Proper pride : A novel. Volume 2 (of 3)

By B. M. Croker

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Title: Proper pride : A novel. Volume 2 (of 3)


Author: B. M. Croker

Release date: December 27, 2023 [eBook #72519]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Tinsley Brothers, 1882

Credits: MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROPER PRIDE : A NOVEL. VOLUME 2 (OF 3) ***




                             PROPER PRIDE.

                                A Novel.

    Life may change, but it may fly not;
    Hope may vanish, but can die not;
    Truth be veiled, but still it burneth,
    Love repulsed--but it returneth.

                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._
                                VOL. II.

                                LONDON:
              TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
                                 1882.
                        [_All rights reserved._]




                       CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
                         CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.




                               CONTENTS.

                                                                   PAGE


CHAPTER I.

“THE NEILGHERRIES”                                                     1

CHAPTER II.

AFGHANISTAN                                                           20

CHAPTER III.

“MY CAPTAIN DOES NOT ANSWER; HIS LIPS ARE PALE AND STILL”             48

CHAPTER IV.

MONKSWOOD                                                             80

CHAPTER V.

WAITING FOR AN ANSWER                                                 87

CHAPTER VI.

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE                                             105

CHAPTER VII.

“MARY, IT IS MY HUSBAND!”                                            134

CHAPTER VIII.

ALICE’S OVERTURES ARE DECLINED                                       163

CHAPTER IX.

“SIR REGINALD’S EYES ARE OPENED”                                     200

CHAPTER X.

GEOFFREY MANŒUVRES                                                   238

CHAPTER XI.

“MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT ALONE”                                         245




                             PROPER PRIDE.




                              CHAPTER I.

                          “THE NEILGHERRIES.”


Our hero went to the Neilgherry Hills for the remainder of his two
months’ leave. It is quite beyond my pen to describe that lovely
region, but in common with almost all who have ever been there I have
an admiration amounting to a passion for the Blue Hills. I declare
them to be the most salubrious, delightful, beautiful range in the
whole world. If I were to attempt a detailed description of these
most favoured hills, I should fall so far short of their perfections
that I would only incur the wrath and contempt of their many devoted
admirers, so I shall content myself by merely giving a description of
Sir Reginald’s journey up the Ghaut.

He arrived at the foot of the hills early one morning, having spent a
night of heat, mosquitoes, and consequent madness at Mettapollium. He
rode up by the old road, which is nine miles to Coonor, in preference
to driving up the new ghaut, a detour of sixteen miles. His thoughts
were exceedingly pleasant, and he whistled uninterruptedly for the
first two miles; but after a while the beautiful scenery he was passing
through engaged his attention entirely, and more than once he stopped
his horse and looked about in amazed admiration. “Oh, if Alice could
only see it! If she were here, what ecstasies she would be in!” was
his frequent thought. As he journeyed steadily up, the close tropical
vegetation was gradually left behind, the trees assumed a more European
aspect, the air lost its thick steamy feel, and became every instant
more rarefied and pure. The path appeared to wind in and out through
mountain-sides clothed with trees and foliage of every description; a
foaming river was tearing headlong down a wide rocky channel and taking
frantic leaps over all impediments. The scenery was splendid. In spite
of hunger and fatigue, Sir Reginald felt as if he could gaze and gaze
for hours, and yet that his eyes would scarcely be satisfied. Wild
roses and wild geraniums abounded on all sides; enormous bunches of
heliotrope were growing between the stones; lovely flowering creepers
connected the trees, and as to the ferns----!

The graves of several engineers who had died when this old ghaut was
being made were passed--poor lonely graves! and yet could those laid in
them, so many thousands of miles away from their native land, desire to
be buried in a more beautiful spot?

At one side towered the “Droog,” crowned by Tippoo’s old fortress.
The “Droog” itself, a bold beetling hill facing south, and most
precipitous, seemed to stand as sentry to this garden of India. From
the top of it you could look sheer down into the plains. It was on the
opposite side of the river to the old ghaut, and a long day’s outing
from Coonor. On its summit were the gray broken walls of the fort, very
old and much dismantled, and from which they say that Tippoo, when in
an angry mood, used to toss his unhappy prisoners down to the plains
below. There it was that the Mahrattas made their last stand against
the British; and as they brought an enormous amount of treasure up
from their strongholds in the plains, which treasure has never been
recovered, the “Droog” is considered a highly interesting place for
more reasons than one. It is said that all the gold and jewels were
thrown down a well somewhere just beyond the fort walls. One very old
man was supposed to know of its whereabouts, but he would never divulge
the secret, as he said the spot was guarded by the ghosts--devils, he
called them--of many Mahratta warriors, and he was afraid to incur
their displeasure.

Sir Reginald arrived in due time at Coonor, and put up at an hotel,
before the windows of which there was a hedge of heliotrope cut like
box at home, and so high and so dense, that you could ride at one side
of it, and someone else at the other, without either being aware of
their mutual proximity. It was one mass of flowers, and smelt like ten
thousand cherry-pies, and was one of the sights of the Neilgherries.
Sir Reginald relaxed somewhat as regarded society, made friends with
the other inmates of the hotel, and joined in picnics to all the most
celebrated views. He was well known on the Toda Mund as one of the best
and most inveterate of tennis-players, and carried off the first prize
in a tournament which took place during his stay.

Touching the Toda Mund, there were no Todas there then; they had long
removed themselves, with their black ringlets and sheet clothing, to a
more remote region; but years previously the present lawn-tennis-court
ground had been the home of generations of these extraordinary people.

Sir Reginald returned to his regiment much the better for his trip,
and received the congratulations of his friends on his improved
appearance, and also on the discovery he had made at Cheetapore; as
what had been the talk of all that station naturally came to the ears
of his brother-officers, and they boldly conversed of himself and his
_wife_ as if they had known all along that he had been a married man.
The individual who had been so contemptuously scouted when he had
declared that Fairfax was a Benedict now found himself looked upon as a
man of unusual penetration--in short, a second Daniel; and for a time
his opinions were quoted at at least ten per cent. above their usual
regimental value.

As for Fairfax himself, a change had certainly come over the spirit
of his dream. He was an altered man; no more headlong solitary rides,
no more moping in his own quarters. Attired in faultless garb of
undoubted “Europe” origin, he was led, like a lamb, to make a series
of calls among the chief notabilities of the place. “Better late than
never!” they mentally exclaimed when his card was handed in, and being
assured that “Missus could see,” the hero of the hour followed. His
history was now as well known as if it had been published in _The
Pioneer_, and the ladies of Camelabad overwhelmed him with sympathy
and condolence, which he accepted with the best grace he could muster;
but he shrank from speaking of his wife, save in the most distant and
general terms; and it was easy to see that the mock certificate was a
very sore, distasteful subject.

As each succeeding mail came in he said to himself, “Surely this will
bring a letter from Alice?” How he looked forward to mail-days no one
knew but himself; how buoyant were his spirits every Saturday morning,
how depressed that same evening, when, tossing over the newly-arrived
letters on the anteroom table, he would find one from Mark Mayhew,
one from his agent, and perhaps one from his tailor, but not a line
from his wife. He heard from the Mayhews that Alice had received and
acknowledged the confessions; and Mark, Helen, and Geoffrey each sent
him a long letter full of indignation and congratulation. The burden of
each of these epistles was the same, although couched in very different
style and language: it said, “Come home.” “Whenever his wife endorsed
their wishes, he would leave Bombay by the following mail.” This was
what he said to himself over and over again. Two months elapsed and no
letter came--not a line, not even a message. After making allowance
for every conceivable delay, he gradually and reluctantly relinquished
all hopes of the ardently-desired missive, and came to the conclusion
that nothing now remained for him to think but that she wished their
separation to be life-long.

One evening he mounted his horse and galloped out alone to one of his
former favourite haunts, an old half-ruined temple, about six miles
from the cantonment. Here he dismounted and tied his Arab to a tree,
saying to himself as he ascended the steps: “There is no fear of any
interruption here, and I will make up my mind to some definite plan
before I return to Camelabad this evening.” As he paced up and down
the empty echoing ruin, he tried to judge between Alice and himself
as calmly and dispassionately as if he were a third person. His own
motives and actions were easily explained, but Alice’s were not so
readily understood. What could be the meaning of her extraordinary
conduct? His name had been cleared, and she, who should never have
doubted him, and who, at any rate now, ought to be the first to come
forward, had been dumb. There was but one reasonable solution. “She did
not know her own mind when she was married; she never cared two straws
about me, and she seizes the first pretext to free herself from a
distasteful union. So be it; she _shall_ be free,” he muttered. “I will
hold myself utterly aloof from her for the future. I shall go home and
live at Looton, and surround myself with friends--shoot, hunt, and lead
as gay a bachelor life as if I had no wife in existence. Why should I
expatriate myself for her sake?” he asked himself aloud.

But on second thoughts this scheme did not prove so alluring. At
Looton, every room, every walk, every face would only remind him of
Alice.

“I could not stand it just yet,” he muttered; “it is all too fresh,
too recent; one does not get over a thing like that so soon. In a year
or two, when I am thoroughly hardened and indifferent, I will go;
meanwhile I shall remain in the service.”

The duties of his profession had their charms for him; and the society
of his brother-officers was, he reflected, more welcome and more
necessary to him now than ever. Weak he had always been where Alice was
concerned, but for once he would be firm and be a man, and no longer an
infatuated fool, following the _ignis fatuus_ of a woman’s caprice.

As he stood on the steps of the temple, watching the crimson sun that
was slowly sinking beyond the horizon and tinting the arid plains,
the distant hills, the old temple, and Reginald himself, with the
gorgeous hues of its departing splendour, “That sun,” he exclaimed,
as he watched the last little red streak utterly disappear, “has set
on my folly and weakness; to-morrow will find me, in one respect at
least, a different man. For the future I will endeavour to forget that
I ever had a wife. I know it will be no easy matter to banish her from
my thoughts, but I shall do my best. As a wife she is dead to me in all
but name; her indifference shall be only rivalled by mine.” Query: Was
he not still thinking of her as he sat for fully an hour, with his head
resting in his hands? He was endeavouring to dig the grave of his love,
and to bury decently all the unfulfilled hopes he had cherished for so
long. The moon arose, owls and bats made their appearance and flitted
to and fro, apparently unconscious of the silent figure on the temple
steps. At length the pawing and neighing of his horse aroused him. He
started up hastily, pulled himself morally together, and hurried down
to the impatient steed, whom he unfastened and mounted, and in another
moment was galloping away over the moonlit midan, leaving the old
temple to the undisturbed possession of a veteran hyena and a family of
jackals.

The Seventeenth Hussars had expected, as a sequel to his discovery at
Cheetapore, that Sir Reginald would have returned to his ancestral
halls as fast as steam could take him.

But month after month went by, and he still remained a fixture at
Camelabad. He carried out his mental resolution to the letter, and
left himself no leisure to think of Alice or anyone else. He returned
with the greatest energy to all his bachelor amusements, kept a string
of racers, hunted the regimental pack, and made constant shooting
expeditions. He played whist till the small hours, and entered into
everything with the greatest zeal; took a prominent if somewhat
mechanical part in all the entertainments in the station, and was voted
“charming” by the ladies, both young and old. Notwithstanding his
bachelor pursuits, he developed a curious and Benedict-like interest in
babies--a species of humanity that he had hitherto held in abhorrence.
He cast more than one inquisitive glance on the smaller fry in arms
as he went round the married quarters. And Mrs. Gifford, the wife of
the only married captain in the Seventeenth, was amazed when her ayah
informed her that “Sir Fairfax” had more than once taken notice of her
baby, “asking age, asking boy or girl, how soon walking?” It was most
flattering, if a little mysterious, and he became a greater favourite
than ever with Mrs. Gifford. She was not aware that her boy shone with
a borrowed lustre in Sir Reginald’s eyes for being almost the same age
as his son, and that the toys and presents which were showered on him
as he grew older were not bestowed altogether for his own sake.

A year after his visit to Cheetapore, Sir Reginald received a letter in
Alice’s well-known writing. “It has come at last,” he said to himself,
as with trembling hands he tore it open in his own bungalow. He drew
out the photo of a sturdy dark-eyed cherub, enclosed in a sheet of
blank letter-paper. At first he could hardly credit his senses; his
indignation and his bitter disappointment were too great for words. His
first impulse was to tear the photo into four pieces, but, mastering
this rather insane idea, he took it up and looked at it closely
instead. He was glad he had not obeyed his first rash notion. The boy
was certainly a splendid little fellow. Written in the corner of the
carte was, “Maurice E. Fairfax, aged thirteen months.” He was something
more tangible now, his father thought, as he minutely studied every
feature. He felt a thrill of novel and very pleasant pride as he looked
at the bright eager little face, and said to himself: “This is my son.
He has the Fairfax eyes and brows, I believe,” he continued, as he
still studied the photo critically, “but no one will deny that he has
his mother’s mouth.”

With a sigh he pieced together the torn envelope, and looked in vain
for a word; the blank sheet of paper he scrupulously turned over; it
was really blank indeed. He gazed at it for some time, as if there
were actually something written on it; then, suddenly gathering
himself together, he carefully folded it up and put it along with the
photograph into the envelope, and locked them away in his desk.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir Reginald had been nearly two years at Camelabad when the outbreak
which had been simmering for some time in Afghanistan came to
boiling-point, and the gauntlet of defiance was thrown down by the
Ameer.

Captains Campbell and Vaughan were reposing in long chairs in front of
their mess, much exhausted with lawn-tennis, refreshing themselves with
copious iced pegs, and enjoying a delightful experience of the _dolce
far niente_ as embodied in Bombay--chairs and brandies-and-sodas.

Suddenly a solitary horseman was seen madly careering across the
midan, in the direction of their lines.

“I say, just look at this fellow; his horse has bolted!” said Captain
Campbell.

“Not a bit of it,” replied his companion serenely; “don’t you see that
it’s Fairfax on his chestnut, riding _ventre à terre_, as usual?”

“Hallo, Fairfax, what’s up?” they shouted as he approached. “Are the
barracks ablaze, and are you going for the fire-engine?”

“Better than that,” he cried, clattering into the compound. “I have
just come up from the general’s with glorious news--we start for the
front this day week.”




                              CHAPTER II.

                             AFGHANISTAN.

    True, a new mistress now I chase,
      The first foe in the field,
    And with a stronger faith embrace
      A sword, a horse, a shield.


The Seventeenth Hussars were duly forwarded to the frontier, and found
that their final destination was Dabaule, where there was a good supply
of grass and water for their horses.

Owing to the approach of winter, there was an utter stagnation of
military operations, and in spite of occasional small raids on,
and from, the neighbouring Afridis, the time passed monotonously
enough. The weather was cold and cheerless, but the officers of the
Seventeenth, headed by their junior major, did their very best to
provide exercise and entertainment for their men and for the camp in
general.

Football, hockey, penny readings, and theatricals were set going
with remarkable success, and helped to repel the encroachments of
idleness and _ennui_. The surrounding scenery was quite different to
the tiresome succession of parallel ridges presented by the ranges
near the frontier. Here hill and valley were thrown together in the
most admirable confusion, and clothed with short stunted shrubs and
wild olives; gloomy pine-woods marked out some of the hills in bold
black relief; the distant mountains were capped with snow, and the
cold at times was most intense. During the suspension of hostilities
there was ample leisure for correspondence, and letter-writing was a
frequent resource on a dull gray afternoon. The following is one of Sir
Reginald’s contributions to the mail-bag, written on his knee by the
light of a small bull’s-eye lantern in the retirement of his seven-foot
tent:

                                                          “Camp Dabaule.

 “MY DEAR MARK,

 “It is not my fault that there has been such a tremendous gap in our
 correspondence. I have written to you again and again, and I once more
 seize the opportunity of the mail-dâk passing through to send you a
 few lines, and hope they will meet with a better fate than my other
 effusions, not one of which appears to have reached you, judging by
 your incendiary letter. Doubtless they are in the hands of those
 beggars the Afridis, who rob the mails and cut the telegraph-wires
 continually. We are all flourishing--men in good spirits, horses in
 capital condition; the only thing we ask is to be up and doing. Cold
 weather has closed the passes to a great extent, and there is nothing
 whatever going on. To come into our camp you would never dream that
 you were in an enemy’s country, we have made ourselves so completely
 at home, although our accommodation is not magnificent. We have all
 small hill-tents, weighing about eighty pounds, in which there is
 just room enough to turn round, and no more. We all wear thick fur
 coats, called poshteens, and fur caps, quite the Canadian style. You
 would have some difficulty in recognising me, I can tell you, were you
 told to pick me out from among a dozen of fellows sitting round our
 favourite rendezvous--the camp-fire. There is snow on the ranges all
 round, and we have lots of ice without troubling the ice-machines, but
 hot grog is more the fashion than iced champagne.

