MRS. MAYHEW’S LITTLE SCHEME.
Mrs. Mayhew was most decidedly the clever woman of the family. Not
only had she brains, but an unusual allowance of common sense, and a
kind heart to boot. She was dark and good-looking, like most of the
Fairfaxes, and inherited no small share of their force of character
and determination. Having no brother of her own, she had always
appropriated her cousin Reginald as such, since he, at the ripe age
of six, had made impassioned love to her, a grown-up young lady of
seventeen. She absolutely ruled all the men of her family (husband
included) with a mild and gracious sway, always with the notable
exception of her cousin “Regy.” His head had never yet bent under
her yoke, and he had the audacity to differ from her on many vital
subjects, and held the heresy that “it was for man to command, woman to
obey, all else confusion.” Nevertheless he possessed a place in Mrs.
Mayhew’s heart second only to that occupied by her husband and children.
Mrs. Mayhew was never happier than when she was managing other people’s
affairs, for which she had a singular aptitude. To do her justice,
she meddled with the very best intentions, and her hands were always
full. She was the confidante of lovers’ quarrels, of matrimonial
differences untold: from the servant out of place to a girl jilted by
her intended, all came to Mrs. Mayhew, and to them she lent a ready
ear, her sympathy, and assistance. Her only serious trouble was her
rapidly-increasing tendency to _embonpoint_, and she sighed when she
ordered each new dress to be made with an increasing width of waist.
Her weakness, her particular pet vanity, were her hands and feet; and
certainly she had every reason to be proud of them.
“Tell Helen she has the prettiest foot in London, and she’ll ask you to
stay for a month,” was one of Geoffrey’s impudent remarks; and he also
declared that knitting, to which she was much addicted, was merely a
framework supplied by her vanity, in order to flourish about and show
off her hands.
She was sitting at the fire one dripping February afternoon knitting
the following thoughts into a stocking:
“This is the 8th. Let me see” (referring to a paper on her knees), “the
_Alligator_ sails on the 26th. Not much time to be lost. I must make
one desperate effort to try to reunite this wretchedly headstrong young
couple. I’ll take Norman down to Southsea next week for change of air
for his cough, and once established in our old lodgings I can easily
carry on operations.”
Here her husband entered, and she laid her plans before him.
“Go to Southsea, my dear, by all means, but whatever it may do for
Norman’s cough, I don’t think it will be of much use as far as Alice
and Reginald are concerned. There is no answer yet from the army
chaplain. The detectives are no wiser than we are ourselves. Besides
which, that old scorpion, Miss Fane, has Alice talked out of all her
senses by this time, be sure.”
“But I anticipate a great deal from an unexpected meeting,
nevertheless. I’ll get Alice over from Sandown to spend a few days, and
‘you shall see what you shall see.’ You know that she and Miss Fane are
there, and have taken a house till April.”
“Please yourself and you please me; but I have a conviction that your
little plot will be no go. Reginald’s temper is like what the Irish
cook said of your own: ‘That you were a good Christian lady, but when
you were riz, you _was_ riz;’ and he is very much _riz_ indeed.”
“Well, I can’t wonder at it, I must say. You would have been, to say
the least of it, _annoyed_ if I had, after being married to you a
few months, called you a hypocrite and deceiver, and left you, after
throwing you my wedding-ring; you knowing yourself to be entirely
innocent of any blame all the time.”
“Yes, very true; but no such volcano as this certificate ever burst
out in your home. Pray what would you have done, or say you would have
done, in such a case?”
“I would have trusted you, Mark.”
“Humph.” What an extraordinary amount of unbelief a grunt can convey.
“Ah well, perhaps you would. Such trust is, however, much easier in
theory than in practice. Make some allowance for Alice, poor girl,
although we all know she is in the wrong. It’s a bad business--a bad
business.”
So saying, he opened his paper with an impressive rustle and buried
himself in the news of the day.
