“A WELCOME HOME.”
Endued in a decent semblance of composure, but pale and hollow-eyed,
Alice came downstairs the following evening in time to receive
her husband. She, and Miss Fane, and Geoffrey were sitting in the
drawing-room, silent and constrained: Miss Fane bolt upright and
knitting aggressively; Geoffrey making a feint of reading _The Field_,
but in fact merely turning over the paper aimlessly from page to page,
and surreptitiously watching Alice above its margin; Alice, with
her hands clasped listlessly before her, making no pretence of any
employment, but staring intently into the fire with a hard, defiant
expression on her face. Suddenly a loud ring, and a sound of footsteps
and cheerful voices in the hall, announced the return of the master of
the house.
Sir Reginald entered, looking radiant. “You hardly expected me so
soon, did you?” he said, greeting his relations in turn. “I travelled
straight through without stopping, except for a couple of hours in
Paris. I have brought you the most lovely Christmas-box you ever saw!”
he said, turning to Alice.
“Why, what have you been doing to yourself, my dear girl?” he exclaimed
suddenly, struck by her altered appearance. “Have you been ill?” he
asked anxiously.
“No,” she returned shortly.
“Then what is the matter?” he proceeded with a smile, inwardly amazed
at his wife’s strange manner, and at the tepid reception she had
accorded him.
“Has the cook, our priceless treasure, given warning?”
“Something _dreadful_ has happened, Reginald,” replied Alice. “I don’t
know how to tell you,” she added in a low voice.
“I know!” he returned cheerfully, nodding his head towards Geoffrey.
“_He_ has killed one, if not two, of my best hunters?”
“Something far worse than that,” she rejoined, staring glassily at her
husband.
“Can you not guess what it is?” put in Miss Fane with venomous
_empressement_, having hitherto restrained herself by an enormous
effort. “I wonder the roof has not fallen on you,” she continued,
invoking the chandelier with a supplicatory gesture, and casting up her
flint-gray eyes.
“Please leave us, Aunt Harriet,” interrupted Alice, struggling hard for
composure. “I must speak to--to--Reginald alone.” And turning her back
to the company to conceal her emotion, she moved towards the fire.
Sir Reginald gazed from one to the other in speechless amazement, then
walking to the door he flung it open for Miss Fane, who left the room
with ill-disguised though stately reluctance, throwing a warning but
wholly unnoticed glance towards the figure in front of the fire.
Geoffrey, as he passed out, significantly whispered: “Mind, my dear
fellow, I don’t believe a word of it; I stand by _you_, through thick
and thin.”
“Stand by me in what?” muttered Sir Reginald to himself as he closed
the door. “Have they all gone mad?”
“Well, Alice, my darling,” approaching his wife, “what is all this
about?” putting his arm round her waist and drawing her towards him.
“Don’t dare to touch me!” she cried fiercely, pushing him away with
both hands.
“Are you rehearsing for private theatricals?” he said with a laugh;
“and am _I_ to be the villain of the piece?” Then continuing more
seriously, taking his wife’s hands in his and looking straight into her
eyes: “Alice, tell me at once--what is the meaning of this?”
“I’ll tell you,” she replied hysterically, snatching her hands away and
searching in her pocket with nervous haste.
“What is the meaning of this?” producing the anonymous letter. “It
came three days ago.”
He read it slowly, frowned, crushed it into a ball, and flung it into
the fire.
“There! _that_ is my opinion of it,” he said, turning towards her.
“You would not wish me to believe that you could be influenced by
an anonymous letter, written by some crawling reptile too cowardly
to attempt to substantiate his lies. I hold the writer of such a
production” (pointing to the blackened fragments now lazily sailing up
the chimney) “no better than an assassin who stabs in the dark.”
“_This_, at any rate, is not anonymous,” replied Alice, pushing the
certificate towards him.
He took it up, read it, turned it over, and read it again. She observed
that his face was a shade paler, but otherwise he was perfectly
composed, as he said: “_This_ is a most infamous forgery. I know
no one of the name of Fanny Cole, and I need hardly say I never was
married before.”
“And is this _all_ you have to say?” inquired his wife.
“All! Good heavens, Alice! what more can I say? I assure you most
solemnly I was never married to anyone but you; you know it as well
as I do myself. I never met a woman I cared to speak to twice till I
saw you that evening at Malta. What is the good of repeating the same
old story over again--just now, at all events--when we have such heaps
of things to say to each other? As to this infamous certificate, I
will take good care to have it thoroughly investigated, and the whole
thing cleared up, you may rely on that. It is my affair altogether; do
not trouble your little head any more about it.” Drawing her towards
him--“Come, are you not very glad to see me? Have you no better
welcome for me than this? Do you know that I have been counting the
very milestones till I reached home; and now I _am_ here, won’t you say
you are glad to see me, my dearest?”