 “We arrived here six weeks ago, _viâ_ the Khan Pass, and brought in,
 among other prisoners, Hadji Khan, a notorious robber and unmitigated
 rascal. We have him in camp now. He has the most diabolical expression
 I ever beheld; nevertheless, the length and frequency of his prayers
 are absolutely astounding. He spends more than half the day on his
 marrow-bones, no doubt consigning us, in all generations, to Gehenna,
 if you know where that is?

 “The Afghans, take them all in all, are a fine-looking set of
 men, with bigger frames and fairer skins than the natives of
 sunny Hindostan. Their physiognomy is decidedly of the Jewish
 caste--piercing black eyes and hooked noses, set off by a resolute,
 not to say savage, expression of death and extermination to all the
 Feringhees!

 “Now, this cold weather, they are wrapped in poshteens, with or
 without sleeves, of very dubious cleanliness. A good serviceable
 garment descends from generation to generation. An enormous dark-blue
 puggaree encircling a little red cap forms their turban. But the
 headman of a village, in a richly-embroidered poshteen, ‘the woolly
 side in,’ like the immortal Brian O’Lynn--magnificent gold and
 blue turban, and long silver-mounted matchlock, is as handsome and
 picturesque a looking fellow as you could wish to see.

 “I have not as yet had an opportunity of beholding an Afghan
 lady. Some of the common women labour in the fields unveiled, a
 weather-beaten, bold-looking set, but the lady of the period conceals
 her charms behind a long white arrangement, that covers her from head
 to foot, like a sheet; two holes cut for her eyes, and covered with
 white net, give her a most ghostly and ghastly appearance. She looks
 like a she-‘familiar’ of the time of the Inquisition.

 “We have a capital mess here, and to find such a dinner as our head
 kansamah serves up, after whetting our appetites by a twenty-mile
 ride, is a joy no words can express. After the snows break up we
 are sure to have a short bout of fighting, and then the campaign
 will be over. The English charger I got in Bombay has turned out
 first-class--as hard as nails and up to any amount of work. Many
 thanks to Helen for the Cardigan jacket and mittens. My love to her
 and the _Limbs_.

                                                        “Yours as ever,
                                                        “R. M. FAIRFAX.”

In April there was a general move on. The camp at Dabaule was broken
up, and everyone was delighted to stretch themselves, as it were, and
resume the line of march.

Very shortly afterwards a severe engagement took place between the
brigade and a large body of Afghans. It resulted in the total defeat
of the latter. Their loss amounted to one thousand, whilst the
English force had only three hundred killed and wounded. The Afghans
occupied a large plateau protected by walls of loose stones, and held
an extremely strong position. The English brigade consisted of the
Seventeenth Hussars, Fifth Goorkhas, Twenty-seventh N. I., Fortieth
Sikhs, and a battery of artillery. The enemy behaved with the most
determined courage, rabble horde as they were; some merely armed with
long knives and yataghans, some carrying the dear familiar Jazail, and
some--oh, proud and happy men!--the British Enfield rifle. They were
led by a man on a powerful black horse, who wore a prodigious green
turban, and had his face whitened with ashes or some such substance.
He was a very holy moolah, and harangued the multitude with an energy
and vehemence only surpassed by his wild and frenzied gesticulations.
Beside him stood his standard-bearer, carrying a large green flag with
a red border and red inscription; and in spite of a heavy fire from the
infantry, this enormous force of undisciplined fanatics advanced with
the utmost steadiness and resolution. The order to charge was given
to the hussars, who bore down like a whirlwind, led by Sir Reginald
Fairfax--the colonel was _hors de combat_ with typhoid fever--who,
mounted on a gallant English thoroughbred, cleared the low wall, and
was soon laying about him in all directions.

He wrested the standard from the hands of its bearer, and striking him
a tremendous blow with its iron pole, laid him low, but was speedily
surrounded by some furious fanatics, resolved to regain their colours
at any cost. His horse was shot under him; however, quickly disengaging
himself, sword in hand, and still grasping the green flag, he made
a valiant stand against half-a-dozen moolahs, with his back to some
broken masonry. It would have gone hard with him had not some of his
men charged down to his rescue and beaten off the moolahs, who in
another moment would have made a vacancy in the Seventeenth Hussars
and left Lady Fairfax a widow. Rid of his immediate adversaries, Sir
Reginald seized a riderless horse, and making over the standard to a
gunner, was soon pursuing the flying enemy, who, unable to withstand
the cavalry charge, had wavered, broken, and fled; being, moreover,
utterly demoralised by the loss of their standard, which they looked
upon as their “oriflamme,” and as a kind of holy talisman, the
very sight of which alone would make the hearts of the Feringhees
quail. So much had been promised on its behalf by an aged fakir,
who had delivered it over to his countrymen with many prayers and
profound solemnity. And it was gone--taken from their very midst by a
black-hearted Kaffir, who fought like the Prince of Darkness himself.

The flying Afghans, scattered all over the plain, were pursued and
ridden down by the cavalry; but the prize all sought to capture--the
fakir on the black Turcoman--set every effort at defiance, and, thanks
to his magnificent horse, effected his escape with almost provoking
ease. Yaboos, laden with dead Afghans, were driven off the field with
miraculous celerity, and within an hour from the firing of the first
shot the plain was deserted.

For the capture of the standard “and displaying conspicuous gallantry
on the field of action,” Sir Reginald was recommended for the Victoria
Cross, a distinction his friends granted him ungrudgingly.

He was a born soldier, that was very evident. The Fairfaxes had always
had a drop of wild blood in their veins. With him it took the form of
fighting, instead of--as in his ancestors’ times--dicing, drinking,
and duelling. His men worshipped him, and would willingly have followed
him at any time and to any place, were it to the very gates of Hades
itself.

“It’s the good old blood that tells in the long run,” remarked a
trooper to his comrade over his beer and pipe. “Such a glutton for
fighting as this ’ere major of ours I never did see.”

At any rate, whatever was the reason, such an officer in camp and such
a leader in the field inspired their utmost devotion and enthusiasm.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although Hafiz Khan and his hordes were defeated and dispersed, they
speedily rallied sufficiently to be a ceaseless thorn in the flesh to
the brigade now permanently encamped within a few miles of the late
scene of action. Hafiz was a striking illustration of the saying,
“He who fights and runs away will live to fight another day.” He was
a fakir--exceptionally holy, having made the blessed pilgrimage no
less than thrice--notorious alike for his zealous piety as for his
abhorrence of the accursed Kaffir. Scandal whispered that he had not
_always_ been such a devoted servant of the Prophet; that for years
he lived in ill-odour among his neighbours, owing to his constant
appropriation of their flocks and herds. Whatever may have been the
truth, he was now an ardent patriot, and preyed on the Feringhees
instead of on his friends. He was a most daring and successful raider,
and covered himself with glory, notably on one occasion when he carried
off seven hundred head of cattle from Jellalabad.

He cut off more convoys and slaughtered more grass-cutters and
camel-drivers than any other leader between Cabul and the Khyber; and
his depredations were so secretly and skilfully carried out, that his
very name alone inspired the stoutest-hearted camp-follower with terror.

Invariably mounted on his superb black Turcoman, he gave chase or
effected his retreat with a speed that set everything at defiance. His
horse was known by the name of “Shaitan,” and was supposed to be in
direct communication with the Evil One, being imported expressly from
the lower regions for the purpose of hunting down the infidels. The
rider of this desirable mount was an elderly thick-set man, wearing
a gigantic green turban, so large as almost to conceal his features.
Still his hooked nose, fierce hawk eye, and bushy beard were visible;
and the treacherous, cruel, malignant expression of his face was such
as a devil might have envied. Armed with a pair of horse-pistols and a
formidable yataghan, he headed a band of followers varying from fifty
to two thousand, and infested an area of many miles in extent. His
patriotic zeal had no bounds; he was known to have recently butchered
an entire village, merely because the headman had supplied (under
strong pressure) cattle and grain to the English commissariat; in
short, his name far and near was a byword for ferocity and fanaticism.

       *       *       *       *       *

One evening, Sir Reginald and his two friends, Captain Vaughan and Mr.
Harvey, went for a short ride in the neighbourhood of their camp, the
former mounted on his first charger, an unusually large, powerful Arab,
the two latter on stout Yarkundi ponies. All were clad in Karki suits,
and carried (a most necessary precaution) revolvers in their belts. The
country around was reported clear. Hafiz and his faction were said to
be miles away. Certainly nothing had been heard of them for two whole
days. It was a lovely evening, and tempted by the odd wild scenery
they extended their ride farther than they had previously intended. At
sunset they found themselves close by a straggling Mohammedan cemetery,
whose large square tombs were thickly crowded together, some of them
richly carved, some of them poor and plain. The graveyard was planted
with magnificent cypresses, now casting long, long shadows in the
setting sun. A solemn melancholy silence hung around the place; even
the mud hovel, usually inhabited by the guardian fakir, was empty--a
huge Afghan dog, with closely-cropped ears and tail, lay in front of
the open doorway, sleeping on his post.

“Do you know that they say there is a Christian grave somewhere quite
close to this?” said Sir Reginald, looking round. “I wonder they buried
him so near to these people,” nodding his head in the direction of the
cemetery.

“Yes,” returned Mr. Harvey; “but it was probably done with an idea that
he would like some company.”

“Defend me from the company of an Afghan, dead or alive,” returned his
brother-officer, walking his horse on to where he commanded a view of
the fourth side of the graveyard. His two friends followed him, and
another second brought in sight a grave and plain stone cross, about
a hundred yards to their right. Standing beside it was the fakir,
in close and earnest conversation with no less a person than Hafiz
himself--Hafiz, mounted as usual on his black Turcoman, and _alone_!
Both had their backs turned to the cemetery, and stood facing the
setting sun, deeply absorbed in conversation, which they emphasized
from time to time with vehement and almost frenzied gesticulation.
Evidently they were hatching some evil deed.

“Hafiz, by all that is lucky!” exclaimed Sir Reginald, drawing out his
revolver and putting his horse into a sharp canter. But between him and
the fakirs ran a deep nullah, and ere he reached its bank they were
both aware of the presence of the three hussars.

Hafiz paused for a second to glare at the intruders, then raising one
arm to heaven, with a loud invocation to Allah, he turned and spat
on the cross beneath him with a gesture of the utmost abhorrence and
contempt, and wheeling his horse half round, with a derisive farewell
to his foes, he started off at full gallop. This outrageous insult to
their faith and nation affected the three Englishmen variously. Captain
Vaughan, who was of rather full habit, became absolutely purple with
passion; Mr. Harvey relieved his feelings with several round oaths; Sir
Reginald said nothing, but his lips tightened under his dark moustache
in a way that was ominous enough. With a vicious dig of the spurs he
forced his horse down the rugged sides of the nullah, up the opposite
bank, and away across the plain in hot pursuit of the holy man. The two
Yarkundis, urged to the very top of their speed, joined neck and neck
in the chase for a short distance, but endurance, not pace, was their
_forte_, and they soon ceased to answer to the repeated applications of
their riders’ spurs and Annamullay canes, and began to lag behind the
free-going Arab.

“It’s no use, Fairfax,” shouted Captain Vaughan, pulling up; “you’ll
never overtake him.”

“I will!” he returned, looking back for a second. “I’ll catch him and
kill him, if I follow him to Candahar.”

His friends’ remonstrances were given to the winds; he had already
distanced them by a hundred yards, and soon he and the far-receding
fakir became mere specks in the distance, and rounding the spur of a
hill, were completely lost to sight.

The two officers waited impatiently for the sound of shots, but the
silence that reigned around them remained unbroken, save for the
distant cry of the jackal setting out on his nightly career, and
seeming to say more distinctly than usual: “I smell dead white men, I
smell dead white men.”

The whistle of a kite sailing homewards was the only other sound that
broke the dead surrounding stillness. The sun had set; ten minutes
previously it had vanished below the horizon in the shape of a little
red speck; gray twilight was rapidly spreading her mantle over hills
and plains, and our two friends, finding they had completely lost sight
of their hot-headed companion, reluctantly turned their ponies’ heads
homewards, and retailed their adventure to their comrades round the
camp-fire. These listened to it with many interruptions of surprise and
dismay.

“Fairfax was splendidly mounted; that Arab of his was one of the best
horses out of Abdul Rahman’s stables, that’s some comfort,” remarked
one.

“Yes, he was evidently gaining on the Turcoman when we saw the last of
him,” returned Mr. Harvey; “but, for all we know, Fairfax has galloped
straight into the Afghan camp.”

“I had no idea he was such a Quixotic fool,” growled a grizzly-headed
colonel, angrily kicking the logs in front of him. “It would not
surprise _me_ if we never saw him again.”

Some said one thing, some another, but all agreed in feeling very grave
uneasiness on behalf of their brother-officer.

The mess-bugle sounded and was responded to, dinner was disposed of,
and still Fairfax did not appear. Meanwhile Sir Reginald, once lost
to sight, had been, as Mr. Harvey remarked, overtaking Hafiz at every
stride. The Turcoman had done a long day’s march, and, though urged by
his rider to great exertions, was no match for the well-bred Arab in
his wake. The distance between them diminished gradually but surely.
The black horse was only leading by thirty yards when Hafiz turned
and glanced over his shoulder. It _was_, as he had fancied, the very
selfsame Kaffir who had taken the sacred standard. They were within
half a mile of the Rohilla headquarters, and Allah had surely given
him over for a prey into his hand. But his horse was failing, and the
Feringhee would soon be at his girths. Best finish the matter at once.
Reining up suddenly, he faced the approaching horseman with astonishing
celerity, and drawing a pistol, which he aimed for half a second, he
fired at him point-blank. The bullet missed its intended destination
and buried itself deep in the brain of the Arab charger, who with one
frantic convulsive bound fell forward dead on the sand, and the fakir,
with drawn yataghan, charged down on the dismounted hussar, determined
to have his life.

But, Hafiz, your evil star was in the ascendant. Had you but known, you
would have been far wiser to have ridden off and left your foe to find
his way back to camp on foot, and to take his chance of being murdered
by your prowling countrymen.

With an expression of fiendish hatred the fakir rode at Sir Reginald,
his uplifted weapon ready to descend with fatal effect. But he had to
contend with a man of half his age and ten times his activity, who
sprang at him and seized his arm, and in so doing broke the force of
the blow, which, instead of sweeping off our hero’s head, as intended,
merely inflicted a flesh wound in his shoulder, and before Hafiz had
time to recover himself, a bullet from Sir Reginald’s revolver found
a lodging in his breast. Swaying heavily backwards and forwards, his
powerless hands dropped reins and weapon, and he fell from his saddle
like a sack; and our hussar, catching the Turcoman by the bridle and
disengaging his late master from the stirrup, sprang on his back,
turned his head in the direction of the English camp, and rode off at
the top of his speed.

His practised ear had caught the sounds of approaching hoofs, attracted
doubtless by the shots; but still he had a start of fully a quarter
of a mile, and made the very most of it. Infuriated Pathans rode hard
upon his track, and it was not till he was well within the lines of
the English picket, and saw their camp-fires blazing, that he ventured
to draw rein and allow the exhausted Turcoman to proceed at a walk. It
does not often happen to a horse to have to carry two successive riders
flying for their lives within the same hour. Shaitan’s drooping head
and heaving sides bore witness to a hard day’s work, as he was led by
his new owner within the bright circle of light thrown by the officers’
camp-fire.

Exclamations, remonstrances, and questions were volleyed at Sir
Reginald as once more he stood among his friends, bare-headed and
ghastly pale, with the bridle of the notorious black charger hanging
over one arm. Very brief were the answers he vouchsafed to half-a-dozen
simultaneous interrogations.

“Hafiz was badly wounded, if not dead. He was not likely to trouble
them for some time, if ever; his own charger was lying on the plain
with a bullet in his brain, and affording a fine supper for the
jackals. Yes, he had had to ride for it coming back, and the black was
pretty well done.” Here, as he came nearer to the logs, it was seen
that one sleeve of his Karki coat was soaked in blood. Questions were
immediately at an end, and he was hurried off by the doctor to have his
wounds looked to, in spite of his urgent disclaimers and assurances
“that it was a mere scratch.”

The Turcoman, the sight of which acted on the Afghans as a red rag to
a turkey-cock, soon became accustomed to an English bit and an English
rider, and made his new master a most valuable second charger. Many
were the attempts to recover him, to shoot him, to get him from his
abhorred Kaffir owner at any price, but all efforts were futile, he was
much too well guarded. When Sir Reginald was invalided home, he was
sent down to Bombay with his other horses, and sold for a very high
price to a hard-riding Member of Council; and doubtless the destination
of the once feared and honoured “evil one” will be to end his days in a
Bombay buggy.