* * * * *
A fortnight had passed. The Mayhews were domiciled at Southsea, and
Alice had come over to stay with them for a few days after an immense
amount of coaxing, and finally being “fetched.” She was as deaf as an
adder to all Helen’s eloquent reasoning and remonstrances, and even
Mark was out of patience with her at last. She had been primed by Miss
Fane with answers to every argument, and had given her her most solemn
promise never to yield an inch until the certificate was thoroughly
disproved. There had been a letter from her husband to Helen, saying
he was coming down on Monday to bid “Good-bye,” as he was to sail
the following Thursday; and he mentioned that he wished to have an
interview with his wife, so that her being on a visit at the Mayhews’
was most convenient. She was not told of his probable arrival, in case
it should scare her away. She knew that he was shortly going to India,
but where he was, or when he was going, she had no means of knowing,
and was too proud to ask, and Helen was far too angry with her to offer
any gratuitous information.
On Monday afternoon Helen and Alice were sitting in the drawing-room,
the latter pouring out tea at a low gipsy table, and looking very fair,
girlish, and lovely in a thick black damassé silk of most artistic cut,
with lace ruffles at her throat and wrists. Helen, lounging opposite in
a capacious armchair, was reading aloud tid-bits from _The World_, and
occasionally glancing towards the door.
Norman and Hilda, with scrambling feet and buttered fingers, were
making Alice’s life a burden to her; and she was by no means so
tolerant of these young aggravations as her husband would have been.
“More sugar; more sugar, Alice!” cried Norman, passing a very sloppy
cup recklessly towards her.
“No, my dear Norman; I gave you two lumps.”
“Give me another two, for I have fished them out and eaten them. Come,
look sharp!”
“Norman!”
“If you don’t I’ll take that arrow out of your hair and pull it all
down, and you’ll see how nice you’ll look if visitors come.”
“If you do----” began Alice indignantly. Just at this crisis the door
opened and admitted Mark, Geoffrey, and Reginald.
The children made a violent charge towards the latter.
“Uncle Regy, Uncle Regy! where have you been all this long time? What
have you brought us?” they cried, leaping and dancing expectantly round
him.
Alice glanced up hastily. He was shaking hands with Helen. What was she
to do? Would he shake hands with her? Yes; in another second she found
her hand in his; and then he turned to the children.
“Give me a cup of tea, Alice,” said Geoffrey, drawing a chair close
to the tea-table, and staring at her with a very unpleasant critical
scrutiny.
Her hands trembled so violently she could hardly hold the teapot; the
colour sank from her cheeks, and her heart beat so fast it seemed as if
it would choke her; but she made a brave struggle for self-command, and
endeavoured to converse easily and indifferently with Geoffrey whilst
her husband was talking to Helen. Presently she stole a look at him; he
was standing on his favourite place--the rug--and she met point-blank
the steady glance of his keen dark eyes, fixed on herself--a look full
of interest, yet grave and stern.
She felt her face becoming crimson, and dived under the table for her
handkerchief, glad of an opportunity of composing her countenance. Dare
she take another look? No, she dare not.
At this moment visitors were announced, and the bustle consequent on
their arrival was the greatest relief.
Enter two fashionable ladies with a cavalier in tow. Reginald evidently
found favour in the eyes of one of them; he had the unmistakable air of
a man of birth and distinction. She therefore proceeded to make herself
most agreeable, and put him through a series of animated questions,
giving him a pretty good benefit of her eyes all the time. Alice,
looking on, felt indignation burn within her; and yet, why should she
mind? he was nothing to her! He had destroyed her life, as far as her
happiness went. All she valued was gone. Bravely indeed did she try
to sustain a share of conversation, and to keep up appearances to the
best of her ability. She knew she was answering the strange young man’s
remarks at random, but she could not help it. He was looking intensely
puzzled, as well he might, when she told him that “she was staying in
_India_, but had come over to Southsea for two or three days.” Oh, if
she could only get out of the room! No sooner thought than done. She
was gliding quietly towards the door, when her husband with two steps
confronted her.
