Proper pride

Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew had gone on a visit to some friends at the other end of the county, and the young people, left to their own devices, instituted a riding-party into Manister. Alice was mounted on a new purchase—a perfect animal in appearance and manner—a bay mare with black points, who fully justified the name she had brought with her—“Look at Me”—and the three hundred guineas Sir Reginald had paid to her late owner. Cardigan he reserved for himself, and Cardigan, in mad spirits, kept plunging and shying and indulging in formidable antics all the way down the avenue, setting an infamous example to the other horses.

“I must take it out of this fellow,” said his master, sending him at a low fence that separated the road from a long series of large grass fields.

In another instant Look at Me was beside him. Together they galloped the length of three or four fields, their riders just steadying them at their fences, which consisted of one or two low hedges, a couple of sheep hurdles, and a semi-Irish bank.

The pace, the breeze, and, above all, the exhilarating exercise, made Alice’s spirits rise to quite their former standard. With brilliant cheeks and sparkling eyes she looked the Alice of other days.

Bringing his horse to a walk, and casting an approving glance at his companion, her husband said:

“I see you ride as well as ever, Alice, if not better!”

“I am fonder of it, if that is anything,” she replied, giving her habit a businesslike twitch. “It’s the only thing I care for in the way of amusement. I seem to be able to ride away from myself, to forget all my troubles, and to be Alice Saville once more.”

“You would like to be Alice Saville again, no doubt,” said her husband quietly, looking at her steadily.

No answer.

“Alice, did you hear me?” leaning towards her and placing his hand on her horse’s crest.

“Yes, I heard you. You are not my father confessor, be pleased to remember,” she replied, closing her lips resolutely. She felt an insane desire to tease him, and proceeded: “Perhaps, if you tell me two or three things, I will tell you.”

“Go on, then. What do you wish to know?”

“In the first place, am I as pretty as I was as Alice Saville?”

“Really—I—I have never given the subject a thought.” (Oh Reginald!)

“Well; go on. I’m waiting.”

“Yes”—looking at her boldly and taking in every item of her fair high-bred face, mischievous smile, and lovely laughing eyes—“I suppose you are.”

What a rude, indefinite way of putting it!

“Is my riding as good as ever?”

“Yes,” most emphatically.

“Is my temper improved?”

“How can I tell? I have had no practical demonstration of one of your passions as yet. But I should say—your temper was now as equable and unruffled as the corn in that field.”

“How is yours?” abruptly.

“Mine! Much as usual, thank you,” with an amused, superior smile.

“Well, now, as you have answered my questions, it is only fair to answer yours.”

“Yes,” he replied, looking at her eagerly.

“I would rather”—emphasizing every word—“be Alice Somebody than anyone else in the whole world. Now are you much wiser?” she added, giving him a mischievous glance.

“Of course! I KNOW, Alice, although you won’t tell me. But even if we had never met, you would not be Alice Saville now; so what is the good of wishing for your maiden-name? You would have been married long ago—subject to my consent,” with a sardonic smile he could not express.

“We were very happy once, Reg,” she said with a deep sigh. “Neither of us had tempers—once. Have you forgotten?”

He has not forgotten; he never can forget. Nevertheless, he abruptly put an end to her reminiscences, saying:

“Alice, there is nothing to be gained by referring to the past, nothing but pain. My past is dead and buried; the sooner you put yours under the ground the better. Never allude to our married life again. Let it be as though it had never been; it was a fiasco, a MISTAKE! We have only to deal with the present and the future.”

“The present and the future,” she echoed, choking back her tears.

The sound of their horses’ hoofs on the soft springy turf was the only sound that broke the silence for more than ten minutes. Presently she said:

“What is your future?—what are you going to do?”

“I mean to have a look at Looton, a winter’s hunting in the shires, and to return to India in the spring.”

“To India!” she gasped. “Reginald, does it ever, ever strike you how cruel you are to me?”

“Cruel!” he echoed, looking into her wistful beautiful eyes with stern self-command. “God help you, Alice, if I was ever as cruel to you as you have been to me. Come,” he added, putting his horse into a canter, “here is the lane to the Manister road; we had better get on.”

Somehow, Alice’s attempts at explanation or reconciliation were always failures. Her husband declined to meet her halfway. He looked so cold and so unsympathetic that the words that came trembling to her lips died away unspoken, frozen into silence by the icy chilliness of his demeanour. Firm and intrepid resolutions she had made to brave him came to nothing when she found herself alone with him face to face. He would talk on any other topic but themselves—their past. He cantered up the lane in front of her without even turning his head. Had he glanced backwards, he would have seen what would have surprised him considerably—Alice hastily searching in the saddle-pocket for her handkerchief and furtively wiping away some distinctly visible tears.