                             CHAPTER III.

      “MY CAPTAIN DOES NOT ANSWER; HIS LIPS ARE PALE AND STILL.”


Beyond constant and most wearisome convoy duty, the Seventeenth Hussars
had very little to do. Afghanistan is a country more adapted for
mountaineers than mounted men; and as far as downright fighting was
concerned, the cavalry were, perforce, idle. Sir Reginald looked upon
“baggage guard” as better than nothing. “Half a loaf was better than no
bread,” and he had more than one exciting little brush with would-be
marauding and murdering Pathans.

Repeatedly successful raids and small skirmishes had given him a
most unenviable notoriety among the tribes of banditti who infested
the various camel-roads and swarmed about the hills. To these he was
a perfect scourge, and hunted them and harried them with unwearied
energy. It is not too much to say that they literally thirsted for his
blood. Although often warned by his brother-officers that he would be
“potted,” his daring and foolhardiness knew no bounds. He would loiter
behind, or canter on in advance of a squadron, as coolly as if he were
riding on an English high-road, and not through a gloomy Afghan pass,
among whose rocks more than one enemy was sitting patiently behind his
Jazail or Snider, waiting to work off any straggling Kaffirs, and so to
earn for himself an honourable name.

Sir Reginald appeared to bear a charmed life, and thoroughly to
carry out the good old Irish motto, “Where there’s no fear there’s no
danger;” and though he had one or two narrow escapes, he exemplified
another saying in his own person, viz., “That a miss is as good as a
mile.”

The tribes in the neighbourhood of the division to which the hussars
belonged had been giving a great deal of trouble, and displaying their
hostility in various acts, such as constantly waylaying convoys and
cutting off camel-drivers and grass-cutters. Things came to such a
pitch that it was determined to bring these wretches to their senses,
and a small but compact body was despatched to punish them. It
consisted of three squadrons of the Seventeenth, six companies of the
Two hundred and seventh, about fifty sappers, and three Gatling guns.
In moving a larger force there was a difficulty about supplies, and
the pace had to be regulated in exact proportion to that of the yaboos
with the column; and it was heart-breaking work to keep the poor beasts
going.

The march lay at first through a narrow rocky gorge, which, after two
hours’ steady advance, opened into a wide flat valley that showed
abundant evidence of cultivation, including many fields of wheat.

Two or three villages were reached, and proved to be empty; their
inhabitants, having had timely warning, had removed themselves and
their belongings, and were concealed among the surrounding hills.
Late in the afternoon a march of twelve miles brought the troops to
the large and important village of Ritsobi. The inhabitants had not
long left; but a few sacks of bhoosa, some household cooking-pots, and
one or two native ploughs were all that could be discovered; and the
soldiers were forced to content themselves with their usual rations,
instead of the fowls, eggs, and fruit of which they had had visions.

The two village towers were speedily mined and blown up, and the
wooden houses were easily levelled, and afforded capital fuel for
the camp-fires, an unusual number of which were soon blazing in all
directions.

Standing at the smallest of one of these fires was Sir Reginald
Fairfax, earnestly questioning two Belooch sepoys, who, got up as
fakirs, had been playing the part of spies among the enemy. The latter
were assembled in formidable numbers about ten miles distant, and meant
to hold their ground and await the advance of the column. To look at
Sir Reginald as he stood in the firelight, one spurred boot resting on
a log of wood, his face and attitude indicating how wholly absorbing
he found the sepoys’ information, no one would believe that he had a
thought in the world apart from his profession. The bright roaring
planks lit up his face, already kindled with the news, and the eager,
questioning officer before us was as different to the moody, cynical
Major Fairfax of Camelabad as night from day.

In spite of hard fare, no better than a trooper’s; in spite of being
all day in the saddle and half the night on the alert, he had never
looked better or cheerier. His constitution appeared to be of iron, and
he was perfectly indifferent to cold or heat, hunger or fatigue; or if
not, it was assumed that he was. His spirits and energy were untiring.
The discomforts of camp life he treated as an excellent joke, and after
dining heartily on ration beef and dry bread, and having kept the
company entertained with his stories, sallies, and toasts, he would
turn in to his seven-foot tent, wrap himself in his military cloak, and
with his saddle for a pillow sleep the sleep of the just.

It was determined by the officer in command to steal a march on the
enemy, and the force were under orders to set out that night. About one
o’clock all the camp was astir. The moon had gone down, but the stars
shone brightly--not sufficiently brightly however to make travelling
pleasant, particularly for the cavalry, as the road was cut up by
various watercourses and nullahs, in which more than one gallant hussar
came to grief, and fished himself out with imprecations loud and deep.

After marching about eight miles the column came in sight of the
enemy’s fires, and a halt was made till there was sufficient light to
advance. As soon as the first streaks of dawn became visible above the
horizon the cavalry were ordered to the front, and shortly afterwards
shots were heard, followed by a rush of hoofs, betokening the flight
and pursuit of the picket.

Two miles farther on the force reached a kotal, from whence they could
see the valley beneath them. It lay before them, but not “smiling”--it
was sprinkled with large bodies of the enemy, armed to the teeth, who,
with standards flying and drums beating, were evidently sounding the
tocsin of war. The column halted on a ridge as they saw the Ghazis
slowly advancing, and bringing their guns to the front tried the
effect of a few shells. The result was excellent. The enemy began to
sheer off towards the hills, gradually retiring up the valley. Their
movements were so rapid that the cavalry vainly manœuvred to bring
them to close quarters; they continued a steady but dignified retreat
until they reached a large walled village about three miles up the
valley, embedded in hillocks and groves of chunar trees. From rocks
and other coigns of vantage a smart fire was opened by the enemy. The
Afghan Snider is by no means a bad weapon, and cartridges from the
Balar Hissar are not to be despised. Numerous isolated cragsmen among
the rocks around the village made very good practice, but the main body
of the enemy rounded the base of a hill and completely disappeared.
It was generally supposed that they had skedaddled, but this was soon
found to be a mistake. It was merely a feint to draw the Feringhees
nearer to the village, in order that they might have the benefit of an
enormous gun, or kind of matchlock, fired from rests in the ground.
The first time it was fired the proprietors set up a deafening cheer
that echoed and re-echoed among the neighbouring hills in quite a
startling manner. A second time it fired, a second hideous shout; then
the three Gatlings were brought into play, and it was very quickly
shut up. At the first two shots from these--to the Afghans, wholly
novel inventions--they were too astounded to move; the next two sent
them flying in all directions. They seemed to melt away like snow
before the sun. Suddenly from behind a hillock a large body of cavalry
appeared, and charged irregularly but at full gallop, very pluckily
led by a man on a spotted horse, who cheered them on with loud shouts
of “Kaffir! kaffir!” The hussars, only too delighted to respond to
the call, were among them in a twinkling, and the affair was soon cut
up into a series of hand-to-hand encounters, in which the irregular
cavalry got much the worst of it, although they fought with the utmost
fury and determination. The superior arms and weight of the hussars
was more than they could contend against; they were scattered, put
to flight, and for a short distance hotly pursued. The hussars had
eleven men wounded and a number of horses lost or disabled; this was
the extent of their casualties. The defeat of their cavalry completed
the discomfiture of the enemy, and the village was our own. The whole
place was strewn with property left behind by its owners in their
hasty retreat. The soldiers had fine times, for each of them had at
least one fowl strung to his belt and an unlimited supply of fruit and
vegetables. The idea of pursuing the flying foe had to be relinquished;
they had taken to the surrounding rocky hills, which they climbed with
goatlike agility, and as chamois-hunting on horseback was beyond the
ability _even_ of the Seventeenth Royal Hussars, they were allowed to
continue their flight unmolested. One Ghazi, however, having reached
what _he_ considered a safe elevation, turned and waved his white
standard most insolently at the little force below; but a bullet from a
Henry-Martini “dropped him,” and put a fatal termination to him and his
evolutions. The infantry now spread all over the village and proceeded
to fire it. Several of the larger buildings were already in a blaze,
and many surrounding stacks of corn had been given to the flames, when
an incident occurred which nearly cost Sir Reginald his life.

As he was cantering down a narrow dusty lane, he observed two men with
pick-axes standing in evident hesitation before the closed door of a
large square house.

Reining up his horse sharply, he asked what they were about.

“Beg pardon, sir,” replied one of them, saluting him, “but they say as
’ow the ’ouse is full of Hafghans, all harmed, and we are waiting for a
party of the Two hundred and seventh before we venture inside, in case
what they say is true.”

“We will soon see,” exclaimed Sir Reginald, jumping off his horse and
giving the door a vigorous kick--an old rotten door it was--and another
kick sent it flying open. An ill-directed volley from several Jazails
greeted the intruder, and five Ghazis, armed with tulwars, made for the
street.

One of the shots had taken effect in Sir Reginald’s left arm, and,
parrying a desperate tulwar cut with his revolver, he closed with his
assailant; but a frightful blow from the heavy stock of a native gun,
delivered from behind, knocked him down insensible, and a Ghazi was
just about to give him the _coup de grâce_ with a long Afghan knife
when the sappers and infantry burst in and overpowered the inhabitants,
making very short work of them with bayonet and revolver.

The struggle in which Sir Reginald had been engaged had not lasted more
than half a minute, and when his men came up to the scene of action and
found him to all appearance dead, their fury and grief knew no bounds.
Two wounded Ghazis, who had been granted quarter, relinquished all
hopes of life when they saw the many fierce and murderous looks that
were turned on them; and when the general, his aide-de-camp, and one of
the officers of the hussars came galloping up, and they saw their faces
and gestures of consternation, they felt the gratifying conviction that
at any rate they had killed a Kaffir of some importance.

He certainly looked as if he was dead as he lay in the narrow little
street with his head resting on the knee of his brother-officer. His
eyes were closed, over his face the pallor of death seemed already to
be creeping. His blue and gold uniform was torn and disfigured with
dust and blood, and his left arm hung by his side in such a helpless
unnatural position that it did not need a second glance to see that
it was badly broken. However, he was _not_ dead, only badly wounded
and insensible. He was carried in a dhooly to the permanent camp (a
two days’ march), and the several doctors with the brigade held a
consultation on his case, whilst his anxious friends, brother-officers
and men alike, hung round the tent waiting for the verdict. Great
was their relief to hear that, if fever did not supervene, there was
nothing serious to be apprehended, but that it would be many a day
before Sir Reginald would again wield a sabre.

Still, for some time his state was very precarious, and many were the
inquiries that beset the medical officer in attendance on the patient.
He was a short, round-about, elderly man, with beetling brows and a
gruff voice, but underneath his rough, rude exterior there lurked a
really kind heart.

As he was leaving the hospital one morning he was accosted by two
of the “boys” of the Seventeenth, who overwhelmed him with anxious
inquiries.

“How is Fairfax this morning?” they asked in a breath.

The doctor rubbed his chin and looked at them reflectively; the
two youths were connected in his mind with reminiscences of not an
altogether agreeable nature, one of them, who bore the _sobriquet_ of
“Buttons,” being about the cheekiest and coolest young gentleman he
had ever come across, and both displayed an extraordinary aptitude for
practical jokes.

“He is not going to give you a step _this_ time,” replied the doctor
brusquely, preparing to pass on.

“A step! I would not _take_ it if he did,” returned Buttons vehemently,
standing right in front of the doctor.

“Oh, not you,” retorted the medico, scornfully. “Fairfax would--nay, if
he has a relapse, will--give three steps. As things are now, a man must
stand on his comrade’s grave for promotion, and you are just the very
last young gentleman to keep yourself in the background. You would take
the step sharp enough if you got the chance, and were not passed over!”

“I don’t know about stepping on Fairfax’s grave, as you call it,”
replied Buttons, crimson with anger; “but I know some people’s graves
I could dance on with pleasure,” accompanying the remark with a look of
the utmost significance.

“Ah, you don’t really mean it? Why are you all in such a desperate
state about this fellow? Why is _he_ singled out as an object of so
much anxiety and attention? Generally, when a man dies up here, it is
not ‘Poor So-and-so is dead, I’m awfully sorry,’ but ‘So-and-so is
dead--what kind of a kit had he?’ And away you all tear and bid for
his things before the breath is hardly out of his body! Why such great
concern about this young major? He has a first-class kit, as kits go,
and a couple of good sound horses.”

“You are quite a new-comer, Dr. Bennett,” said the other hussar, who
had not hitherto spoken.

“Only a recent arrival,” very loftily, “or you would not talk like
this.”

“Fairfax keeps us all going;” then warming to his subject, “he is the
best fellow in the world, always thinking for others, always doing the
work of three. He looks after the men; he manages the mess; he----”

“Ah, _now_ I can understand your anxiety,” interrupted Dr. Bennett,
contracting his fierce brows. “The light breaks at last! The squalid
feeding that is set before us, the horribly mysterious joints and
leather steaks, are now accounted for. The mess butler has it all his
own way now that the mess president is sick?”

“You are quite welcome to adopt this view of the subject if you like,”
said hussar number two very angrily; “to _some_ people their food is
their only object of interest.”

“Well, well,” said the doctor, surveying the two wrathful young faces
before him, and bursting into a loud laugh, “I must try and patch up
this interesting patient of mine for many reasons, chiefly because he
understands the art of snubbing bumptious boys and keeping them in
their places. I am sure it is a mercy that someone can control them,
for it is a task that is utterly beyond _me_,” muttered the gallant
surgeon-major, as he walked rapidly away to his eagerly-anticipated
breakfast.

There had been a struggle among Sir Reginald’s friends for the post of
chief nurse; but his own man Cox would not yield the place to anyone,
and they found their would-be office a sinecure. An excellent, firm,
and gentle nurse himself, a worse patient than Sir Reginald could
scarcely be found! So impatient of being kept in bed, so restless in
it--tossing and tumbling to and fro, regardless of his wounded arm.
Perfectly deaf to all blandishments that induced him to take proper
medicine and nourishment, he would have his own way, and he had it,
driving his nurses to their wits’ end and throwing himself into a fever.

One night, at the very height of his illness, when he was lying in a
kind of stupor, the doctor came in on his way from mess and felt his
pulse and temperature. Standing at the foot of the camp-bed, he eyed
his patient dubiously for some moments.

“This will never do,” he said, after an ominous silence. “If he goes on
like this he will slip through our fingers. His pulse and temperature
are past counting. I am afraid he is in a bad way, poor fellow! Some of
you had better write to his friends this mail and prepare them. He may
pull through, but the chances are very much the other way. I’ll look
in again in the course of an hour or two.” So saying, without waiting
for a reply of any kind, he turned on his heel and departed.

Captain Vaughan and Mr. Harvey declared over and over to each other
that they did not agree with the doctor, but each made a mental
reservation to himself: “Their patient was certainly _not_ mending.”
As they glanced anxiously towards him, they were more than ever struck
by his worn and sunken features, his hurried, laboured breathing, and
the startling contrast between his dark hair and the ghastly paleness
of his face. “Wali,” Sir Reginald’s Afghan dog, a great shaggy monster,
something like a collie, with dark-gray coat and pointed ears, sat on
his haunches, with his nose resting on the bed, surveying his master
with grave inquiring eyes. To judge from his solemn sorrowful face,
he thought as badly of the patient as did his human friends. The two
officers had not forgotten the doctor’s injunction, and proceeded to
search over the tent for keys, desk, letters, and addresses. They found
a small and most unpresuming little leather desk, which they turned out
and ransacked. It contained paper and envelopes, some letters, and a
cheque-book, but not one of the letters was in a lady’s hand, or bore
the signature of Fairfax. After some discussion they agreed to write to
the Honorable Mark Mayhew, who seemed a frequent correspondent. As they
were tumbling out the contents of the desk they came upon a cabinet
photograph, a half-length likeness of a slender girl in a white dress,
with a smile in her eyes, and a fox-terrier in her arms.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Mr. Harvey, stooping to pick up the carte from
where it had fallen on the floor, face upwards. “I say, who is this?”
regarding the treasure-trove with wide-open eyes.

“That is his _wife_!” replied Captain Vaughan, looking over his
comrade’s shoulder. “Is she not lovely?”

“Lovely indeed!” replied Mr. Harvey, refusing to let the photo out of
his hand, and gazing at it with the eyes of a connoisseur. “I don’t
wonder now that Fairfax turned up his nose at the pale-faced beauties
at Camelabad! _Now_ I can understand his contempt for our taste, and
the commiseration with which he regarded us when we talked of beauty.”

“If anything does happen to him, poor fellow,” said Captain Vaughan,
nodding towards the patient, “I suppose it will be an awful blow to
her; but I must confess I can’t make head or tail of his domestic
affairs. You may be sure there is something queer about her, or he
would never stay out here alone; and he never alludes to his wife any
more than if she was dead. There is a screw loose somewhere, believe
me.”