“Alice,” said he, “I wish to speak to you particularly. Can you come
out with me and take a turn on the pier?”
Alice bowed her head in assent, and passed on. When she came down in
her walking things--close-fitting velvet paletôt trimmed with superb
sable, and cap to match--she found him waiting in the hall. Having
ceremoniously opened the door for her, they set out, and walked on
rapidly, exchanging the veriest commonplaces. The pier was evidently
to be the scene of action, so Alice braced up all her nerve for the
encounter, and firmly determined to abide by Miss Fane’s advice, and
not yield an inch till the certificate was utterly refuted.
No one meeting them would have guessed at the storm that was raging
in their hearts. They did not look like married people, nor lovers
certainly. “A young fellow taking his very pretty sister for a walk,
most likely,” would have been the verdict of a passer-by.
Arrived at the pier, Alice summoned up all her courage, and taking a
good long breath and a firm grasp of her umbrella, said, with apparent
composure: “Now what have you to say to me?”
“Several things as your husband, and a few as your guardian,” he
replied, leaning against the railing and looking at her intently.
“Say nothing to me as my husband, but whatever you have to say as my
guardian I will perhaps attend to.”
“Then you still entertain the monstrous notion--that I am _not_ your
husband?”
To this question Alice made no reply, and he proceeded. “Well, I _am_,
all the same. But I see it would be a waste of time and temper to
endeavour to persuade you otherwise. I have every reason to believe
that within the next two months all will be satisfactorily cleared up.
May I ask what you will do in that case?”
“I will return to you as your wife, of course,” she replied calmly.
“And do you suppose that I will receive you then? Return to me
_now_--show, even at the eleventh hour, that you can trust me--I will
send in my papers and stay at home. I have interest, and it is not yet
too late. I will freely forgive and forget all you thought, all you
said. It shall be as though it had never been spoken.” He paused, and
looked at her eagerly. “I told you,” he proceeded still more earnestly,
“that I had done with you, that I had no desire to see you again, but
I found, on cool reflection, that I loved you far too dearly to give
you up without an effort at reconciliation. I have made _two_--once
in London and once now--but this, I declare to you solemnly, will be
the last. Come back to me, and trust me, my dearest,” he said, laying
his hand entreatingly on her arm. “Trust me only for a little time;
all will, all must come right. You will never again in all your life
have such an opportunity of showing your love, your confidence in me.
Do you think I would not stand by you in a similar case? You know I
would,” he added emphatically. “Come back to me, Alice,” he urged.
“No, I will not,” she replied doggedly leaning both elbows on the
railing of the pier and staring steadily out to sea.
“You will not?” he repeated, in a tone of bitter disappointment. “You
cannot mean it.” After an inward struggle with himself he continued as
before: “Think of what you are doing, Alice. You have broken up our
home and turned me adrift--taken your freedom and your own way. You are
sending me back to India, and God knows if I shall ever return.”
“You need not go,” she replied in a low voice, still looking out to
sea, as if addressing the ocean.
“Of course I must go!” he cried emphatically; “unless you wish to have
the open mouth of scandal busy with our names. If the world knows that
I am engaged in my country’s service it may leave you alone. But I
warn you that society looks coldly on a young and pretty woman living
apart from her husband, and rightly or wrongly, they almost always
throw the blame of the separation on _her_ shoulders. I know you have
been influenced by Miss Fane; I know you have. It was not my generous,
true-hearted Alice that spoke to me that night at Looton. You don’t
know how you pained me, how you nearly maddened me by some of the
things she put into your mouth--things my pure-minded girl-wife would
never have thought of herself. You could not seriously think that I
had another wife living, and that I had dared, nevertheless, to marry
you--an _orphan_, as you justly remarked, committed to my care! Think
of the shameful crime it would be! Look me full in the face, and tell
me candidly, truthfully, and of your own free will, whether you imagine
that I, Reginald Fairfax, could be guilty of such a thing?”