The long grass lane terminated in a locked gate—a gate opening on the Manister road—over which Cardigan showed the way in gallant style, closely followed by the bay and blue habit.

“Oh how pretty! How easy it looks!” exclaimed Mary Ferrars, as she and Geoffrey trotted up just in time to witness the performance.

“It’s not often you see a married couple ride like that,” returned Geoffrey complacently, “and it’s just the only subject on which they agree.”

They all rode into the town together, where they again divided—Geoffrey and Mary to go to the confectioner’s—an errand for Maurice—Alice and Reginald to despatch a telegram. When they came to the post-office, two carriages were already drawn up, containing some of the Steepshire monde.

They favoured Alice and her cavalier with an impertinent stare, or looked over her head with fixed attention.

One old lady adjusted her pince-nez, and amused herself by staring Alice out of countenance.

When her husband had despatched the telegram he came out, and saw at a glance the contemptuous looks levelled at his wife, her burning cheeks and downcast eyes. In a second he grasped the situation, and turning on the carriages a look of scathing indignation, he mounted his horse, and, unintentionally ramming in the spurs, that fiery animal became almost unmanageable, and, rearing erect, nearly overbalanced into one of the landaus; but having regained his equilibrium, went plunging violently down the street.

“Who is the young man she has the effrontery to ride with?” asked the old lady with the glasses.

“Don’t know, I’m sure. Looks like a cavalry man,” responded her daughter languidly. “Better ask Smith.”

Mr. Smith, postmaster, who was standing at his shop-door, looking after the equestrians, and briskly rubbing his hands, said, in reply to her question:

“Certainly, ma’am, certainly,” clearing his throat and preparing to deliver what he knows will be a startling announcement. “You mean the gentleman on the chestnut horse, just turning into Market Street?”

An eager nod of assent.

“That is Sir Reginald, Lady Fairfax’s husband.”

“Impossible!”

“Well, ma’am, he has just sent off a telegram in that name.”

Sensation!

As the Monkswood party were leaving the town they encountered a very dashing victoria and pair, which stopped, and Alice was beckoned to by a sprightly dark-eyed lady with a rose-lined parasol.

“My dear Lady Fairfax, this is most apropos! I have been over to Monkswood to tell you that I won’t take any refusal, but must insist on you and Miss Ferrars coming to my dance on Wednesday. You will stay and sleep of course. The excuse you gave was most frivolous and ridiculous.”

“Many thanks, Lady Rufford. Let me introduce my husband, who has just returned from India.”

Lady Rufford received the dark distingué-looking gentleman who was presented to her with effusion, and plied him with questions more or less embarrassing. Before they parted it was agreed that they would all be present at her ball without fail.

Alice and Geoffrey dropped behind together, on the way home, exchanging lively sallies and critical observations.

“I say, Alice, doesn’t it look as if Rex was getting up a strong flirtation with Miss Ferrars? What is he leaning over, and saying to her? Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be absurd, Geoff.”

“I suppose you think Rex can’t flirt, you pretty little confiding innocent! Can’t he though! They used to say that when he did go in for it, which was seldom enough, he could give any fellow a week’s start with a girl and cut him out after all.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” commencing to trot.

“Oh, you can please yourself about that. Remember you are warned. Come along, and let us interrupt their tête-à-tête before your domestic peace is wholly destroyed.”

Riding close up behind the other pair he sang:

“Miss Ferrars,” he continued, “there’s a glorious bit of turf; come and have a canter.”

This well-meant effort had no effect in readjusting the party; they all started together, and the ride was completed by a spirited neck-and-neck race between Alice and Geoffrey across the park.

The same evening, after dinner, it being a splendid moonlight night, they all strolled out about the pleasure-ground, except Miss Saville, who had too much regard for her rheumatic old bones. The French windows in the drawing-room opened on a terrace which led down by a flight of steps to a broad gravel walk. Mary and Reginald had come in, and were standing just inside the open window. Alice and Geoffrey had lingered behind, quarrelling, as usual. They could hear their fresh young voices coming up the walk in high argument. Reaching the steps, Alice sat down on the lowest and said:

“Now, Geoff, a truce to nonsense. Be a good boy, and I’ll tell your fortune with this daisy.”

“I’d much rather you would give me a kiss,” he replied, stealing a black arm round her taper white waist.

Mary felt Reginald, who was standing close to her, wince. “Ah, my friend,” she thought, “you are not altogether so cold or indifferent as you seem!”

Alice, perfectly unconscious of the close proximity of her cousin’s arm, went on:

“He loves me—a little, very much, passionately; not at all, a little, very much. She loves you—very much. I was sure of it! The red-haired girl at Southsea. It’s all very well to know the state of her affections, but you must not think of it. I would never give my consent—never, much less a wedding present.”