“You saw her on board the trooper, Vaughan; is she really as pretty as
this?” murmured Mr. Harvey, still wholly absorbed in the photograph.

“_Much_ prettier,” returned his companion briefly. “Here! you can’t
go on staring at that all night! We must set to work and write this
letter; the mails go down to-morrow morning. I don’t half like the
job, I can tell you; and if anything _does_ happen to Fairfax”--here
he winked away an unusual moisture in his bold blue eyes--“I shall be
frightfully cut up myself.”

The two officers having at length put their heads together, concocted
the following letter to Mr. Mayhew:

 “DEAR SIR,

 “It is with much regret that I inform you of the very serious illness
 of Sir Reginald Fairfax, and I have been desired by the doctor in
 attendance to prepare you for the gravest consequences. Sir Reginald
 was wounded by some Ghazis after the capture of a village, he having
 had the foolhardiness to enter their house alone, knowing it to be
 full of armed men. He has a broken arm, and is only slowly recovering
 from concussion of the brain, caused by a blow on the back of his
 head; and latterly he has had to contend with a severe attack of
 malarious fever. I need hardly mention that he has the best attention
 of my brother-officers and myself, and everything that can be done
 for him in such an out-of-the-way part of the world has been most
 carefully carried out. We can only hope and trust that his youth and
 vigorous constitution may yet assert themselves and shake off the
 fever now wasting him away. I have been unable to find his wife’s
 address; will you be so good as to break the news to her or forward
 this letter to her residence.

                                                      “Yours faithfully,
                                                      “GEORGE VAUGHAN.”

No sooner had the above been concluded, closed, and stamped than the
patient suddenly woke up in his senses. After languidly gazing at his
friends for some time, his eyes fell on his rifled desk and his wife’s
photograph. To his gesture of amazement Captain Vaughan hurriedly
replied:

“Fairfax, my dear fellow, I know you think we have been guilty of the
greatest liberty; but we had to ferret out your friends’ address by the
doctor’s orders.”

“Had you? Am I so bad as all _that_?” he asked in a low tone. Receiving
no reply, he added, as if to himself: “I suppose I am, I feel very weak
and queer; but I must write a line myself,” he said, looking at Captain
Vaughan gravely.

“Nonsense! It would be sheer madness. I won’t allow it. One of us will
write at your dictation.”

“No, no! Impossible!” he answered firmly. “Not to my wife. I must write
to her at any cost,” he continued, raising himself feebly; and taking
her photo in his hand, he gazed at it long and wistfully, then laid it
down with a sigh.

“Get me a draught of that fizzing mixture, please, and fix me up so
that I can write.”

Having carried his point, as usual, he commenced, with great labour, to
trace a few lines, the beads of perspiration on his forehead testifying
to the effort they cost him. Ere he had written twenty words the pen
dropped from his fingers, and he fell back on the pillow completely
exhausted.

“I see it is no use,” he muttered to himself. Then looking earnestly
at Captain Vaughan, he said: “You are going home; go and see her. Take
her my watch and sword, they will do for the boy.” He faltered, and his
voice sank so low that his friend could hardly catch his next almost
inaudible words; they were: “Tell her I forgive her; tell her I loved
her always; tell----” Here his message came to an end, for he had
fainted.

Great was the consternation of his friends, the wrath of the
hastily-summoned doctor, the smothered indignation of Cox.

The patient remained unconscious for a considerable time, and when he
came to himself he fell into a deep sound sleep which lasted for hours.
The crisis was past; next morning he was a shade better, and from that
day forward commenced a slow but steady recovery.

In six weeks’ time, the regiment having been ordered back to India in
consequence of the treaty of Gundamuk, he was invalided home, sorely
against his will. Vainly he begged to be allowed to go to Murree--to
any hill station they liked; to Australia even--for a six months’ tour.
But the doctors were firm--Dr. Bennett especially so--home he must go.

“There is no place that will set you up like your native land,” quoth
Dr. Bennett. “That pretty young wife of yours had a narrow escape of
never seeing you again. I’ve a good mind to drop her a line and tell
her what a headstrong patient she will have to deal with.”

“I beg you will do nothing of the kind,” returned Sir Reginald quickly,
and with visible irritation.

“Ah well! I have no doubt she has her own way of managing you, and
wants no hints from me,” replied the doctor facetiously, perfectly
regardless of the signs and signals that Captain Vaughan was making
to warn him off such delicate ground. “She’ll never trust you back in
India, _I’m_ certain.”

Whether he was to be trusted to return or not was left an open
question. One thing was plain--he must leave India _now_. He reached
Bombay by easy stages, and completely restored by the sea voyage,
landed at Southampton a month later, after an absence from England of
nearly three years.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                              MONKSWOOD.


Monkswood was the original family place of the Fairfaxes. It was from
Monkswood that a Fairfax sallied forth, booted and spurred, to ride
with Prince Rupert; and owing to having espoused that side, many a fair
acre was shorn away from him and his descendants. Nothing, in fact, was
left to the next generation but the house and demesne.

A succession of lucky speculations and prudent marriages had restocked
the Fairfax purse, and Sir Reginald’s grand-father, instead of
gambling and squandering at Arthur’s, Crockford’s, Boodle’s, or
White’s, as was the fashion in his day--being, on the contrary, of a
thrifty turn of mind--purchased Looton, which a card-playing owner
had brought to the hammer, and it became the family seat. Still all
Fairfaxes were at least _buried_ at Monkswood, and during the season it
was generally visited for woodcock-shooting, for which its thick woods
were famous.

Monkswood was a good-sized red-brick house, hideous and rambling
and inconvenient to the last degree. It was a rare collection of
architecture on a small scale, as a room had been added here, a window
knocked out there, according to the sweet will of the reigning Fairfax.
It was approached by a long drive, skirted on one side by a thick
laurel cover, and on the other by a broad open demesne, dotted about
with some splendid timber, oak and copper beech in particular.

The house was entered by a shallow flight of steps and heavy portico,
leading into a lofty oak-panelled hall, opening on one side into the
drawing-room and tea-room, and on the other into the dining-room and
library.

The drawing-room side looked out on a grand old-fashioned
pleasure-ground; the dining-room “gave”--oh horror!--on the
yard--a yard large enough for a barrack square, with a long range
of loose-boxes and deserted stalls and coach-houses. A couple of
saddle-horses, and Miss Saville’s fat ponies, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle
Dee, revelled at least in plenty of room. Upstairs the house was
still more old-fashioned than below; fireplaces in corners abounded;
cupboards broke out in the strangest places; and there were various
passages leading everywhere in general and nowhere in particular, as
you angrily discover when, having followed one down to its source as
you flatter yourself, you open a fine promising-looking door, and
find a set of empty shelves staring you in the face! On the other
hand, you are disagreeably surprised when, on bursting open the door
of what you take to be a cupboard, you find yourself precipitated
headlong down three steps into a large room. Huge four-post beds and
furniture to correspond were _de rigueur_, and there was an old-world
feeling about the place altogether, as if it had gone to sleep one
hundred years ago, and awoke, greatly surprised to find itself in the
present century. Everything was antiquated, with the exception of new
carpets and curtains in the sitting-room, a few fashionable chairs and
tea-tables, Alice’s piano, and the furniture of her bedroom, where a
modern brass construction relieved the time-honoured four-poster, and
a writing-table, wardrobe, and lounge took the place of furniture that
would have been the _ne plus ultra_ of luxury in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth.

Need I here mention that the maiden monarch slept a night at Monkswood?
According to the number of places which boast of this honour, her
majesty can have rarely passed a night at home.

The house was overrun with old china, and there were a good many
family portraits, simpering and scowling, about the walls. The
best--the beauties and the handsome cavaliers--were all at Looton;
but frosty-faced old divines and plain elderly matrons had been left
undisturbed. There was some Chippendale furniture too, and all kinds
of queer old ornaments, odds and ends, and even _clothes_, stowed away
carefully among the venerable wardrobes; in fact, enough unappreciated
_bric-à-brac_ to turn a collector’s head.

The pleasure-grounds opened through a rustic gate into the plantations,
which skirted the whole demesne inside a high wall. Through the
plantations ran a walk just wide enough for two. A dense growth of
underwood gave cover to thousands of rabbits, and where the ground was
visible it was one mass of blue-bells and primroses in the season.

Opening also out of the pleasure-grounds was a large old-fashioned
garden, chiefly devoted to fruit and vegetables, though the broad
gravel walks that intersected it were lined with wallflowers,
carnations, lavender, and hollyhocks. Its four gray walls did not look
down upon a “wealth of flowers,” but they were covered with very
excellent fruit trees, and they overlooked the best beds of asparagus
within a radius of ten miles.




                              CHAPTER V.

                        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.




                              CHAPTER VI.

                       THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.


Three years had made a wonderful change in Alice: she was a very
different Alice to what she had been when we first saw her at Malta.
Her naturally high spirits and elastic temperament had been almost
totally subdued and crushed by the life of retirement and isolation
she had led. She felt, although barely twenty-one, as if she had
already lived her life: the happiness, gaiety, and domestic sunshine,
the common lot of girls of her age, was not for her, an outcast from
society, a deserted wife. Sometimes her youth and natural buoyancy
would assert themselves, and she would find herself singing and
laughing as of old, especially as she played with Maurice, and allowed
him to drive her as his willing steed up and down the passages and
round the garden; but such were rare occasions.

The mistress of Monkswood was a tall, slight, dignified young lady, who
often inspired her aunt with awe by the gravity of her demeanour, and
who found it hard to realise that she and the madcap child of former
years were one and the same individual. She utterly refused to leave
Monkswood, and, with the exception of a flying visit to the Mayhews,
had never been away from home for one night. Nor did she encourage
people to stay with her, saying she had no inducement to offer, and
that it was much too stupid at Monkswood to repay anyone the trouble
of coming so far.

At length her aunt, Miss Saville, greatly concerned by her niece’s
listlessness and dejection, took upon herself to invite Miss Ferrars,
one of Alice’s former companions, on a long visit. “The young,” she
rightly argued, “like the young; her former schoolfellow will cheer her
up. After all, an old woman like myself is no companion for a girl from
one year’s end to another.”

Miss Ferrars duly arrived at Monkswood. She was a year older than Lady
Fairfax, a clever, warm-hearted girl, with untiring spirits and energy.
She was tall and well developed, and looked twice as much the matron as
her slim girlish hostess. She had a pleasant, intelligent, rather than
handsome face, with sparkling brown eyes, and quantities of beautiful
bronze-coloured hair. She was unaffectedly surprised at the change in
her former schoolfellow. Could this silent, grave, melancholy-looking
young lady be indeed the bright Alice of Rougemont, who used to keep
them all alive with her bright face and gay sallies?

Soon they relapsed into their old groove, however, going over their
former experiences with mutual pleasure. Professors, schoolfellows,
examinations, places, and people were reviewed and discussed, and
Alice took her friend into her confidence on every subject save one.
Her Bluebeard’s closet, her sealed book, was her husband’s name, and
_that_ she always most scrupulously avoided. To her friend’s inquiries
about him her answers were cold and brief; her short married career
she never touched upon, and Mary Ferrars having indirectly heard that
Sir Reginald did not “get on” with his wife, and was anything but a
highly-domesticated animal, seeing that he had been abroad for nearly
three years, never alluded to him again.

Miss Ferrars and Alice shared the same room, and though they would
lie awake talking for hours in the most approved young-lady fashion,
nothing had escaped Alice’s lips that gave her friend any clue to
the mystery which enshrouded her husband. She roused herself for the
entertainment of her schoolfellow, and became every day more like her
old self. She purchased a tame sedate steed for her use, and gave her
riding lessons, and together they explored the neighbourhood. They got
up a lawn-tennis in the pleasure-grounds, where they played half their
mornings, making Maurice very useful in fetching the balls.

Maurice was now a young gentleman in belted blouse, sturdy and
well-made. He had a fair broad forehead, dark eyes, dark lashes, and
dark curls. He already possessed a very decided will of his own, and
was absolute master of all the womenkind on the premises, from Alice to
the cook inclusive.

The two young ladies had effected a great change in the interior of
the house. The drawing-room was now a thing of beauty and a joy for
ever. They had routed out old pictures and hung them on the walls; the
Chippendale furniture had been brought to the front, and some beautiful
old china had been arranged on a venerable black buffet that had been
discovered in the laundry; more plates and dishes were affixed to the
walls on velvet shields; in fact, the drawing-room and tea-room were
their mutual hobby, and became two of the most charming apartments
possible to see, with polished floors and Persian rugs.

June and July passed--a vision of hot, sweet-scented, languid summer
days. Then came August; and August brought a visitor to Monkswood.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Sir Reginald had landed at Southampton and made his way to
London, where he was rapturously received by the inmates of Wessex
Gardens. They thought him graver, thinner, and very much sun-burnt from
the voyage, but otherwise he was the same as ever. The day following
his arrival he produced presents for all the Mayhew family--an Afghan
matchlock and knife for Mark; a Cashmere tea-set and shawl for Helen;
toys, puzzles, and sweetmeats for the children.

Helen, having tried on her shawl and viewed herself with much
complacency in all the mirrors and from every point of view, came over
to where Sir Reginald was explaining a puzzle to the children, and,
throwing herself into a chair opposite, said abruptly:

“And what have you brought Alice?”

“Alice!” he stammered, reddening even through the sunburn to the roots
of his crisp dark hair. Then immediately recovering himself, replied,
as he stooped to pick up a piece of the puzzle which had fallen on the
floor: “Oh, nothing.”

“Has he not brought her _himself_ and his V.C.?” said Mark, giving him
a tremendous slap on the back. “What more could she desire?”

“I am not so humble as to consider myself _nothing_, whatever you may
think of me, Mark,” he returned, without raising his eyes from the
puzzle, which he had just completed in the neatest manner; and, holding
it out on the palm of his hand, he said: “Now, Hilda, if you put this
together before dinner this evening I’ll give you the biggest box of
chocolate you ever saw. I’m off to the club now,” he added, standing up
and preparing to depart, cleverly eluding the fire of cross questions
with which Helen was preparing to attack him.

For several days he evaded all her attempts to inveigle him into a
_tête-à-tête_; his engagements were so numerous that he was seldom at
home, for all his old friends flocked round him, and he was the hero of
the hour. Dozens of invitations came daily pouring in, and he seemed to
be fairly launched in London society, and carried away by its current.
Helen, like the hen whose duckling had taken to the water, looked on in
impotent despair. The highest in the land, the beauties of the season,
were all equally ready to engage his time. As she saw him in the Row,
the centre of a circle of former brother-officers, then beckoned
to the carriage of one of the belles of the season, who engaged him
in most animated and _empressé_ conversation, she said to herself:
“This will never do; has he forgotten that he has a home and a wife,
or does he mean to ignore both completely?” She sought in vain for
opportunities to sound him on the subject; he never was with her alone.
All her little hints about Alice, all her endeavours to bring her name
into conversation, were completely fruitless; he exhibited a skill in
avoiding this one particular theme, a dexterity that irritated and
amazed her. At length, after he had been nearly a fortnight in London,
Helen made up her mind to stand this state of affairs no longer.
Accordingly, the evening when he was dining at the Guards’ Club, she
waited up for him in her boudoir. Hearing him leisurely ascending the
stairs between one and two o’clock, she went out into the corridor and
beckoned him into her room, saying:

“Come in here, Regy; I want to speak to you.”

Strangling a yawn, and laying down his candlestick, he flung himself
into the nearest arm-chair with a mock tragic gesture, and said: “Say
on.”

It was all very well to say “Say on,” but how was she to begin? Now
that she had caged her bird she began to realise the delicate task that
lay before her. She well knew that it was a proverbially thankless
and dangerous mission to interfere between husband and wife; and
Regy, although he had often stood a little boy at her knee, and come
to her with all his grievances, was now a man, known to be clever,
distinguished, and thoroughly able to think and act, not only for
himself but for others. How well he looked in his mess-dress, so
bronzed, soldierlike, and handsomer than ever! He was leaning back with
his arms clasped behind his head, regarding her with lazy amusement.

She must begin, she thought, _somehow_, and forthwith broke the ice
clumsily enough by saying: “Had you a pleasant evening, Regy?”

“A pleasant evening!” he echoed. “Why, you foolish old lady, you never
mean to say that you have sat up till nearly two o’clock to ask me such
a question?”

“No, not quite,” she replied, laughing nervously. “The truth is,
Regy--and don’t think I am inhospitable, or want to turn you out, or
anything----” And she paused.

“Well, and what is the truth, as you call it?” he asked brusquely.

“When are you going to Monkswood?”

“To Monkswood!” he repeated, suddenly sitting erect and looking at her
fixedly. “That is easily answered----never!”

“Oh Reginald, you can’t mean it! Do you not wish to see Alice or your
boy?”