Alice turned round at once and confronted him--his face pale with
emotion. His dark, miserable eyes haunted her painfully afterwards for
many and many a day.
“Clear yourself first,” she exclaimed, “then I will listen to you. As
long as that certificate is unexplained I will never return to you as
your wife; I will never, never see you again, as far as I can help it,
until the whole affair is refuted. I am amazed that you should expect
it.”
Sir Reginald gazed incredulously at his wife for a moment, as if he
thought that his ears must have deceived him.
“Is this your last word?” he said in a voice husky with passion.
She nodded emphatically.
Exasperated beyond endurance, he left her side and walked to the other
end of the pier alone. Presently he returned with firm rapid strides,
and confronted her with a compression of the lips and a flash in his
eyes she had never seen before. Coming to a stop, and standing directly
before her, he said:
“That was _your_ last word; now hear _mine_. I most solemnly take God
to witness”--raising his hat as he spoke--“that I will never receive
you back as my wife until you have made the most humble, abject apology
that ever came from woman’s lips. You shall abase yourself to the very
dust for the shameful injustice you have done _me_.”
“Shall I, indeed?” she exclaimed passionately. “You will never see a
Saville abased to the dust. I will never apologise and never beg your
pardon. Pray do not offer your forgiveness before it is required.”
“Very well,” he replied coldly, “there is no more to be said, as you
declare that you will never apologise, and I have sworn to yield to no
other terms. We shall live for the future as strangers, excepting that
I shall exercise over you--even though at a distance--the authority of
your guardian till you are twenty-five.”
“I shall not submit to your authority!” she interrupted hotly.
“Oh yes, you will,” he returned in a cool unmoved tone. “You have as
yet to learn that I too have a will--that I am your master--no longer
your slave. I am aware I cannot flatter myself that you either love or
honour me,” with ironical emphasis, “but you will certainly _obey_ me.”
“I shall _not_!” she cried indignantly.
“Oh yes, I am quite sure you will,” he replied in the easy
authoritative tone with which one talks to a naughty child. “You will
live at Monkswood,” he proceeded tranquilly. “It is smaller than
Looton, but I hope you will find it as comfortable. Horses, carriages,
and servants will precede you there, and I hope all will be ready for
your reception in a fortnight’s time. In the meanwhile I must beg you
will remain with Helen, as I do not wish you to return to Miss Fane.
I forbid you to see her or to correspond with her.” He paused to see
the effect of his words, then continued: “Your own aunt, Miss Saville,
has been good enough to promise to reside with you permanently, as it
would be out of the question for you to live alone.”
During the above long speech Alice had been gazing at her husband with
amazed indignant eyes. Drawing herself up as he concluded, she said:
“And supposing I decline to leave Miss Fane and to go to Monkswood,
what are to be the dire consequences?”
“You have no other alternative,” he replied with freezing politeness.
“Unfortunately for your independent spirit, all your money is in my
hands.”
“What a shame!” she cried passionately.
“Yes, is it not?” he answered with a satirical smile. “A young lady
with an empty purse, and utterly cut off from her friends, would find
herself rather embarrassed, to say the least of it.”
“Miss Fane will allow me to live with her as before,” she returned
confidently.
“When she finds that you are absolutely penniless, I think you will
discover that her interest in you has ceased,” he replied significantly.
“Must I go to Monkswood? Must I?” she asked passionately.
A bow was her reply.
“I suppose I am completely in your power?”
“I am afraid so,” he answered composedly.
“Oh, if anyone else were only my guardian! If your father had lived, or
if he had chosen Mr. Mayhew.”
“I sincerely echo both your wishes, but I hope you will be able to
reconcile yourself to circumstances. You will go to Monkswood, I am
sure.”
“I suppose I _must_--for a time at least,” looking at him defiantly.
