Proper pride

The day of embarkation arrived only too speedily. It was a persistently pouring wet morning, rain descending in torrents. It cleared a little towards the afternoon, and the Mayhews, accompanied by Alice, started in a close carriage for Portsmouth Dockyard. They had insisted on her accompanying them, saying that, if she did not, it would give rise to a great deal of unpleasant discussion among their friends, several of whom lived at Southsea.

“It is only fair to Reginald,” urged Helen. “He has not had time to clear himself yet, and at any rate before the world you will have to keep up appearances. How you can allow him to go—how you can doubt him, I cannot imagine. You will be exceedingly sorry for yourself some day,” she added in a lower voice, accompanied by a look of keen-edged meaning quite lost upon Alice, who was staring vacantly out of the window.

They soon arrived at The Hard, Portsea, and descried the huge white Alligator lying alongside. The most frightful confusion prevailed on all sides, and the noise and din and pushing and shoving were beyond description. Baggage bewailed as lost; baggage going on board; soldiers’ wives, who were being left behind, in loud lamentation; friends who came to see people off, rather cheery and important than otherwise; friends who were really sorry, and on the verge of tears; dogs being smuggled on board; dogs being turned out; wherever you looked there was bustle and confusion! The Mayhew party gingerly ascended the long and slippery gangway, and asked for Sir Reginald Fairfax.

“Yes, he was below, God bless him!” said an Irishwoman, who was wiping her eyes with the tail of her dress. “It’s many a sore heart he has lightened this day.”

“How so?” inquired Mrs. Mayhew graciously.

“Hasn’t he given ten pounds to every woman that’s not on the strength, and is left behind, meeself among them—and me wid three childer? May the heavens be his bed! may he never know sickness or grief! May he never know what it is to have as sore a heart as mine is this day! May the Holy Virgin protect him!”

It was in vain they tried to stem this torrent of blessings; the woman would not let them out of her sight.

Addressing herself specially to Alice, she said:

“Maybe you’re his sweetheart, or his sister, alannah! His sweetheart, I’m sure?” she urged insinuatingly.

“No, neither,” replied Alice, blushing furiously, and making a wild and at last effectual effort to reach the top of the saloon stairs, leaving the Irishwoman still pouring benedictions on her husband’s head.

The long saloon was full of artillery, cavalry, and infantry officers and their friends, but Reginald was not there after all; so, under the escort of a polite naval officer, they again went on deck, where they found him in the fore part of the ship, giving orders to a smart saucy-looking sergeant, with his cap on three hairs, who was receiving his directions with many a “Yes, sir; very well, sir.”

Sir Reginald was now junior major in the Seventeenth Hussars, and uncommonly well he looked in his new uniform. He received Mark and Helen warmly, Alice politely, and as though she were some young lady friend of Helen’s, and nothing more. He offered to show them over the ship, now they were there, and took them between decks, pointed at the soldiers’ quarters, the live stock, the engines, etc. Alice, under convoy of the naval officer, walked behind her husband and the Mayhews, but her mind was in far too great a ferment to notice or admire the order, discipline, spotlessness of the magnificent trooper.

She answered her exceedingly smart escort utterly at random as she mechanically picked her steps along the wet decks, the said young sailor thinking her the prettiest girl he had seen for many a day, and that her feet and ankles were the most unexceptionable he had ever come across. He made a mental note to find out who she was and all about her.

As they passed a group of weeping women, he remarked: “They may well cry, poor creatures, for many a fine fellow will sail to-day that will never see his native land again.”

“Oh, please don’t say that,” said Alice, her eyes filling with tears.

“Why not? Are you very much interested in anyone on board?” he asked with a smile meant to be tender and captivating.

“My husband,” she faltered.

“Your husband!” he cried thunderstruck. “Are you married—you look so awfully young? Is that your husband—that young hussar fellow ahead with your friends?”

Alice, whose tears were now quietly coursing down her cheeks, turned and leant over the side in silence.

“Is he?” he repeated.

She nodded impatiently, still further averting her face.

“Oh, but a strong-looking fellow like that is sure to come back all right,” said he, offering her the first piece of clumsy comfort that came into his head, and much distressed at the flow of tears that kept drip, drip, dripping into the sea.

“By Jove!” he thought, “what an odd couple they are! They have never spoken to each other yet, for all this grief.”

Meanwhile the Mayhews and Reginald had turned and come back towards them, and were much edified to find Alice leaning over the side, apparently studying the sea, and a young sailor seemingly whispering soft nothings into her ear. This was a phase of her character that burst upon them for the first time. She remained quite motionless till they had passed, then dried her eyes and followed them below. They went down to the main deck and saw Reginald’s cabin, which he shared with another officer. Some loving hands had done up the stranger’s side with many a little comfort—a thick quilted crimson counterpane, pockets for boots, and combs, and brushes against the wall, and the netting over his berth crammed with new novels. All these caught Alice’s eye, and she felt a sharp twinge as she turned and saw her husband’s share of the cabin bare of everything save such luxuries as the ship provided.