“I would a great deal rather have a kiss now, my pretty little cousin.”

“What on earth put kisses into your head, you ridiculous boy?”

“You!” said he, drawing her towards him and endeavouring to imprint a salute on her fair cheek.

But he reckoned without his hostess. Like lightning she sprang to her feet and confronted him with flaming cheeks and dilated eyes.

“How dare you forget yourself? How—how dare you insult me—me, a married woman? If you had kissed me I should have considered myself degraded indeed, and never spoken to you again as long as I lived.”

“Indeed!” sarcastically; “what a loss!”

“What do you mean by such conduct, sir?” stamping her foot. Her breast was heaving, her hands trembling. She looked, and she was, in a towering passion.

“What a little cat you are! What a little fury! No wonder Rex had a rough time of it. What harm if I did kiss you, my own sweet-tempered first cousin?” said Geoffrey. “I often kiss Dolly and Mary Saville—and why not you?”

“It would have been an outrage. No one ever has, ever shall kiss me, except—except——” she stammered.

“Except—how many? Don’t be bashful.”

“Except Reginald, of course,” she replied with passionate vehemence.

“What a good joke! You don’t really say so?” he exclaimed with a sneering laugh. “By all accounts he has never had many of your kisses. He wouldn’t be bothered with them,” proceeded this extremely aggravating youth. “He would rather be leading a squadron of cavalry than kissing the prettiest girl in England; and he is not such a dog in the manger as to refuse me a few of what he never takes himself.”

“Let me pass, sir!” cried Alice, sweeping him aside and dashing up the steps, where she found herself face to face with her husband and Mary. “Eavesdroppers!” she exclaimed with a start.

“Quite unintentionally so,” replied Mary. “And at any rate you have not committed yourself in any way.”

“More than you can say for Geoffrey!” cried Alice, giving him a glance of ineffable contempt as he leisurely ascended the steps, not the least disconcerted by the situation.

“He only meant it as a joke, or at least as a mark of cousinly affection,” said Reginald, who, had Geoffrey succeeded in robbing Alice of a kiss, would have probably acted in a manner that would have surprised them both considerably. Fortunately, Geoffrey had been baffled, those pure sweet lips were still sacred to him; Alice was as loyal to him as he had been to her. The mere thought of this opened his heart to all the world, Geoffrey included.

“Forgive him this once,” Reginald said, “and I’ll be surety it never occurs again.”

“You take his part then?” she retorted hotly.

The more indignant she was the more her husband’s spirits rose.

“Pardon me, I said nothing of taking anyone’s part; but I am quite certain that Geoffrey will never offend again.”

Seeing that Alice made no reply, and looked anything but appeased as she stood tapping one foot impatiently on the flags:

“Shall I,” he continued, with one of his old and now very rare smiles, “parade Geoffrey at twelve paces to-morrow on the tennis-ground? I’m afraid there will be some difficulty about weapons and seconds. My revolver and Maurice’s pop-gun are the only pistols available. We might toss for the revolver, eh, Geoffrey?”

“Oh, of course, if you are going to treat the whole thing as a jest,” broke in Alice indignantly, “there is no more to be said,” turning away to enter the house.

“Come, Alice,” interposed her husband more seriously, “be sensible, be reasonable. Do you wish me to treat the matter as anything but a joke?” he asked, looking at her fixedly, and dropping his voice so as to be heard by her ear alone. Then resuming his former tone he went on: “It would never do to allow such good friends to quarrel; permit me to patch up a truce, if not a lasting peace, between you and Geoffrey. Let me see you seal the reconciliation by shaking hands.”

“I shall not shake hands with him,” responded Alice, drawing herself up. “Let him beg my pardon first,” putting her hands behind her and looking the picture of offended dignity.

“Here goes then,” returned Geoffrey, taking out his handkerchief and spreading it on the terrace with careful deliberation; then, dropping on it in a kneeling posture, with uplifted hands, he was commencing a long oration, in a whining tone.

“Go away—don’t speak to me! You turn everything into ridicule,” cried Alice hotly.

“See how I am snubbed, Miss Ferrars,” he observed, rising, and dusting the knees of his trousers; “all because I wanted to kiss my cousin! Where was the harm? Don’t all your cousins kiss you?”

“I’m not bound to answer such an impertinent question,” replied Mary, laughing.

“Well, never mind. Suppose you take me for a nice little moonlight walk, and give me your confidence. I am afraid to stay here,” waving his handkerchief towards Alice.

In another moment they had descended the steps together, leaving Alice and her husband alone.

