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

“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.