“You are all going to stay and dine with me,” he said, “at the ghastly hour of half-past four, but it will take the place of five-o’clock tea for once. And if you like to make a toilette,” addressing himself to Helen, “here are brushes and combs at your service, and I’ll take care that the other fellow does not intrude.”

“But won’t it seem very odd if we stay?” asked Helen, dying to do so.

“Not at all. About twenty ladies are dining besides yourselves; so look sharp, the first bugle has gone.”

He treated Alice as an utter stranger; and Alice, now that he was really and truly going, began to realise what she was losing. Regret, remorse, and love were getting the better of pride, obstinacy, and suspicion. Miss Fane’s influence was gradually wearing away in Helen Mayhew’s society. She choked back the blinding tears that would come into her eyes, and bit her quivering lips, so that Helen might not see her tardy sorrow. Helen was calmly titivating herself at the glass, and did not observe her companion’s emotion.

“Come, Alice, be quick!” she exclaimed at last. “Take off your jacket, child; your serge will do very nicely. Here, wash your face and brush your hair; you look quite wild and dishevelled.”

Alice mechanically rose to obey her. “What a dandy Reginald is,” she proceeded. “I had no idea he was such a fine gentleman: ivory-backed brushes with monograms, and all his toilet accessories to correspond—boot-hook, button-hook, shoe-horn, all complete. Let’s see what his dressing-case is like inside.”

“Oh don’t,” cried Alice piteously; “he hates to have his things rummaged, I know he does.”

“What nonsense, my dear girl,” opening the case. “Here, have some white rose—hold out your handkerchief.”

“No, thank you, I would rather not.”

“Ridiculous goose, afraid to have it because it is your husband’s! Listen to me, Alice,” she said more gravely, putting her hand on Alice’s shoulder; “he is your husband as sure as Mark is mine. Say something to him before he goes. Promise me that you will. There! there’s the dinner-bugle. Now mind,” opening the cabin-door hastily and speaking to Alice over her shoulder, “it will be your last chance.”

They found Reginald waiting at the foot of the stairs to escort them to dinner, where he sat between them at the captain’s table. Quite a number of ladies were present, but not one to compare with Alice in appearance. Many an admiring eye was turned again and again to the lovely slight girl sitting next Fairfax. A lisping sub, who was at the opposite table, after gazing at her for nearly five minutes, gave utterance to the universal query, “Who is she?”

“I say, who the deuce is that pretty girl sitting next Fairfax? She is uncommon good-looking.”

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” returned his neighbour; “his sister most likely. She is downright lovely. Such a nose and chin, and sweet kissable little mouth!”

“You had better not let Fairfax hear you, my dear boy. Maybe she’s his wife.”

“Wife! That girl! You can just step upstairs and tell that to the marines.”

“I would give a trifle to know who she is,” remarked a third, upon whom a brandy-and-soda had had a most reviving effect.

“I can tell you,” said Alice’s acquaintance, the naval officer, who had just come down and seated himself at the end of the table; “she is the wife of that young fellow next her.”

“What nonsense! He is not married.”

“Oh yes, he is,” observed a hitherto silent youth, who had been devoting himself ardently to his dinner, and who now plunged into the discussion pending the arrival of the second course. “He is married, but he and his wife have had no end of a shindy, I hear; that’s the reason he is going abroad. Just look at them now, as grave and as glum as if they were at a funeral.”

“What a pity it is that marriage is so often the grave of love,” remarked a cynical little artilleryman, putting up his eyeglass and staring across at the other table. “They are an uncommonly good-looking couple, anyway. The fellow reminds me of Millais’ ‘Black Brunswicker,’ only he is darker.”

So saying, he languidly dropped his glass and resumed his dinner.

The moment of parting came, and the general feeling was that the sooner it was over the better.

Putting on their hats and jackets, Alice and Helen hastened on deck; Alice’s heart thumping, her knees trembling, and her face as pale as death. Here they were joined by Mr. Mayhew and Reginald, who were having a few last words.

“Come along, Helen,” said Mark, taking her arm and leading her down the gangway, good-naturedly intending to give the other couple a moment to themselves; but if it had been to save Alice’s life she could not have uttered a syllable. She intended to have said something—what, she scarcely knew—but her dry lips could not frame a sound, and they reached the carriage in dead silence.

“Good-bye, Mark! Good-bye, Helen! Good-bye, Alice!” said her husband hurriedly.

Alice turned on him a wistful glance, but a cold farewell was all she read in his stern dark eyes. In another second he was clanking up the gangway, a vision of a dark-blue uniform, a close-cropped brown head, and he was gone; and Alice leant back in her corner of the carriage, and gave way to a passion of weeping no longer to be restrained.