Alice leant her head against his shoulder; she was weak, she knew it;
he was talking her over, as Miss Fane predicted; every word he uttered
found an echo in her heart--her heart that was beating suffocatingly.
She trembled from head to foot. On one hand was love and everything
that made life dear to her; on the other, honour, duty, pride. She must
make her choice between right and wrong.
“Speak, Alice!” interrupted her husband, getting a little out of
patience at last.
“Yes, I’ll speak,” she returned in a hard mechanical voice, abruptly
releasing herself and standing before him. “Do you know,” she
continued, with slow distinct utterance, “that that certificate”
(pointing to where it lay on the table) “has been shown to a firm of
solicitors?”
“Indeed!” replied Sir Reginald, in a tone of much surprise. “At whose
suggestion?”
“Miss Fane advised me. Geoffrey and Mr. Mayhew took it to a firm they
could rely on.”
“Well, I really think you might all have waited for my return
before taking such an important step,” said Sir Reginald with some
indignation. “I wonder _you_ allowed it, Alice. It did not show much
confidence in me, I must confess. And what did the solicitors say?” he
proceeded, in a cool displeased tone.
“They said----” and she paused; then continued with an effort--“they
said it was a true copy!” raising her eyes to his.
“A true copy!” he echoed. “I never heard such nonsense in all my
life--_never_!” he exclaimed emphatically. “When there is no original,
how can there be a copy?”
“I am not clever enough to argue with you, Reginald; you must ask
the solicitors, they will explain. At any rate, they swore to the
clergyman’s signature; he was a client of theirs, and they knew his
writing well.”
“Mr. Parry’s writing is it?” said her husband, again taking up the
certificate and critically scanning it. “So it is!--an admirable
forgery. Poor old fellow, he was garrison chaplain at Cheetapore. I
knew him well; he has been dead these two years.”
“Probably,” persisted Alice, “the fact of his being dead does not
refute _that_,” pointing to the paper in her husband’s hand.
“According to its testimony it is nearly three years since you were
married.”
“Three _months_, you mean,” he exclaimed with a laugh, making a
desperate effort to throw off a horrible suspicion that was stealing
over him and turning every vein to ice.
“Someone has forged Mr. Parry’s name, that is evident,” he exclaimed;
“but why or wherefore I am at a loss to understand. I wish I had
been here when this precious document arrived,” he continued, pacing
about the room. “It must have given you rather a start getting it in
my absence. No wonder you look pale, my poor little wife,” he said,
pausing opposite her and looking at her steadfastly.
“No wonder, indeed!” she replied significantly.
_Something_ in her look and tone confirmed his former conviction.
Gazing at her fixedly for some seconds, he said:
“It is not possible that you doubt me, Alice?”
Dead silence.
“Answer me at once,” he demanded sternly, as she stood dumb before
him. “Do you hear me, Lady Fairfax?” he persisted, exasperated by her
silence.
“You can hardly expect _Lady Fairfax_ to hear you,” she replied in a
cool, chilly voice. “She is not here.”
“You will drive me mad, Alice,” he cried vehemently; “you could not
in your heart believe this monstrous invention. I solemnly swear to
you--you alone are my wife; you _know_ it is the truth. Why do you
torture me like this? If I thought you really doubted me, as sure as
you are Alice Fairfax I would never forgive you!”
“Then you are taking a very weak oath; for it seems to most people who
have seen that paper that _I_ am not Alice Fairfax. Show it to whom you
will, they will say that _I_ am not your wife.”
“Is that _your_ opinion?” he asked sharply.
“It is,” she replied boldly; “I have no other alternative. I have been
thinking a great deal the last two days--thinking more than I ever did
in all my life before, and I can come to no other conclusion than that
you _were_ married to that woman. Your aunt entertains no doubt of your
infamy, neither do I.”
“Alice, am I mad? am I dreaming? or do I really hear you distinctly
tell me that you are no longer my wife, and that _you_ entertain no
doubt of _my_ infamy? Am I out of my mind, or are you? Am I still
asleep in the train, or am I in my waking senses?” he said, looking at
her fixedly with his keen dark eyes.
“Whether you are mad or not I cannot say,” she retorted scornfully.
“I hope you are sane enough to understand that I leave this house
to-morrow, never to return. For the future, you and I are _strangers_.”
