice,” interposed her husband more seriously, “be sensible,
be reasonable. Do you wish me to treat the matter as anything but a
_joke_?” he asked, looking at her fixedly, and dropping his voice so as
to be heard by her ear alone. Then resuming his former tone he went on:
“It would never do to allow such good friends to quarrel; permit me to
patch up a truce, if not a lasting peace, between you and Geoffrey.
Let me see you seal the reconciliation by shaking hands.”
“I shall _not_ shake hands with him,” responded Alice, drawing herself
up. “Let him beg my pardon first,” putting her hands behind her and
looking the picture of offended dignity.
“Here goes then,” returned Geoffrey, taking out his handkerchief and
spreading it on the terrace with careful deliberation; then, dropping
on it in a kneeling posture, with uplifted hands, he was commencing a
long oration, in a whining tone.
“Go away--don’t speak to me! You turn everything into ridicule,” cried
Alice hotly.
“See how I am snubbed, Miss Ferrars,” he observed, rising, and dusting
the knees of his trousers; “all because I wanted to kiss my cousin!
Where was the harm? Don’t all your cousins kiss you?”
“I’m not bound to answer such an impertinent question,” replied Mary,
laughing.
“Well, never mind. Suppose you take me for a nice little moonlight
walk, and give me your confidence. I am afraid to stay here,” waving
his handkerchief towards Alice.
In another moment they had descended the steps together, leaving Alice
and her husband alone.
The former made an earnest effort for composure as she stood for some
moments gazing out on the woods, which lay black and silver in the
moonlight. Presently she turned and looked at her husband. He was
leaning against the window-frame, the white background of which brought
into bold relief the strength and symmetry of his figure. He was
looking at her intently, with an amused smile on his lips.
A horrible thought that smile suggested to Alice’s excited brain. He
was laughing at her in his sleeve; he had told Geoffrey! The very idea
made her giddy.
“Alice, I began to think you had forgotten how to fly into a passion. I
see I was mistaken.”
“You were,” defiantly, measuring him from head to foot. “I was mistaken
also; I thought you were a gentleman.”
A momentary, almost imperceptible start, and then he replied coldly:
“I thought so, too.”
“But you are not.” A dead silence. “You know it is true.”
“Of course,” he replied icily, “whatever you say is undeniable. Once
you told me you despised and detested me; now I am no gentleman. So be
it. You have no objection to smoking, as well as I can remember?”
Provoked beyond all bounds by his perfect sangfroid, she said:
“Shall I tell you why you are no gentleman?”
“If it will not be giving you too much trouble,” carefully nursing a
newly-lighted match.
“Because you have told Geoffrey. You heard what he said just now?”
“Told Geoffrey!” he exclaimed in much amazement. “Pray explain
yourself. You are speaking in riddles, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Told him about the other evening--before the races; it was too
shameful. Oh, you might have spared me!” covering her face with her
hands.
A dead silence. At last his answer came in a cold formal voice.
“If I had done what you imagine, I certainly would richly deserve to
forfeit the name of gentleman. I am surprised that even you” (with
scathing emphasis) “should ask me to vindicate myself from such a
charge. I have not told Geoffrey--strange as it may appear to you--and
am sorry that after _all_ you should have such a mean opinion of me
still.”
Alice removed her hands, but averted her face as she said:
“You did not tell him? Then what could he mean?”--hesitatingly.
“Am I responsible for Geoffrey’s random remarks?” he asked
sarcastically.
“No, no, of course not. Please forgive me, Reginald; I did you a great
injustice!” looking at him with lovely deprecating eyes. “Do?” she
pleaded.
“You know very well, Alice,” he answered earnestly, “that I could
forgive you anything. You have only to ask, and it is granted.”
“Surely,” he thought to himself, “this is a broad hint with a
vengeance.”
“A mere _façon de parler_,” said Alice to herself; “a kind of Chinese
compliment! Forgive anything! A likely thing, when my one fault still
remains a huge unerasable blot in his eyes.”
After a moment’s silence she turned towards him with a pretty little
shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked formally. (Oh, why will she not seize this
blessed opportunity?)
“No, not actually cold. I believe it’s a goose walking over my
grave--you know the tradition,” she answered with a laugh. “Well,” as
he remained silent, “if you are not going to say ‘Happy goose,’ like
the young man in _Punch_, perhaps you will be so kind as to bring me my
red shawl; it’s on one of the chairs in the hall.”
So much for his hints and hopes.
Wrapped in the shawl, as a preventive against further shivering,
Alice and her husband promenade up and down the terrace for nearly
an hour, although it seemed to them no longer than a quarter of the
time, talking of India chiefly. He told her about his regiment, his
friends, his horses and dogs, his native servants, delighted to
share his thoughts and experiences with her who was, in spite of
everything, dearer to him than life itself. The interest she manifested
made him talk of himself more freely than he had done for years,
and then with her alone. To her eager questions about the African
campaign--his glories, his decorations, and his wounds--his answers
were but brief and unsatisfactory; but he dwelt on the successes of
his comrades-in-arms with generous and eloquent enthusiasm. And Alice,
glad that he should talk to her as of old, on any subject, and hardly
able to realise the present brief happy moment, lent a greedy ear to
whatever narrative he was pleased to relate.
So absorbed were they that the other couple arrived at the foot of the
steps unnoticed.
“Rex,” cried Geoffrey, “is she cool? Is it safe for me to come up?”
“Quite safe. She accords you a free pardon.”
“Reginald!” she exclaimed, “how _can_ you say so?”
“You are bound to forgive him; I forgave that old lady for you the
other day--you owe me a free pardon for Geoffrey.”
“Oh, but that was different. She--she----”
“She did not want to kiss him, did she?” put in Geoffrey the
irrepressible. “He never would have forgiven _that_, be sure!”
When the ladies had gone to bed, Reginald took a turn up and down the
terrace, solus: “I cannot make her out,” he said to himself as he
knocked the ashes off his cheroot. “At times, such as this evening
for instance, I could almost imagine that the past was a bad dream,
nothing more. It’s a curious thing that my own wife is the only woman
who has ever puzzled me. One day she says we are to be strangers, the
next friends; one day a cool shake hands, another a kiss. We spent
an hour in a fool’s paradise to-night--at any rate I did. I would be
an idiot indeed if I took it for the real thing I seemed so sure of
once--paradise without the fool.”