“We will not speak of Alice, if you please,” he said gravely. “I have
nothing to say to her; but you must manage that I shall see the boy
somehow, Helen,” he added eagerly. “Could you get him up here for a few
days? I’m off to Norway with Fordyce the end of the month.”

“I am quite _sure_ that Alice would never allow him out of her sight,
and I will never have him here without his mother. Do you mean me to
understand that you will not suffer me to speak to you about her?” she
asked hotly.

“I do. Not even with you, Helen, my more than sister, will I discuss
my wife--that was.”

“Then,” exclaimed Helen with rising indignation, “things are at a
deadlock. Alice will not speak of you to anyone, you will not suffer
me to mention her name, and neither of you will have anything to say
to the other. I know I could reconcile you both, were you not so
inconceivably proud and stiff-necked.”

“Look here, Helen,” he said, rising and beginning to pace about the
room, “I know you mean well and kindly, but take my advice and leave
us alone. We get on best apart. Our marriage was a tremendous blunder;
we both know that _now_. I have endeavoured to forget that I have ever
had a wife. Alice and I are utter _strangers_. As her guardian, I have
taken excellent care of her interests, and studied her comfort and
happiness as far as it is in my power; but as her _husband_” (and he
emphasized the word), “I have done with her.”

Hitherto he had been walking up and down the room, but as he concluded
he came to a full stop before Mrs. Mayhew, who, rising and stretching
out her plump white hands towards him with a gesture of dismay, said:

“Are you mad, Reginald, to talk like this? You do not know _what_ you
are saying. It is very easy to repudiate your wife to _me_; but when
you do it publicly what will people say? Have you thought of that?
What would you yourself say of a young couple who married for love,
separated almost in their honeymoon, the husband to go to India, the
wife to shut herself up in the country?”

“I would say nothing,” he interrupted. “Why should I?”

“Wait! I have not finished,” she continued hastily. “The husband, after
an absence of three years, returns; comes to London, mixes freely in
society, but never goes to see his young wife. You must remember,” she
pursued, literally button-holing him by his mess-jacket, “that you are
Alice’s guardian as well as her husband; she has no father or mother,
nor any relation in the world to protect her good name except yourself
and Geoffrey, and he is only a boy.”

“Geoffrey!” he exclaimed contemptuously.

“You don’t know what you are doing, Regy,” she pleaded. “If you go
abroad, as you have arranged, without seeing Alice, you will do her a
great injury in the eyes of the world. Your friends know that there is
an estrangement between you; at least for the sake of appearances,
patch up a truce at any rate.”

“I am not a hypocrite, and I will do nothing of the kind,” he muttered
angrily, drawing back and endeavouring to release himself from his
cousin’s grasp.

It was useless; she was a pertinacious woman, and she _would_ be heard.

“Do not go,” she entreated. “I never see you alone now, and I must
gain my point--I must indeed. You _will_ hear me. It is all very well
to say you have ceased to think of Alice as your wife--which I do not
believe--but, at any rate, you cannot forget that she is the mother of
your child, can you?” she asked, with an air and emphasis that would
not have disgraced Mrs. Siddons.

No reply. “Silence gives consent, I see,” she nodded triumphantly as
she continued; “and as the mother of your child, surely you would wish
her to be honoured and respected, if not for her own sake at least for
his?”

An impatient gesture of assent was all his reply.

“Think of the life of retirement and seclusion she has led; surely that
has been punishment enough?”

“Who is talking of punishment?” he exclaimed, forcibly removing Helen’s
hand. “Alice is her own mistress, to come and go as she pleases.”

“She has never left home nevertheless, in spite of all our invitations,
with the exception of a short visit this spring. You don’t know the
_furore_ she created; we used to be quite mobbed walking in the Row.”

A very unamiable scowl was the only notice he deigned to this remark.

“You have no idea how lovely she is,” she urged impressively.

“Have I not?” he replied dryly.

“No; how can you?--you have not seen her for ages. She is greatly
changed in every way; no longer the giddy, impulsive girl you remember.
If you only knew how _distracted_ she was when you were so dangerously
wounded!”

“Pray how can you tell?” he asked with raised brows and a certain
amount of sarcastic incredulity in his expression.

“I know all about it from Miss Saville. She told me that during the
week that followed Captain Vaughan’s letter Alice fretted away to half
her size, and that her grief and misery were painful to witness.”

Perceiving that he was gradually wavering, she urged:

“You will _have_ to go down to Monkswood, my dear Regy, if only for the
sake of public opinion. Go as her guardian at any rate; putting your
wife aside, it is your duty to go and see your ward. You will go, if
only for a few days,” she entreated anxiously.

“Yes, I will go,” he replied slowly and with an evident effort. “I
never looked at the subject from your point of view before. I see that
it is necessary for me to study appearances, but I only go as her
_guardian_, recollect. You are very eager in the matter, Helen, and
very pressing,” he added with a smile, “but Alice is by no means so
anxious to see me as you imagine.”

“She is! she is!” cried Helen, in whose case the wish was father to
the thought. “And as for _you_,” laying her hand affectionately on his
shoulder, “you know you are very fond of her all the time, and that in
your heart you are dying to see her; now are you not?”

“What would be the good of telling you?” he replied evasively. “At any
rate, Alice does not care two straws about me. I know her far better
than you do, Helen, wise as you think yourself. I know her _private_
opinion of me; but confidences between married people are sacred,” he
added with a bitter smile. “I suppose she knows that I have come home?
he asked abruptly after a short silence.

“Oh yes; I wrote and told her of your safe arrival.”

“And what did she say?” he inquired with unconcealed eagerness.

“Well, strange to say, Regy, she never answered my letter. But
then, you know,” she added with an awkward laugh, “what a very bad
correspondent she is.”

“A very bad correspondent as you say,” he replied, with such emphasis
that Helen looked at him amazed.

“Tell me, Regy, has she never written to you?” she inquired with solemn
eyes.

“Then to-morrow or next day I shall start for Monkswood,” he observed,
coolly ignoring her question.

“Do, my dear boy,” returned Helen with effusion; “you don’t know how
glad I am to hear you say so. Mark and Geoffrey and I will follow you
the end of the week and pay a visit to Alice, which your arrival has
somewhat postponed.”

“Well, now I suppose I may go to bed?” said Reginald, taking up his
candle and looking at his cousin interrogatively. “You have said your
say, and carried your point, have you not? I am not at all sure that
you are not sending me on a fool’s errand, Helen.”

“I am very sure that I am _not_, Regy. You will be grateful to me
some day, though now I daresay you think me a meddlesome, tiresome
busybody. You look awfully tired and fagged, so I won’t keep you up any
longer. Good-night!” she concluded, holding up her cheek to be kissed.

As the door closed on him, a triumphant smile broke over her face.
“_He_ is all right, at any rate. If Alice were as easily managed or
talked over all would be as it ought to be in no time. I am only sorry
I did not make this opportunity before,” said Mrs. Mayhew aloud, as she
turned to seek her well-earned repose, firmly persuaded that she had
achieved a triumph of _finesse_.

Sir Reginald kept his promise, and went down to Monkswood “solely in
the character of Alice’s guardian,” he kept telling himself. “Perverse
girl, _never_ would he own her as his wife, until she had made complete
submission,” and yet in his heart of hearts how ardently he longed
to see her! How he recurred again and again to what Miss Saville had
told Helen! If they met alone, who could tell but that she would
encircle his neck with her slim fair arms and whisper a petition for
forgiveness, for pardon--if she only knew how readily, how eagerly he
would grant it!

The nearest station to Monkswood was Manister, a cathedral and garrison
town five miles off. Here he procured a fly, and with Cox and a
portmanteau started without delay. Arrived at Monkswood, he told the
driver to go round to the yard and get refreshments for man and beast,
and desiring his servant to see that his old room was got ready, he
sprang up the steps. The hall-door was wide open, and he met Miss
Saville sallying forth in a large garden-hat, her hands protected by
chamois-leather gauntlets and her dress tucked up in a businesslike
manner. She was exceedingly astonished, and beckoning her nephew-in-law
into the library, overwhelmed him with questions. In reply to one of
his, she said that Alice was still far from robust, or as gay and happy
as she could wish to see her, but that she was wonderfully improved
since Miss Ferrars had been with her. “They were both in the grounds,
drinking tea under the cedar; should she go and prepare them?”

“No, certainly not; unless it would give Alice a shock; and he supposed
she knew that he was in England?”

“Yes, she heard of your arrival some days ago; but I think she scarcely
expected to see you here,” replied Miss Saville.

“Did she not? And why not, may I ask?”

“Do not inquire from me, Reginald; you and Alice are the best judges of
your own affairs. I have never interfered in any way, as you are aware.
Alice is the proper person to answer your question. Naturally, she is
deeply hurt; I can see that. You have never sent her one line since the
birth of your son; but I am not in her confidence.” A footman, who had
just entered, was quietly motioned away during this conversation, and
went downstairs in great excitement.

“Well, I’m blessed, Mrs. Morris, if there isn’t a strange young man in
the library, and the old lady a-holding forth to him like one o’clock,
and he signs me out of the room as cool as you please!”

“What is he like?” inquired a chorus of maid-servants.

“Oh, he’s a tall dark swell, that looks as if the whole place belonged
to him.”

“And so it does,” said Cox, his man, coming in and banging down his
dressing-case. “If he is not master here, I’d like to know who is?”

“Lor’, Mr. Cox, what a start you have give us! And is it really Sir
Reginald himself?” cried Mrs. Morris, rising.

“You can use your eyes, Mrs. Morris; there he goes down the steps.”

An immediate rush was made to the window to catch a glimpse.

Yes, sure enough there he was, walking towards the pleasure-grounds
with Miss Saville.

“Thank God, he looks well and strong!” said Mrs. Morris with fervour,
following his retreating figure with tears in her eyes.

“My! what a handsome gentleman!” exclaimed an enthusiastic housemaid.
“If _he_ does not suit her she _is_ hard to please, isn’t she, Polly?”

“Brown, please to remember yourself,” said Mrs. Morris sharply.

“Not but that,” she added, relaxing, “all the Fairfaxes are
good-looking. Many a time I carried him in my arms, the same as I do
Master Maurice. Ay, it seems but the other day.”

“I little thought you would ever see him again alive, ma’am; it was
touch and go with him once, I can tell you,” observed Cox gravely.

“I must go now and see about dinner,” seizing her keys and bustling
about, “but you will tell me all about it when you dine with me
by-and-by, Mr. Cox,” said Mrs. Morris, as, followed by the footman and
housemaid, she hurried from the room.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                       “MARY, IT IS MY HUSBAND!”


Alice and Mary were to be found under the cedars, a very favourite
resort of theirs those August evenings. A round wicker table stood
between them, upon which were all the requirements of afternoon tea.
Alice, leaning back in a low garden-chair, was reading to Mary, who
was knitting, “A Princess of Thule.” How pretty she looked! The sun,
glancing through the sombre branches, fell in stray flecks on her hair
and dress--a white cambric trimmed with quantities of lace and knots
of pale-blue ribbon. She was twirling a carnation in her fingers as she
read. But there was a grave melancholy expression in her downcast face,
sad to see in one so young. Coming to the end of a chapter, she paused
and exclaimed, looking up:

“Well, I must confess, the Princess of Thule ran away from her husband
on very small provocation. Don’t you think so, Molly?”

Molly, instead of replying, said, as she gazed intently over Alice’s
head:

“Why, who is this young man coming over here with Miss Saville?”

“Young man?” echoed Alice indifferently, and without turning her head;
“oh, it must be the postmaster. Auntie promised him a quantity of
geranium and carnation cuttings.”

“Does the postmaster wear well-cut clothes and a dark moustache? Is
the postmaster a gentleman?”

“No, you ridiculous girl,” turning and looking over her shoulder. After
a minute’s dead silence, “Mary,” she gasped, “it is my husband!”

Her face was deadly pale as she raised it to her friend’s, and letting
the book slip from her knees, she rose and leant against the tree with
both her hands pressed to her heart. The cedar was between her and
the house, and she had time to recover herself a little before her
husband joined them. As he approached she looked at him keenly. Had he
borne the traces of his recent wounds and fever, and looked a war-worn
invalid, her woman’s heart would have melted instantly, but as he came
across the grass his step was as buoyant, his eyes as keen, and his
bearing as gallant as ever. A thousand thoughts seemed to crowd to her
brain, her heart beat as though it would choke her, she was trembling
from head to foot; as, with all the composure she could muster, and
without meeting his glance, she gave him her hand in silence.

Miss Saville promptly introduced Mary Ferrars.

“You and I ought to be friends, Miss Ferrars; I was your brother’s fag
at Eton, and many a thrashing he gave me. Don’t you think that that
constitutes a tie between us?”

He made the above speech in order to give Alice time to compose
herself; and self-possessed as he seemed, his heart was bounding wildly
too.

“I hope you are now quite strong, Alice,” he said, looking at her with
evident concern, for her face was as pale as ashes.

“Quite, thank you,” was her laconic reply as she seated herself. Her
knees were trembling so that she dared not, and could not, stand any
longer.

“Give us some tea, my dear,” said Miss Saville, who fortunately
appeared to grasp the situation, and tea was made; and as it was handed
about a certain amount of conversation began to circulate. London, and
Reginald’s visit to the Mayhews, his passage home, the latest news from
the East, formed in turn topics of discourse. Alice scarcely opened
her lips. Sir Reginald might have been a casual visitor, who had just
dropped in, for all the warmth, sympathy, or interest displayed by his
wife. A more uncomfortable quartette seldom took tea together. No one
would suppose that the pale haughty-looking girl and the dark bronzed
young man, so leisurely sipping his tea, were husband and wife, and
had only met within the last ten minutes after a separation of years.
Mary Ferrars gazed from one to the other in silent amazement. Although
outwardly calm, conflicting emotions were waging war in their bosoms.

_She_ was thinking: “If I don’t manage to get away I shall disgrace
myself--I shall burst out crying. This lump in my throat will choke
me.” _He_ was thinking: “Helen was dreaming. This notion of hers was
one of her most superb flights of imagination. I was a fool to listen
to her. She was dreaming,” he repeated, as he looked at his wife; and
certainly in that pale set face there was no sign of either welcome or
repentance.

These thoughts were interrupted by their merry bold-faced boy, who,
trotting past Sir Reginald, far ahead of his grave and stately nurse,
rushed up to Alice, saying: “I’ve come for cake.”

“Yes, yes, my darling!” replied his mother, stooping over his dark
curls. “Presently. Go over first and speak to that gentleman, and give
him a kiss.”

“Who is he, mother?” he asked, turning round and gazing at Sir Reginald
with the facsimile of his own eyes--in fact the child’s face was such a
striking reproduction of his own that he himself could not help seeing
the likeness. He was a splendid boy, of whom his father, were he a
king, might well be proud.

Leaning his upright little person against Alice, and throwing back
his head with a proud gesture very entertaining in one so young, he
repeated, as he looked at Sir Reginald unflinchingly:

“Who is he?”

“He is your father,” she faltered. “Go and speak to him, Maurice.”

She could not refrain a glance of motherly pride as she pushed her
boy with gentle force towards his other parent. But Maurice, who had
inherited all his father’s deliberation and decision of character,
calmly remarked:

“_He_ is not my father. My father,” with much pride, and hands stuck in
the belt of his blouse, “is a soldier, and rides a horse with a long
tail, and wears a sword and a red coat, and fights people. _You_,” said
he, nodding his head towards Sir Reginald, “are just like anybody else.”

“Come here, sir,” said his father, stretching out an arm; and, much to
everyone’s amazement, the boy went quietly over and stood at his knee.

“I am a soldier; but I have got a holiday. You don’t know what that is
yet, do you? I have done with soldiers for awhile, and have put away my
sword and my coat; but I’ll show them to you some day, if you like.”

“Will you?” said the child with awe-struck eyes; “and will you lend me
your sword to play with, for I’m going to be a soldier too some day?”

“Are you indeed? I’m afraid I can’t lend you _my_ sword; but perhaps I
might buy you a little one instead. Suppose you come and sit on my knee
and tell me all about yourself?”

So Master Maurice, nothing loath, climbed up; and Alice, with a beating
heart, saw her child in her husband’s arms for the first time. The
two faces were so alike, and yet so different; she could now compare
together, if she dared; but she shrank from meeting her husband’s eyes.

Maurice was completely fascinated by the strange gentleman, and
regarded him with mingled curiosity and delight.

“Are you my father?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“And why did you not come to see me before?”

Here was an embarrassing question.

“Because I have been in India,” was the evasive reply.

“And are you come to stay at home now?” Momentary pause. Without
waiting for a reply he pursued: “I’ve seen your picture often. Alice
keeps it in a locket; that one,” pointing a firm brown finger at his
unfortunate mother, and raising a scorching blush to her hitherto pale
face. “She says I am to love you very much--as much as her.”