“This is mere childish folly,” returned her husband angrily; “you don’t
know _what_ you are saying. Because Miss Fane has been wicked enough to
put all manner of hideous ideas into your foolish head, you are ready
to run away like the orthodox heroine of a three-volume novel.
“Do you suppose?” he continued very gravely, “that I shall permit you
to take the law into your own hands like this, or suffer you--a girl in
your teens, a three-months’ wife--to leave your home in such a manner?
Is _this_ the way you keep your wedding vows----”
“Wedding vows!” interrupted Alice, hastily pulling off her ring and
tossing it on the table, where it spun for a second, and then collapsed
into silence. “Wedding vows! I’ve none to keep! I am free! Show that
certificate to whom you will, even to the most ignorant, and they
will say, that whoever may be your wife--_I_ am not----” She paused
for a moment, half choked. “And not being your wife, you can scarcely
expect my father’s daughter to remain _here_. You are a hypocrite,”
she continued, speaking rapidly and trembling with excitement. “A
hypocrite! for you appeared to be all that was good; and I know you to
be all that is bad----It _was_ bad, wicked, shameful,” stamping her
foot, “to deceive an orphan confided to your care.”
She paused again, breathless.
“Pray go on, madam--do not spare me,” said her husband hoarsely. He
was leaning one elbow on the chimney-piece. Indignation, horror, and
scorn were chasing each other in his eyes.
“You married me,” resumed Alice, “or rather _pretended_ to marry me,
because I was your ward. It was an easy way to solve _that_ problem,
which must otherwise have been a trouble and a bore. I was young, rich,
and, if _you_ were to be believed, exceedingly pretty--nothing could
be more suitable; but why did you forget that you had a wife in India?
Had you not better bring her home? Her position may not be properly
understood at Cheetapore,” with withering contempt.
Smash went a valuable, a priceless old chimney ornament, thanks to Sir
Reginald’s restless elbow.
“I shall go away to-morrow, say what you will, and never see you again
as long as I live. You may hush the matter up; you may say that I
am dead. You have nothing to fear from me. I have neither father nor
brother. In years to come I may forget you, and I may forgive you; but
should I live to be a hundred, I will never see you or speak to you
again.”
She stopped abruptly, and looked at her husband with glowing angry
eyes. She had relieved the pent-up feelings of her heart in a perfect
torrent of reproach. Her utterance was so rapid as to be almost
inarticulate, and the tide of her passion carried all before it. With
a motion to Sir Reginald to permit her to pass, she was preparing to
leave the room.
He by this time was as white as a sheet, otherwise a vein down the
centre of his forehead alone betrayed emotion.
Whilst Alice was shaking with excitement, he was perfectly cool and
self-possessed; but a kind of repressed sound in his voice when he
spoke would have told a bystander that his temper was now thoroughly
roused, and that _he_ was by far the more incensed of the two.
“Lady Fairfax,” he said with emphatic distinctness, “permit me to
delay you for one moment,” interposing himself between her and the
door. “I quite enter into your wishes. The sooner we part the better.
I will have no wife who suspects and despises me. A woman holding such
views of my character I have no desire to see again. A wife who is
ready to cast me off on the smallest and most unfounded suspicion--who
does not even grant me a chance of proving my innocence--but tries,
convicts, and condemns me unheard, is no wife for _me_ except in
name. I shall make all arrangements for your comfort, but I cannot
bring myself to discuss them now. You can remain here till our future
plans are arranged. Your father’s daughter occupies the same position
beneath this roof as did my mother, although you may pretend to think
otherwise. Had I been as wise a year ago as I am _now_, your father’s
daughter would never have been my _wife_.”
Taking up the certificate and the ring, he turned and walked out of the
room without another word.
On his way across the hall he was waylaid by Geoffrey, who sprang on
him from the billiard-room and seized him by the arm, saying:
“Well, Rex, I suppose she has told you?”
“She has,” replied Reginald, shaking him off impatiently as he entered
the library and threw himself into an armchair.
“I don’t believe one word of it, mind you, Rex; and as for Alice, she
is nothing but a silly girl, with a hot temper. It all blows over. I
know her rages well,” he added consolingly.
“Don’t talk to me now, there’s a good fellow,” returned Sir Reginald,
jumping up and pacing the room. “Run down and tell them to bring round
‘Dragon’ and the dog-cart, and to put in my portmanteau just as it
came.”
“Why so, in the name of all that’s mad?”
“I’m off to London by the mail.”
“Are you in your sober senses, Reginald?” exclaimed Geoffrey, looking
at him aghast.
“I scarcely know,” he returned, wearily passing his hand across his
forehead; “but I am quite certain of one thing, and that is, that Alice
and I have parted for ever.”