The former made an earnest effort for composure as she stood for some moments gazing out on the woods, which lay black and silver in the moonlight. Presently she turned and looked at her husband. He was leaning against the window-frame, the white background of which brought into bold relief the strength and symmetry of his figure. He was looking at her intently, with an amused smile on his lips.

A horrible thought that smile suggested to Alice’s excited brain. He was laughing at her in his sleeve; he had told Geoffrey! The very idea made her giddy.

“Alice, I began to think you had forgotten how to fly into a passion. I see I was mistaken.”

“You were,” defiantly, measuring him from head to foot. “I was mistaken also; I thought you were a gentleman.”

A momentary, almost imperceptible start, and then he replied coldly:

“I thought so, too.”

“But you are not.” A dead silence. “You know it is true.”

“Of course,” he replied icily, “whatever you say is undeniable. Once you told me you despised and detested me; now I am no gentleman. So be it. You have no objection to smoking, as well as I can remember?”

Provoked beyond all bounds by his perfect sangfroid, she said:

“Shall I tell you why you are no gentleman?”

“If it will not be giving you too much trouble,” carefully nursing a newly-lighted match.

“Because you have told Geoffrey. You heard what he said just now?”

“Told Geoffrey!” he exclaimed in much amazement. “Pray explain yourself. You are speaking in riddles, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Told him about the other evening—before the races; it was too shameful. Oh, you might have spared me!” covering her face with her hands.

A dead silence. At last his answer came in a cold formal voice.

“If I had done what you imagine, I certainly would richly deserve to forfeit the name of gentleman. I am surprised that even you” (with scathing emphasis) “should ask me to vindicate myself from such a charge. I have not told Geoffrey—strange as it may appear to you—and am sorry that after all you should have such a mean opinion of me still.”

Alice removed her hands, but averted her face as she said:

“You did not tell him? Then what could he mean?”—hesitatingly.

“Am I responsible for Geoffrey’s random remarks?” he asked sarcastically.

“No, no, of course not. Please forgive me, Reginald; I did you a great injustice!” looking at him with lovely deprecating eyes. “Do?” she pleaded.

“You know very well, Alice,” he answered earnestly, “that I could forgive you anything. You have only to ask, and it is granted.”

“Surely,” he thought to himself, “this is a broad hint with a vengeance.”

“A mere façon de parler,” said Alice to herself; “a kind of Chinese compliment! Forgive anything! A likely thing, when my one fault still remains a huge unerasable blot in his eyes.”

After a moment’s silence she turned towards him with a pretty little shiver.

“Are you cold?” he asked formally. (Oh, why will she not seize this blessed opportunity?)

“No, not actually cold. I believe it’s a goose walking over my grave—you know the tradition,” she answered with a laugh. “Well,” as he remained silent, “if you are not going to say ‘Happy goose,’ like the young man in Punch, perhaps you will be so kind as to bring me my red shawl; it’s on one of the chairs in the hall.”

So much for his hints and hopes.

Wrapped in the shawl, as a preventive against further shivering, Alice and her husband promenade up and down the terrace for nearly an hour, although it seemed to them no longer than a quarter of the time, talking of India chiefly. He told her about his regiment, his friends, his horses and dogs, his native servants, delighted to share his thoughts and experiences with her who was, in spite of everything, dearer to him than life itself. The interest she manifested made him talk of himself more freely than he had done for years, and then with her alone. To her eager questions about the African campaign—his glories, his decorations, and his wounds—his answers were but brief and unsatisfactory; but he dwelt on the successes of his comrades-in-arms with generous and eloquent enthusiasm. And Alice, glad that he should talk to her as of old, on any subject, and hardly able to realise the present brief happy moment, lent a greedy ear to whatever narrative he was pleased to relate.

So absorbed were they that the other couple arrived at the foot of the steps unnoticed.

“Rex,” cried Geoffrey, “is she cool? Is it safe for me to come up?”

“Quite safe. She accords you a free pardon.”

“Reginald!” she exclaimed, “how can you say so?”

“You are bound to forgive him; I forgave that old lady for you the other day—you owe me a free pardon for Geoffrey.”

“Oh, but that was different. She—she——”

“She did not want to kiss him, did she?” put in Geoffrey the irrepressible. “He never would have forgiven that, be sure!”

When the ladies had gone to bed, Reginald took a turn up and down the terrace, solus: “I cannot make her out,” he said to himself as he knocked the ashes off his cheroot. “At times, such as this evening for instance, I could almost imagine that the past was a bad dream, nothing more. It’s a curious thing that my own wife is the only woman who has ever puzzled me. One day she says we are to be strangers, the next friends; one day a cool shake hands, another a kiss. We spent an hour in a fool’s paradise to-night—at any rate I did. I would be an idiot indeed if I took it for the real thing I seemed so sure of once—paradise without the fool.”