“Do you love her?” continued this pitiless innocent; “do you love
Alice?”

Reginald, painfully embarrassed, cast about for a reply. In desperation
he answered:

“Of whom are you speaking, Maurice? It is not possible that you call
your mother Alice!”

“Yes, sometimes; and so do Aunt Mary and Miss Ferrars.”

“Well, you are not to do it any more, remember. Now tell me your name?”
said his father, catechising in his turn.

“Maurice Reg--nald Fairfax.”

So he had not been wholly forgotten.

“And how old are you?”

“Past two, long time. How old are you?”

“Past twenty this long time. Are you a good boy, do you think?”

“Alice knows,” he replied, nodding with easy confidence towards his
mother.

“Yes, Alice knows,” said she, rising quickly and stretching out her
hand; “Alice knows that it’s your bedtime, so say ‘Good-night’ and come
along.”

“No! no! no! not yet!” he cried, clinging tightly to Sir Reginald and
burrowing under his arm.

“Maurice, listen to me,” said his father gravely, setting him down.
“You told me just now that you intended to be a soldier, did you not?”

“Yes,” returned Maurice eagerly.

“Well, you will never do for a soldier if you go on like this; his
first duty is obedience. Now give me a kiss, and go with your mother at
once.”

Maurice, whose _forte_ was certainly not obedience, raised his eyes
and looked at his father. Seeing that he was perfectly in earnest,
he climbed once more on his knee, imprinted an experimental kiss on
his moustache, and reluctantly departed with many regretful backward
glances, Reginald watching the retreating pair till they were out of
sight. Were they really his wife and son? He could scarcely realise
it; for, after all, he had had a very few months of married life
and twenty-seven years of bachelor liberty. He felt much more like a
bachelor than a Benedict.

Miss Saville, following his eyes, said: “You may well look proud of
him. Is he not a splendid boy? But he wants a father’s hand over him
sadly. Alice is his slave, and has been so ever since he was born.
She gives up to him in every way, and he treats her more as his
playfellow--as you may see--than his mother.”

Alice, having deposited Maurice in the nursery, ran quickly down to her
own room, to be alone for a little time to think and to compose herself.

She leant her hot forehead against the frame of the open window and
gave way to a feeling of utter and undivided joy--joy that he was home,
alive, and well, and under the very same roof as herself--at least
within earshot. She paused as she heard Mary’s gay musical laugh. They
were all walking about the grounds; she could see them. He was standing
on the gravel path, telling them something very amusing evidently,
for as he concluded Miss Saville and Miss Ferrars both laughed
immoderately. With this laugh came a revulsion of feeling. “_He_ could
joke; he could be exceedingly entertaining. This meeting was nothing to
him. He had not shown the smallest signs of emotion or agitation. He
had merely come to see if she was sufficiently meek and humble to be
reinstated in his good graces. No, she was _not_,” she said to herself,
as she thought over the utter neglect with which he had treated her
for the last three years. “He thinks he has only to extend the top of
his sceptre and I shall be only too thankful to approach. But he is
mistaken; I shall be ‘_Vashti_’ to the end of the chapter. I shall
never humble myself again. Pleased as he is with Maurice now, he has
never taken any direct notice of him all these years.”

Alice dressed rapidly, hardening her heart with bitter recollections at
every moment. Just as she had completed her toilette, and was arranging
some flowers in her dress, the door opened and Mary hurried in.

“Oh you sly girl!” she exclaimed; “dressed already? I thought you were
doing something of this kind to ensure a nice long _tête-à-tête_ with
_him_. Oh Alice!” she cried, taking her in her arms and kissing her
warmly, “what a happy young woman you are! How very, very glad I am
for your sake! Why did you never tell me your husband was so perfectly
charming--so handsome, so distinguished-looking? How proud you must be
of him, my dear!” holding Alice at arm’s length and looking at her with
eager interrogation.

Alice, whose hair and costume were slightly disordered by her friend’s
enthusiastic hugging, drew back rather flushed and out of countenance.

“Mary,” she said, averting her face as she rearranged the roses in
her dress, “you are very good, and mean very kindly, but”--and she
paused--“but I must tell you something I never meant to tell you.
Reginald and I do not get on very well together. We--we--do not suit;
but do not take any notice, _please_,” she entreated as she looked at
her friend appealingly. “You will soon see”--and she stopped; then
continued: “Reginald is my guardian, you know; and he and I thought
the best thing to do was to marry. But he is far more devoted to his
profession than to me. His sword is his real wife, and I--I--get on
very well alone, as you have seen, and will see.”

“What shall I see?” asked Mary. “I see that you are the handsomest
couple I have ever come across, and I have no doubt you are equally
well matched in other respects.”

“Well, _qui vivra verra_,” replied Alice, as she opened the door and
disappeared, anxious to avoid her friend’s inquiries. Reginald, having
hurried his toilette, hastened down to the drawing-room in the hopes of
seeing Alice for at least a few minutes alone. Her greeting had been
cold and constrained; but she was taken by surprise. She was agitated,
and his lovely shy Alice was the last to offer or accept caresses in
public. It would be different when they met alone.

He stood for some time in the deep window, looking out into the
park. How still and green and cool it all looked after the bustle and
heat and glare in India! “There was no place like home after all,” he
thought as his eyes roved over the undulating sward and the clumps of
splendid timber, and he watched the rooks soaring nestwards and heard
the corncrake’s discordant yet familiar “Craik-craik.” The door, which
was ajar, was at this instant pushed open, and with a swish of long
trailing skirts Alice advanced into the room. At first she seemed to
hesitate, but on second thoughts approached the window.

“What a lovely evening it is, is it not?” she remarked, unfurling an
enormous black fan with a grace all her own.

“Lovely indeed!” replied her husband, turning his back to the landscape
and scanning her critically.

After a pause of thirty seconds (employed by his wife in steeling
herself with recollections of the past), “Alice,” he asked with a
gesture of appeal, “have you _nothing_ to say to me?”

“To say to you?” she repeated, with raised brows and an air of most
perfect indifference. “No, nothing particular; unless that I am afraid
you had a very warm journey here to-day. Early in the afternoon it was
absolutely broiling.”

“Well, yes, it _was_ warm--a good deal warmer than the welcome you gave
me. But you can make up for that _now_,” coming closer. “Alice, are you
not going to say you are glad to see me?”

“Yes, I am very glad to see you,” retreating two steps and making a
shield of her fan.

“And is that all?”

“I think so--what more do you expect? You are nothing but my
guardian,” she replied, avoiding his eyes.

“_Indeed!_” with an imperceptible start.

“Yes. You made the arrangement _yourself_; do not blame _me_ for
holding you to it,” she answered hurriedly.

“That arrangement, as you call it, was made under utterly different
circumstances, when you did not, and would not, believe that I was your
lawful husband. It is different now--you know better than that.”

“It may suit you to change _your mind_, but I do not alter mine.
You are my guardian, and nothing more; as husband and wife we are
strangers.”

“Is this your matured determination?” said Sir Reginald in a transport
of indignation.

“It is,” she replied firmly. “You have forgotten the existence of your
wife for the last three years: continue to forget her. Do you think I
have no pride?”

“Pride--_no_!” he exclaimed angrily. “I could not dignify it by such a
name. You are consumed by a senseless besotted obstinacy, that no doubt
you are pleased to consider as such.”

“You are, as usual, most flattering,” replied Alice, carelessly fanning
herself, considerably but inwardly agitated.

“I will take you at your word,” said Sir Reginald in a low but steady
voice. “I shall consider your decision _final_--as husband and wife we
are strangers. But I had hoped----” and he paused.

“What did you hope?” she asked sharply.

“Never mind; it is of no consequence _now_,” preparing to withdraw from
the window.

“Tell me,” she asked, detaining him with a movement of her fan, “did
you ever get the photograph of Maurice that I sent you?”

“I did,” he replied in an icy tone.

“You did!” she echoed. “You really did!”

“I did, as I have before remarked, and what then?” looking at her
sternly.

“Only that you must have also----” Here her answer was cut short by the
entrance of Miss Saville and Mary; and Sir Reginald, walking to the
other end of the room, remained aloof, looking out of the window till
dinner was announced. During this short interval he had time to recover
his composure and to collect his thoughts, and there was no trace of
anger or agitation in his countenance as he took his seat at the foot
of the dinner-table. No one could guess the enormous effort it had cost
him to attain such self-command. How strange it looked to see Alice
and her husband sitting opposite each other--host and hostess--master
and mistress! A man’s voice was an agreeable acquisition to the three
trebles, not that one of them was much heard. Sir Reginald had that
clear high-bred speech which is so expressively authoritative and yet
so musical; he spoke like a man who meant what he said. As to Alice,
indifferent and uninterested as she looked, each syllable of those dear
familiar tones thrilled her to the heart! Not once during dinner did he
directly address her--he did not even look at her so far as she knew.

“He is very, very angry with me,” she mused as she made a feint of
eating. “But it was better to let him know at once that I am _not_ ‘the
patient Griselda!’ When he cools down he will respect me all the more
for respecting myself! No doubt I was too hasty, abrupt, and perhaps
aggressive. I might have softened it more--but then I never can! I
have no tact!” Absorbed in her own reflections, she never observed the
signals Miss Saville was making to her; her eyes were steadily fixed on
her plate, and her thoughts apparently miles away.

“My dear, do you not think that we had better go into the drawing-room?”

“I beg your pardon, auntie,” she exclaimed with a start. “Of course.”

Sir Reginald accompanied the ladies, and spent a considerable time in
looking over photographs and talking to Miss Saville, Alice having
betaken herself to a distant arm-chair and Mary to the piano. After she
had played for some time, she went over to Alice, and in an audible
whisper said, as she stooped to arrange a tumbled chair-back:

“Come now, it is your turn; come and sing those two new songs you got
last week.”

“No, not to-night, Molly,” she replied, shaking her head very
decidedly. “Do not ask me, I could not sing a note!”

In the same way when Miss Saville challenged her to their usual game of
backgammon, as at night the old lady’s eyes were too weak for working
or reading.

“Not to-night, please, auntie,” she said plaintively, “I really feel
too stupid.”

“If you will accept me instead, Miss Saville, I will play with
pleasure; but I am afraid you will find me a most contemptible foe,”
remarked Sir Reginald, as he arranged the board all wrong.

The old lady accepted his offer with the greatest alacrity, and they
commenced to play without further delay.

Mary felt actually _ashamed_ of Alice, who, at some distance from her
relatives, lay back in her chair composedly knitting, pausing now and
then to count the stitches, and then resuming her occupation as if her
bread depended on it.

“Was this the way to welcome a husband? No wonder they did not ‘get on’
if Alice conducted herself in this fashion.”

As to her husband, as far as Mary could judge, there was nothing
outwardly amiss with his manners or appearance. She took the
opportunity of studying him whilst he was busily puzzling his brains
over the backgammon board.

About his good looks there could be but one opinion; but did not a
certain curve of the nostrils speak of pride? Was not firmness almost
too weak a word to convey the expression of his mouth and chin? Would
not a man with less patrician beauty and a more yielding disposition
be better calculated to make a woman happy?

As she thought all this with a contemplative gaze, she suddenly found a
pair of dark eyes fixed on herself with evident interest and amusement.

“Am I so fortunate as to remind you of anyone, Miss Ferrars?”

“No,” she replied hastily. “Please excuse my rudeness, I had no idea
that I was staring so hard; but you must remember that you are actually
the first Victoria Cross I have ever seen; and pardon me.”

“Surely you did not expect to see anything unusual in my appearance on
that account?” he asked with a smile. “I daresay you have seen many as
deserving of the distinction, if not more so. It is all a matter of
luck.”

“Is that the way you speak of your honours?” said Miss Saville,
pouncing down remorselessly on a blot. “I have no doubt you are very
proud of the cross all the same, and that you earned it _well_,” she
added with conviction.

A bald desultory conversation was kept up and solely supported between
Miss Saville and her nephew. Even Mary, from her opulent resources,
could find but little to say, for Alice’s demeanour paralysed all
efforts at sociability. Alice, leaning back in her chair with an air of
serene divine beatitude, enacted the part of a blanket of the heaviest
and wettest description.

A very dreary evening at last came to an end, and when the ladies had
departed Reginald strolled out into the pleasure-grounds to have a
smoke and a think.

As he paced moodily up and down, his reflections were anything but
agreeable--very much the reverse.

“What an infernal idiot I was to have come here! Fairfax, thy name
is _fool_,” he added with bitter emphasis. “Far from being inclined
for _peace_, Alice does all she can to _pose_ as the injured wife.
There is nothing like taking high ground,” he muttered to himself,
contemptuously kicking a fir-cone out of his way. “When the Mayhews
come I’ll go, and meanwhile I’ll meet Alice on her own terms. I
shall take her at her word once for all. No more halting between two
opinions; no womanish caprice; we shall be strangers. I am actually
talking to myself,” he exclaimed with a shrug of his shoulders; “an
infallible sign that my reason is beginning to totter. Well, if the
worst comes to the worst, I shan’t be the first Fairfax that has been
an out-and-out _fool_.”




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                    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.”




                              CHAPTER IX.

                   “SIR REGINALD’S EYES ARE OPENED.”


“Alice, I have such a crow to pick with you!” exclaimed Mrs. Mayhew,
bursting into her room the same afternoon, as she was dressing for
lawn-tennis.

“With me?” pausing with one arm in the sleeve of her dress. “Pick away,
I daresay I shall find a bag to put the feathers in.”

“It is no joking matter, I assure you,” said Helen, leaning one hand on
the dressing-table and nodding her head with much solemnity. “Reginald
has been so angry with me, I declare I feel just as I used to do after
I had had a lecture from papa. I never saw him in such a rage in my
life, and all about you,” she concluded indignantly.

“_Cela va sans dire_,” replied Alice, coolly selecting a handkerchief
from her sachet.

“What is this monstrous tale you have been telling him about not being
visited, and being tabooed as a _divorcée_? I never heard of anything
so utterly absurd. I told him that it was entirely a delusion; that
living so much alone had made you fancy and imagine things; and that I
was certain it was all a mistake--mere imagination.”

“You should not have said that, Helen,” replied Alice gravely. “Is it
imagination that, although I have lived here for three years, not one
in the neighbourhood has crossed the threshold with the exception of
the rector and the Ruffords? Am I taxing my imagination very heavily
when I say that I am never asked to join in any of the local charities,
bazaars, or concerts, although belonging to one of the oldest families
in the county, and known to be abundantly blessed with riches? Am I
drawing on my imagination when I tell you that the looks which I meet
are too disdainful to describe?--that were I that dreadful woman I
heard you telling auntie about, who had run away from her husband and
children--gone off with an actor I think you said--they could not hold
me in greater scorn and contempt?”

“And why has this never come to my ears? Why have you kept it from
me all along? Reginald has been telling me that he left you under my
charge and Mark’s, and a pretty way I have fulfilled my trust, he says,
when he comes home, only to find you outlawed from society. Why was I
not told? Was this fair to me, Alice?” said Mrs. Mayhew, sinking into a
seat with an air of being entirely overwhelmed.

“We kept it from you on purpose, auntie and I; we thought there was no
use in worrying you and Mark, and all you could have said or done would
not have been of the slightest use. All the waters in the sea would not
have washed me white in the estimation of my charitable neighbours.
When first I came here I was too miserable to notice anything; then for
a long time I was very ill, as you know. It was fully a year before I
became really alive to my position, as you would call it. Then auntie
spoke to the rector, and he told her the truth--that it was said that
Reginald had separated from me for very good reasons; and he asked her
point-blank if we were on friendly terms. What could she say?”--with
a gesture of appeal--“she told him the truth--that we were not, but
that our difference was entirely a matter between ourselves, and did
not concern the world at large. But, unfortunately for us, the world at
large is deeply interested in our affairs. The rector believed auntie,
I am sure, but no one else will listen to such an explanation for one
second; and as it transpired through the servants and the post-office
that I never received any Indian letters, but lots of English ones in a
man’s hand--Geoffrey’s--my fate was sealed. I am considered a dreadful
young person. Tell me, Helen,” putting on a most bewitching little
hat, and looking at her mischievously with her head on one side, “do I
_look_ very improper?”

“Alice, how can you go on like this?” exclaimed her cousin
hysterically. “How can you jest on such a subject? What an odd
extraordinary girl you are; at one moment in the wildest spirits, at
another in the depths of woe.”

“You cannot accuse me of very wild spirits lately, at any rate, and
you must not forget that I have Irish blood in my veins, and excuse my
vagaries on that score. I can tell you that I surprise _myself_ very
much at times.”

“Alice! Alice!” shouted Geoffrey from downstairs.