“Very well,” he replied, ignoring her look, “we will consider the
matter settled. Mark Mayhew and my solicitors will look after your
interests. Personally, I will have no communication with you. This
is our last interview; from to-day we are strangers.” After a pause
he went on: “You will hear from Helen whether I am dead or alive; if
the former, you will be freed from every tie--you will be your own
mistress, an exceedingly rich widow, with no one to control you in
any way. Should you marry again, as no doubt you will, I sincerely
hope your second venture in matrimony will be more fortunate than your
first.”
“Reginald!” she exclaimed indignantly.
“He will have to be a different sort of fellow to me,” he continued,
without noticing the interruption; “to have a pretty thick skin;
to give you your own way completely; and to have no self-respect
whatever. Of course _that_ will be a _sine qua non_. He must not
mind your changeful moods, nor be offended, if after telling him he
is dearer to you than words can express, and making an utter fool of
him, you turn on him at the first breath of suspicion and call him a
hypocrite, a deceiver, a ruffian of the deepest dye, and altogether a
most infernal scoundrel.”
“Reginald, I never used such expressions. How _dare_ you speak to me
in such a way! How dare you treat me so!” she exclaimed, raising her
voice, much to the amusement of two sailors, the only other people on
the pier, who were lolling over the railings close by, and had been
watching the scene with unaffected delight.
“She’s giving it to him. By Jove, Bill, that chap has his hands full!”
said one of them, turning his quid. “If he is going to venture out
on the sea of matrimony with that craft, he’ll happen to have heavy
weather frequent and squalls every day.”
“What do you mean by bringing me here to ridicule and insult me?”
repeated Alice in a towering rage. “The marriage certificate is
still unexplained, and you talk to me as if _you_ were the injured
person--_you_!”
“I am glad to see that you have grasped my meaning,” he replied coolly.
“I _am_ the injured person; suspected by you, who should be the last to
doubt me--homeless, wifeless, nevertheless innocent. I am leaving my
native land, this time a voluntary exile. You have destroyed my faith
in womankind: a woman’s word--a woman’s love--a woman’s generosity are
to me now merely so many names for delusions believed in by children
and _fools_. I brought you here to tell you of various arrangements I
had made. I preferred a personal interview to letter-writing; besides
which, I am sure you will be amused to hear that I had a lingering hope
you would have believed me and trusted me, even at the eleventh hour--a
hope I now see,” looking at her steadily, “that I was mad to entertain.”
“You were indeed insane to think it,” exclaimed Alice very
emphatically. “Prove the certificate to be a forgery, and then I will
believe you,” she said abruptly, turning to leave the pier, with a
scarlet flush on either cheek and a general air of outraged dignity.
They walked homewards, that cold, dusky February evening, in solemn
silence. Alice’s conscience was clamouring loudly as she stepped
briskly along, endeavouring to keep up with her husband’s rapid
strides. He seemed totally unconscious of her presence. Buried deep in
his own thoughts, he did not vouchsafe a single remark between the pier
and the Mayhews’ house.
“God forgive you if you have wronged him,” said Alice’s inward monitor.
“He is going away to the other end of the world, and you may never see
him again.”
“But the certificate--the clergyman’s signature so far undenied and
unrefuted,” argued Pride and Propriety.
Helen, who had been expecting great things from this interview, met
her cousins in the hall on their return. One glance at Alice was
sufficient to dash her hopes to the ground--she looked the very picture
of frigid resolution as she placed her umbrella in the stand, and with
some trivial remark about the lateness of the hour walked straight
upstairs to her own room, where she remained all the evening, pleading
a bad headache as an excuse from dinner. Nor was her husband a more
hopeful subject; declining all his cousin’s entreaties and persuasions
to remain, at any rate, till the last train, he took his departure
forthwith, Helen promising him, as she followed him to the door, that
they would _all_ come and see him off the following Thursday. Her
inquiries and hints were in vain; no particulars of the walk to the
pier were vouchsafed to satisfy the cravings of her curiosity. “We are
just where we were before we ever met--we are strangers,” was the only
intelligence gleaned from her cousin as he selected a cigar, buttoned
up his top-coat, and bade her good-night.