“There, I must be off. Do not look so dismal, my dear horrified Helen.
Now that Reginald has come here, people will think better of me, you
will see. Come along,” she continued, taking her arm and hurrying her
down the corridor, and flying with her downstairs at a breakneck pace,
“they are all waiting for us on the tennis-ground; even Mark is going
to play.”

“If you had not been so perverse, shutting yourself up, refusing to
come to us in London, and living the life of a nun, these dreadful
ideas would never have occurred to people,” panted Mrs. Mayhew
breathlessly. “It was your own fault entirely, your _own_ fault,” she
concluded emphatically, as they came within earshot of Geoffrey, who
was waiting for them at the edge of the lawn.

The Monkswood people played tennis all the afternoon with great zeal
and spirit: Alice and Mary, Reginald and Geoffrey, all clad in orthodox
white flannel apparel, had had some capital games; Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew,
less young and active, having settled down after the first half hour
into the _rôle_ of spectators, under the shade of a wide-spreading
horse-chestnut, where claret-cup and tea awaited the thirsty. At
length, breathless and hot, Reginald and Geoffrey, who had been playing
a match, came over, and, throwing themselves at full length on the
grass, said: “For goodness’ sake, give us something to drink! Send
round the claret-cup!”

“So you were beaten, Geoffrey? _Poor_ Geoffrey,” observed Alice
compassionately, as she handed him a bumper of claret and soda-water.

“I haven’t half a fair chance with him,” he replied with a deprecating
nod towards his victor; “he has a tremendous pull over me--he is such
an A 1 racket-player; spent hours in the racket-court every day in
India.”

“No, no, merely to keep myself from going to sleep of an afternoon. I’m
only a very moderate player, indeed,” expostulated Reginald modestly.

“Perhaps you will say that you are a very moderate cricketer too?” said
Geoffrey, with an air of calm judicial severity.

“Nothing to boast about, certainly.”

“Well, I’ll do the boasting for you; and that reminds me that I met the
curate in the village this morning.”

“No very novel or startling sight. _Après?_”

“He is coming up here this afternoon to ask you to play in the local
cricket-match on Monday, also to wait on you and pay you the visit of
ceremony.”

Reginald, who had been reposing at full length, gazing up speculatively
among the wide broad-leaved branches, now turned suddenly on his elbow
and brought himself _vis-à-vis_ to Geoffrey with a stare of profound
incredulity in his handsome dark eyes.

“The Phœnix Club against the world! The curate is a cricket-maniac of
the first water. He has let me in for it--I’m a Phœnix,” concluded
Geoffrey in an aggrieved tone. “I only trust we shall have an
appreciative audience next Monday.”

“I hope you impressed upon the curate that there was not the smallest
probability of my taking part in the match,” said Reginald imperiously.

“_Au contraire_; on the principle of the fox who has lost his tail, I
informed him that you were well known at Lord’s and elsewhere as one
of the best bowlers in the Service, and that he had only to enlist you
among the eleven to ensure a signal victory; consequently he will take
_no_ refusal.”

“But I do not intend to play,” remarked Reginald firmly. “You forget
that I have a stiff arm. My cricketing days are over; for the future,
as far as the noble game is concerned, I intend to live on my
reputation.”

“Your arm is as well as ever,” returned Geoffrey with calm conviction;
“I would be very sorry to stand a buffet from it. _That_ excuse shan’t
serve you--and, by the same token, here’s the holy man coming up the
avenue in a carriage and pair.”

“Nonsense, Geoffrey!” exclaimed Mrs. Mayhew, looking over her shoulder.
“Alice”--in a tragic tone, and with a significant glance--“here are
visitors.”

“So I see,” replied Alice with wonderful nonchalance. “I suppose I must
go in, though, literally speaking, I am _out_. Who will go with me?”
looking round. “Don’t all speak at once.”

“Not I, for one,” returned Mary promptly; “if I accompanied you with
this red face”--fanning herself with a small branch of horse-chestnut
leaves--“the people would think you had been beating me. Besides, I see
too much of that old lady in her yellow bonnet as it is; she sits just
in front of us in church. I believe she is the greatest gossip in the
county, so be sure you don’t commit yourself beyond the weather, and
the beauty and amiability of a certain Miss Ferrars who is staying with
you.”

“I’ll go with you, my pretty Alice,” said Geoffrey, still, however,
retaining his recumbent position, and making believe to play the guitar
upon his tennis-bat, and fingering away with great fluency and skill.

“‘Nobody asked you, sir, she said,’” quoted Alice, standing up and
shaking some crumbs from her lap. “Your manners are not sufficiently
formed--you don’t know the meaning of the word ‘decorum,’ and you
always try to make me laugh or inveigle me into some horrid blunder,
and then you are delighted and sit grinning like a Cheshire cat. No,
_you_ won’t do.”

“Thanks, fair cousin, thanks,” raising himself to a kneeling posture,
and making a profound full-length salaam on the short green sward.

“I see I must go alone,” exclaimed Alice, glancing hopelessly at her
husband, who was lying on the grass, smoking, his arms folded behind
his head, his hat over his eyes, the very embodiment of luxurious lazy
indifference.

“Don’t drink _all_ the tea, good people,” was her parting injunction
as she hurried off across the lawn, the whole party following with
admiring eyes her well-poised figure and graceful gait.

“I must go in too,” said Helen with visible reluctance, when she
had conscientiously drained her second cup of tea. “I promised to
drive down to the village with Miss Saville. She thinks one of the
schoolmaster’s daughters would be an ideal maid for Hilda. Heigho! I
suppose I must leave you,” rising heavily.

“It is to be hoped that this ‘ideal maid’ will turn out to be something
more beautiful than your present treasure, Helen,” remarked Geoffrey
impressively. “To say that she is plain about the head but feebly
expresses it; if you were to set her up in a field, not a crow would
come near it. Shall I come with you”--half rising--“and give you the
benefit of my critical and artistic eye? I’m not half a bad judge,” he
added complacently.

“How can you be so detestably vulgar! Fancy discussing the appearance
of people’s servants,” said Helen, with the air of lofty righteous
indignation.

“And why not?” pursued Geoffrey serenely.

“Why not?” echoed Mrs. Mayhew. “Well, for one thing----However, I’m
not going to bandy words with you now--here are all these people coming
from the house, and I must flee,” she added hastily, as she turned and
hurried off among the trees in the hopes of making her escape unseen.

She was quite correct--Alice was actually sallying forth, escorting two
elderly ladies and a vapid-looking youth, with hay-coloured hair and
an incipient ditto moustache. He wore an extraordinarily high collar,
an eye-glass, and pale lavender gloves, and it was easy to see that
he considered James Blundell, Esq., the very glass of fashion and the
mould of form. He was sucking the knob of his cane with greedy relish,
and casting every now and then glances of marked approbation on his
pretty young hostess, as he stalked along beside her.

“What in the world possessed Alice to bring them out here?” growled
Mr. Mayhew irritably, as he looked over his shoulder and beheld the
advancing squadron.

“To allow us to share the pleasure of entertaining them, of course,”
responded Miss Ferrars in her most affable manner.

“Does the old lady with the parrot beak call that thing on her head a
bonnet, or a bewitched bird’s-nest?” whispered Geoffrey, as she slowly
and majestically approached the group under the trees--in fact, her
mode of progression gave one the idea that she was on castors, and
being pushed along over the turf like a heavy piece of furniture.

Alice introduced Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Blundell to Miss Ferrars.

“My cousins, Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Saville,” she said, indicating the
two reclining gentlemen, who sprang up, bowed themselves, and again
subsided. Mrs. Blundell and Mrs. Pritchard having executed leisurely
and patronising bows all round, sank into two roomy garden-chairs, and
permitted themselves to be refreshed with cups of tea.

Sir Reginald, who had been collecting stray bats and balls, now joined
the group, and doffing his hat politely to the new arrivals, made some
trivial remark with respect to that fail-me-never topic, the weather.
He seemed to take it for granted that they would recognise him as their
host, and dispensed tea, claret-cup, and strawberries to the best of
his ability.

Geoffrey still remained prone on the grass, making no attempt to share
his labours, and apparently spell-bound by Mrs. Blundell’s appearance.

But Reginald’s efforts at hospitality were not favourably received by
the two lady guests: their gaze was that of stony interrogation, their
answers brevity itself.

“_Who_,” they asked themselves, “was this handsome young fellow in
the cricketing flannels and straw hat with a zingari ribbon, so
suspiciously at his ease--so entirely at home? Had their ears deceived
them, or had he called Lady Fairfax by her christian-name?”

“No sugar, Alice--no sugar,” in an easy authoritative tone, that spoke
whole volumes of the closest intimacy.

No tea for young Mr. Blundell--no, no, his most ardent desire was to
have a game of tennis with Lady Fairfax--a desire by no means warmly
reciprocated. Nevertheless, she good-naturedly left the cool shade once
more in order to gratify his wishes.

Meanwhile, the two ladies engaged the rest of the party in desultory
languid conversation.

Mrs. Blundell was a very stout pompous old woman, whose skin somehow
had the appearance of being too tight for her face. A pair of rolling
little pig’s eyes took in every object with microscopic detail; in
fact, they had a double duty to perform, as their owner was exceedingly
deaf, and in every case brought the eye to the rescue of the ear. She
not only had to be roared at, but roared herself in reply; and what
she flattered herself was an inaudible whisper was generally as loud
as ordinary conversation, and as she indulged her friend and toady,
Mrs. Pritchard, with many of these supposed _sotto voce_ remarks, the
result can be better imagined than described. A most gorgeous yellow
bonnet adorned Mrs. Blundell’s hoary head. To an inexperienced eye
it appeared a mad rendezvous of flowers, beads, and feathers. A very
voluminous satin mantle enshrouded her matronly form--a mantle that
would have been a mine of wealth to an Indian squaw being a prey to
the all-pervading bead, and one mass of steel fringes, tassels, and
trimmings. So much for her outward woman.

Mrs. Blundell had a threefold object in visiting Monkswood; she
came, firstly, to gratify her son, who had been immensely smitten
with Lady Fairfax’s appearance, and who yearned to make her personal
acquaintance; secondly, she came to indulge herself in the proud
consciousness that she, Mrs. Blundell, a mere nobody--retired soap,
in fact--had it in her power to countenance and patronise the wife
of one of the most blue-blooded magnates in Steepshire, to take her
under her protecting wing, give her some sage matronly advice, and,
perchance, lead the wicked little stray lamb back into the fold of
society; and thirdly, she came to satisfy the cravings of a sound
wholesome curiosity, to see for herself if all tales were true, to look
with her own keen little eyes within the massive, rarely-opened, grand
entrance-gates of Monkswood.

Now all speculation was completely set at rest; seeing was believing,
and she beheld plain unvarnished facts. Never would she tolerate,
patronise, or countenance her present hostess, never again darken
her doors. Meanwhile, as she _was_ here, she would make the most of
her time, the best of her opportunities--were some of her charitable
reflections. It was not every day that the very fount of scandal itself
was laid open to her judicial eye. Here was no second-hand sight, but a
most piquant improper little drama being played before her very face.
In other words, she saw Lady Fairfax indisputably gay and pretty and
well dressed, entertaining, in her husband’s absence, three men, all
drinking tea or claret-cup, eating strawberries, and lolling on the
grass, with the air of being most thoroughly at home; and there was an
easy familiarity in their bearing towards each other, and specially
towards their hostess, that was absolutely revolting to Mrs. Blundell’s
sense of propriety--the fair young man had actually rapped her over
the knuckles with the sugar-tongs! Where was the old chaperon?--a myth
or a dummy most probably; no creature of the female sex was visible,
excepting that bold-looking red-haired young woman, who had been riding
about the roads with Lady Fairfax the whole summer. These thoughts
flashed like lightning through the good lady’s mind as her eyes looked
from one to the other, storing up her memory with a distinct mental
photograph of the whole scene.

Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs. Blundell, and Miss Ferrars occupied wicker
garden-chairs; the three gentlemen reposed in the foreground on the
grass, but a sense of politeness had raised them to a sitting position.
The weather, and tennis, as a popular and healthy game, had been alike
exhausted, and conversation flagged visibly, in spite of Mary’s gallant
exertions.

“Why were you not at the grand cricket-match in Manister yesterday?”
asked Mrs. Blundell in a loud authoritative tone.

“I don’t know, I’m sure; we never thought of it,” replied Miss Ferrars
meekly.

“If you had it would not have done you much good,” put in Geoffrey;
“there are no carriage-horses. I never knew such a little duffer as
Alice--sending them back to Looton,” he added in a low aside.

“No carriage-horses!” echoed Mrs. Blundell, whose ears had at least
caught _that_ sentence. “Dear me! you don’t say so?” in a tone of deep
commiseration. Then turning aside to her friend she whispered (?): “I
heard he kept her tight, but I had no idea it was as bad as that.”

Mary, Geoffrey, and Mr. Mayhew exchanged looks of unqualified
amazement, and again an awkward silence ensued.

Mrs. Blundell once more proceeded in a louder and more _forte_ key:

“I am surprised to see Lady Fairfax entertaining visitors; I had no
idea she ever had people staying here.”

“We are the exception that proves the rule,” replied Geoffrey at the
top of his naturally robust organ.

“Are _you_ staying in the house--you two young men?” indicating
Geoffrey and Reginald with a fat forefinger.

“Yes,” returned Geoffrey, who had taken upon himself the task of
answering.

“Ah! I do not think I know your face,” to Geoffrey. “Are you in the
Manister Bank?” patronisingly.

“No, I’m not;” rather sharply.

“Do you belong to this part of the country?”

“I have not that honour.”

Mrs. Blundell gazed at him dreamily for nearly sixty seconds, and then
a light seemed to break, for she exclaimed with the triumph of one who
has grasped and presents an indisputable fact:

“I have it! You are the new young man in the Brewery.”

“I am _not_,” returned Geoffrey haughtily, and shouting with impressive
distinctness. “I am not in the Brewery; and to save you the trouble of
further speculation on my behalf, I may as well inform you that I’m in
the cavalry.”

“Ah!” There was a world of meaning in that interjection--a meaning no
pen could convey. “And he?” indicating Reginald with her sunshade.

“Cavalry officer also.”

“Two cavalry officers,” she repeated slowly, evidently rehearsing the
intelligence for future occasions. If she had said, “Two returned
convicts,” her intonation could not have expressed deeper disapproval.

Whilst she was gratifying her thirst for information, her friend and
Mrs. Mayhew were exchanging platitudes about flowers and fruit, the
seasons of the year, and suchlike enthralling topics. They now made a
combined effort to include her in their conversation. But it was of no
avail; she evidently preferred to draw out Geoffrey, who seemed not
merely willing, but delighted to oblige her.

Having replenished her cup with politest alacrity, he resumed his
seat in front of her _à la Turc_, and looked up at her with an amused
twinkle in his mischievous little hazel eyes.

“Lady Fairfax is a very pretty young woman,” she remarked to him over
her teacup. A nod satisfied her of Geoffrey’s cordial assent. “My son
admires her immensely, so do all the gentlemen about here. She is
rather what I call a gentleman’s beauty,” she added in a deprecating
tone; “but still _I_ think her decidedly good-looking,” with an air
that signified that Alice had now, and once for all, received an
invaluable _cachet_ of distinction.

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” muttered Geoffrey.

“Frederick has been most anxious for me to call ever since he met
Lady Fairfax one day out riding; he has been dying to make her
acquaintance. He has such an eye for beauty.”

“He looks like it,” assented Geoffrey in a cheerful shout.

“Be quiet, Geoffrey,” muttered Reginald from behind.

“Are you any relation to Lady Fairfax, may I ask?”

“Yes, of course I am,” roared Geoffrey.

“Both of you? Cousins did you say?”

“No, I did not; but I _am_ her cousin.”

“As much her cousin as I am,” in a loud aside to her friend, and with a
significance baffling all description.

Mary, seeing a storm brewing in Reginald’s eyes, hastened to throw
herself into the breach with an all-absorbing bazaar for bait. But
no, the devoted old lady madly rushed on her fate. After a few brief
replies she resumed:

“Did you say that this other gentleman was a cousin also?” regarding
Geoffrey with a keen satirical eye.

“The interest you take in Lady Fairfax is most gratifying to the whole
family. No, he is _not_ her cousin, he is her husband.”

“Not her cousin, not her husband! You need not tell me _that_; of
course I know _that_,” with insolent emphasis.

What was to be done with this terrible old woman, on whom her friend’s
signs and nudges were entirely thrown away?

At this instant, the game over, Alice, flushed and breathless, joined
the group.

“I won, Geoff; only--fancy--that,” she said, laying her hands on his
shoulders in the excitement of her recent victory.

“Then, I suppose, there will be no living in the same house with you
for the next week,” remarked her cousin, moving so as to make room for
her beside him on the grass.

She looked utterly fagged and exhausted; her frail delicate appearance
struck her husband forcibly, and for the first time he sprang up,
dragged forward a garden-chair, and, taking her by the arm, pushed her
into it with an air of loverlike solicitude--by no means lost on Mrs.
Blundell--that had been foreign to his manner for many a long day.

“Thank you, Reginald,” said Alice, sinking back into the seat with a
sigh of relief and removing her hat. “To reward you for your politeness
you shall have a little bit of my dress to sit on,” spreading out the
folds of her skirt.

“This is really too barefaced,” cried Mrs. Blundell in one of her very
loudest asides.

Then, getting up and extending her hand very stiffly to Alice, she
said in a most pointed unmistakable manner:

“It is quite time for me to be going, Lady Fairfax. I wish you
good-afternoon. Come, Frederick,” she called to her son, who
was quaffing quantities of claret-cup, “I am ready,” and with a
comprehensive bow she was sailing off, but was arrested by Sir
Reginald, who, leaping to his feet, confronted her.

“Before you leave, madam, will you have the goodness to tell me _who_
you think I am?”

With a most evil and significant smile she was turning away, and
metaphorically proceeding to shake the dust off her feet, when he again
detained her.

“I am Lady Fairfax’s _husband_!” he shouted. “What do you mean by your
looks and innuendoes?”

“What is he saying, Frederick? I can’t hear a word.”

Reginald, turning to her son, with eyes ablaze and perfectly livid
with passion, said to the electrified youth: “Be good enough to make
your mother understand _who_ I am; also make her clearly comprehend
that neither Lady Fairfax nor myself have any further desire for her
acquaintance. As for _you_”--with withering contempt--“I sincerely hope
your curiosity has been gratified with regard to my wife’s appearance.
That there may be no delay in your departure”--looking at the three
culprits sternly--“I shall myself go and order your carriage.”

So saying, he took off his hat and walked away, leaving his visitors
covered with amazement and confusion, Geoffrey in agonies of repressed
laughter, and Miss Ferrars and Mrs. Mayhew in a state of mental coma.

When this tirade had been interpreted to Mrs. Blundell--she had heard
a good deal more than she pretended--she returned across the grass,
from where she was awaiting her carriage, and humbly accosting Alice,
overwhelmed her with excuses and apologies which there was no avoiding.
The worldly-wise old lady said to herself: “It will never do to quarrel
with the Fairfaxes--people of great wealth and influence, if all
is as it seems. Supposing her outrageous mistake was to get about,
what capital for her fellow-gossips! At all costs she would leave on
friendly terms, and be literally stone deaf to every snub.” Summoning
a sweet smile to her discomfited countenance, she implored Alice
to intercede with her husband: “He looks as if he could refuse you
_nothing_. Do make my peace with him; do go and bring him to receive
my most humble apologies. You must blame my unfortunate deafness, not
me. I am not like other people, my dear young lady; I am afflicted,
and I frequently get hold of wrong impressions, which is my great
misfortune--not, I am sure you will allow, my fault. I did hear a
little idle whisper that you were rather--a--rather--a----” casting
wildly about for a delicate way of expressing herself, and becoming
crimson in the attempt--“shall we say--fast young lady?”

“Certainly, if you like; and as long as I need not agree to the fact,”
returned Alice with much composure.

“Well, and finding you entertaining _three_ cavalry officers, all on
a most familiar footing, and imagining that your husband was still
absent, I just thought, as a much older married woman”--effusively--“I
would give you a little hint by my manner.”

“In that she succeeded to a marvel,” murmured Geoffrey.

“And I had no idea, no more than the man in the moon, of the real state
of the case; nor that that dark distinguished-looking young man was
Sir Reginald himself. And has he come to stay? and where has he been
all this time?” she asked with affectionate solicitude. “However, I’ll
question you another time. Do run after him and obtain my forgiveness;
I assure you I cannot leave the place without it,” planting her parasol
in a typical manner in the sod and waving Alice to the quest.

Alice most unwillingly set out to find her husband; he was in the
yard composing himself with a cigar, and personally despatching the
carriage. When he had heard what she had to say he burst forth:

“Alice, I am astonished that you can ask such a thing. No, I certainly
will not forgive them; and if you say another word on the subject, I
warn you that I shall begin to swear. I feel literally boiling with
rage. Nothing less than a swim in the river will cool me,” he observed,
moving off.

“Stay one instant,” she cried, running after him. “What _am_ I to say
to them, then?”

“Say? Oh say that I am in such a frightful rage you are afraid to go
near me.”

“But you are not quite so bad as all that, and I am not the least
afraid of you,” she returned with a smile.

“Are you not?” he said, taking his cheroot out of his mouth and looking
hard at her. “Well, you may go back and tell them that I forgive them
this time for your sake, since you say that nothing else will induce
the old woman to quit the premises.”

“You will not come back and say so yourself?” she asked insinuatingly.

“Not for ten thousand pounds; my forgiveness is but hollow. I should
like nothing better than to give that young booby a thrashing that
would surprise him, and to duck his mother in the pond. Such are my
savage instincts. That is what I would do if I were a North American
Indian and you were my squaw,” he concluded with a grim smile.

“Reginald, I think you have taken leave of your senses.”

“I see one thing very plainly,” he continued, walking by her side to
the edge of the lawn, “and that is, that I shall have to stay here much
longer than I intended, to rehabilitate you in the good opinion of
society. So be prepared to enact with me in public the part of a most
united happy couple. Do you understand?” he said, throwing the end of
his cigar among the laurel bushes and coming to a full stop. “I will
accompany you everywhere, carry your fans, shawls, bouquets, and other
loose paraphernalia, and you”--very bitterly--“must assume a certain
amount of interest and gratitude in return for my devoted solicitude.
It will only be for a short time, but I see that it is an imperative
though disagreeable necessity.”

So saying, he turned abruptly away down a side walk, leaving Alice with
tears of mortification smarting in her eyes.




                              CHAPTER X.

                          GEOFFREY MANŒUVRES.


An hour later Reginald made his appearance in the library, where he
found all the party assembled except Alice. Seeing him look round the
room, Helen volunteered to tell him that she had gone to see a sick
girl.

“What, at this time of night?”

“She went nearly an hour ago. She insisted on going, as she had not
been to see Lucy Summers for some days. Alice has been so good to her
all the summer--she is dying of consumption, poor girl.”

“It is quite time that Alice was home,” said her husband with
authority. “Half-past seven!” walking to the window and looking at his
watch.

“Geoffrey promised to fetch her. You ought to start, Geoff,” said
Helen. “You know that this is market-night, and her abject fear of
drunken men is no secret.”

“She need not go as far as the road for them,” remarked Reginald. “Just
now I met an under-gardener endeavouring to walk up both sides of the
avenue at once.”

“Come, Geoff, you had better be off if you are going.”

“Oh, I’m exhausted,” replied Geoffrey. “I really could not think of
taking any more exercise to-day.”

“But you promised,” urged his cousin emphatically.

“Promised, did I?” he replied, rising languidly and deliberately
arranging a cushion behind his head as he settled himself into the
snuggest corner of the sofa. “Oh, Alice is accustomed to my promises
by this time; she knows they are like piecrust--made to be broken.
Besides, Alice has a young and active husband. Pedestrian exercise is
good for these Anglo-Indians; let him go.”

“But, Geoffrey----”

“‘But me no buts;’ I won’t stir till the first bell rings, if then.
That girl has already run me off my legs, and if she is mad enough to
start for a two-miles’ walk at this time of night, I am not. I prefer
lying here”--shutting his eyes--“and thinking of dinner.”

“Well, Geoffrey,” exclaimed Reginald indignantly, taking up his hat,
“if you won’t go, _I_ must. Where does this sick girl live?”

“Go out by the lower avenue, turn to the left, and follow your
nose--it’s straight, isn’t it?--till you come to a plantation; go
through that, and you will see a field, and in the field a cottage. And
you had better look sharp, my dear boy; it’s getting late.”

As the door closed, Geoffrey started up and began capering about the
room.

“Did I not do that splendidly?” he asked, stopping and rubbing his
hands. “Haven’t I arranged for a nice little conjugal _tête-à-tête_,
and isn’t he just swearing at me! Ten to one they will have a
battle-royal, but anything is better than this armed peace; the way in
which they avoid each other is a most beautiful study in tactics.”

“If you will take _my_ advice,” observed Mrs. Mayhew, “you will not put
your finger in the pie. Leave it to time, and it will all come right.”

“I don’t agree with you there,” replied Geoffrey. “Leave all to time
and it will all go wrong, unless time is assisted by kind friends who
make such judicious arrangements as this walk for example. They require
as much looking after as if it were a half-developed love affair.”

“Why should you busy yourself about them, an unfledged youngster like
you?” asked the Honorable Mark peevishly.

Perfectly ignoring the question, Geoffrey stalked over to Helen,
delightfully unconscious that an antimacassar was clinging to his
coat-tails.

“Helen, now that we are here, ‘_en champ clos_’--or to translate it
freely, Miss Ferrars and auntie are gone to dress, and the master
and mistress are out--tell me honestly what you think about the
business--will it all come right, or will he hook it off to the wars
again?”

“What a way of expressing yourself! What polished ease! Well, if you
want my opinion, you are quite welcome to it. I think the prospect is
decidedly gloomy.”

“You do? Well, listen to me--I am certain that his cool indifference is
only assumed--is that nicely expressed?--and, as to her, I daresay she
is quite ready to kiss and be friends. Suppose you break the ice with
her, and I’ll put out a feeler in his direction?”

“Helen,” almost shouted her husband, “don’t attempt to interfere,
whatever Geoffrey may do--and he has assurance for twenty. But you’ll
see he will only burn his fingers,” added Mr. Mayhew emphatically.

“Never mind him, Helen, you back _me_ up,” urged Geoffrey eagerly.

Helen merely shook her head in reply.

“Pouff! Mr. Mayhew,” he expostulated indignantly, “I had a much better
opinion of you. You have no pluck!”

So saying, he lounged out of the room, banging the door loudly after
him.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                     “MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT ALONE.”


In the meantime, Sir Reginald was walking rapidly in the direction of
the Summers’ cottage. He reached the wood, which was thickly planted,
and covered about an acre of ground. Spruce and fir made it dusky even
in the daytime, and now in the twilight it was almost pitch-dark.
Vaulting over the stile, he followed a path till he came to another
stile, near which was the cottage, as Geoffrey had described.

“I’ve come far enough,” he said to himself, “and whilst I wait I’ll
have a smoke.” So, leaning against a tree, he struck a light, and
lit at least his sixth cigar that day. After five minutes or so he
saw the cottage door open, and a white dog and a slender white figure
emerge, both of which started off at a brisk run across the field,
Alice collapsing to a sober walk as she neared the plantation. Stepping
lightly over the stile, she advanced cautiously through the gloom, but
descrying the spark at the end of her husband’s cheroot, she exclaimed,
as she sprang towards him and seized his arm:

“Oh, Geoff! you good boy, I was half afraid you would not come. I never
was more glad to see you--I do so hate this lonely dark wood. They
say a murder was committed here years ago,” she added, drawing closer
to him and shuddering. “Come, we must be quick,” she chattered on; “I
shall get into dreadful hot water, I am so late, and I am so tired I
can hardly crawl. Not that I mind, only Helen makes such a fuss if she
sees me looking pale and sleepy. Why don’t you speak, you lazy fellow?
you are always smoking. Who would think you had such an arm,” pinching
him; “it’s like a blacksmith’s; the muscles feel as if they would burst
the sleeve of your coat. I shall have no compunction in leaning pretty
heavily, I can tell you.”

“Are you dumb, Geoffrey; or are you in the sulks?”

A sudden idea struck her. It was _not_ Geoffrey after all;
perhaps--agonising thought!--it was some utter stranger whom she had
thus cavalierly appropriated.

“What _have_ I done?” she cried, horror-struck, and endeavouring to
release her hand. “Please let me go, whoever you are,” she pleaded
piteously.

By this time they were close to the road, and by the light of the
newly-risen moon she saw her husband, and stood aghast.

“Geoffrey was, or said he was, too lazy to come,” he remarked, helping
her over the stile, “so I came as his substitute. I daresay you will
find my arm quite as efficient a support,” coolly replacing her hand.

“Oh, but indeed,” struggling to withdraw it, and struggling in vain, “I
never dreamt it was you, or I would not--I would not----”

“Have taken such a liberty,” he interrupted. “No, I daresay not.”

“There is no necessity to show me such politeness now,” she exclaimed
hotly; “it is only in public, as you said yourself, that you are to pay
me any attention. Let my hand go, please; I can walk very well without
any assistance.”

“Nevertheless, as you admitted just now that you were tired, you will
have to do violence to your feelings for once and accept my arm, much
as you dislike it; and if the high road is not a public place, I should
like to know what is. Why did you not defer this visit till to-morrow?
No wonder you are tired, after playing lawn-tennis all the afternoon.
What can have possessed you to take such a walk?” he asked, slackening
his pace.

“I could not have slept,” she rejoined, “if I had not, for I had not
been to see Lucy for a week, and my conscience was telling me I had
neglected her.”

“Oh then you _have_ a conscience?” he observed gravely.

“Of course I have. What an odd question! Why do you ask?”

“Mere idle curiosity. Who is this Lucy Summers you have been to see?”

“A girl who is very ill; she thinks so much of my visits, poor thing;
but she does me far more good than I have it in my power to do her. She
is truly fit for heaven, if anyone can be so.”

“She is dying, is she not?”

“Yes, of consumption; and she is only my age. If I were like her I
should be glad to go--only for Maurice.”

A long and truly eloquent silence, lasting for fully a quarter of
a mile. Alice thought of the last time they had walked together
arm-in-arm up and down the long gallery at Looton, the evening before
he had started for Cannes. What an age it seemed since then! What
changes had occurred! He was more changed than all else, she felt, as
she stole a glance at him. His clear-cut profile looked coldly severe
in the moonlight, his eyes were fixed on the horizon, and his thoughts
seemed at least a thousand miles away. The moon, which had risen
behind the park trees, was now sailing proudly overhead, and looked
down full-faced on this strangely-silent couple.

The rattle of an approaching dog-cart and the sound of a horse’s hoofs
aroused them from their reflections.

Two young men in evening dress, evidently going out to dinner. They
favoured Alice with a hard stare, and Reginald with a knowing look, as
they dashed past.

“Pretty girl!” and “Lucky dog!” was borne upon the breeze as they
rounded a corner, leaving behind them a cloud of dust.

As Alice put up her hand to ward off a volume of it, her wedding-ring
glittered in the moonlight, and, for the first time, caught her
husband’s eye.

“So you have replaced your wedding-ring, I see,” he observed, as they
entered the avenue-gates.

“I have,” she replied in a low voice.

“What an interesting ceremony it must have been,” he remarked
sarcastically.

“What _do_ you mean?” asked Alice, gazing up at him with unrestrained
astonishment.

“Did you swear to love, honour, and obey Alice Fairfax? I have often
heard of people being wedded to self, but such an utterly barefaced
proceeding as yours I never met with before.”

Alice had never thoroughly realised till now how bitterly he had
resented her treatment of his wedding-ring.

“Where is my own ring?” she asked with a reckless boldness that
surprised herself.

“I wear it on my watch-chain.”

“Will you ever give it back to me?” she inquired, more and more amazed
at her own audacity.

He paused and stood still for a moment, and eyeing his wife with cool
unspeakable amazement, said:

“Will I give you back your wedding-ring? When you deserve it I may;
but,” he added slowly and impressively, “as far as I can judge at
present, that will _never_ be.”

He felt her little hand tremble on his arm, he saw her lips quiver, a
mist come over her deep-fringed eyes. Seized with sudden compunction,
he said:

“I am afraid I am always giving you rude brusque answers, but you
brought this on yourself. The past three years have not been calculated
to improve a man’s temper, have they?”

She looked up.

“You know you don’t deserve your wedding-ring, do you?” said he, taking
her hand. “Do you?” he added pertinaciously.

“I suppose not,” faltered Alice, gulping down her tears with a painful
effort.

“You _suppose_ not!” he echoed impatiently. “Well, I am very certain
you don’t; and the ring is likely to remain in my keeping.”

By this time they had reached the hall door-steps, where Geoffrey,
in full evening dress and the usual flower in his button-hole, was
awaiting them.

“At last!” he exclaimed. “So you have really come home. Well, you did
not hurry yourselves,” he said, escorting them into the hall. “We began
to think you had eloped--gone off together into some elegant retirement
in the style of a second honeymoon.”

“Geoffrey!” cried Alice, in an agony of blushes.

“Don’t ‘Geoffrey’ me, my good girl, but go and get ready for dinner as
quickly as you can; I’m _starving_.”


                            END OF VOL. II.


            CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.




        
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