Proper pride

Alice remained at the Mayhews’ for ten days, previous to going to Monkswood. She was very quiet and subdued in public, but in private her feelings were not so well under control. If the walls of her room could have spoken, the good folks downstairs would have been amazed at some of their revelations. They could have told how Alice flung herself on her bed the night the Alligator sailed, and wept the bitterest tears she ever shed.

“If he is innocent,” she said, “he will never, never forgive me. What have I done? I have had the happiness of my life in my own keeping, and thrown it away with both hands.”

Leaving Alice stretched on her bed, perfectly worn out and exhausted with crying, her face buried in the pillows to stifle her sobs, let us follow the Alligator and see how her husband is getting on.

They have rounded Finisterre, and are having, if anything, rather worse than the usual Bay weather. Tremendous Atlantic rollers are tossing the Alligator about as if she were a huge toy. Now she yaws over, down, down, down to this side, now she slowly rights herself from an angle of at least 40°, and goes over to that. They are having a very bad time of it no doubt, for it has now commenced to blow, not half but a whole gale. All but those whose duty it is to remain on deck have gone below—all but one tall figure in a military great-coat, who is standing under the bridge, and keeping his equilibrium as best he can, considering that he is a soldier.

He seems perfectly insensible to the lurching ship, the torrents of water sweeping the decks, the whistling of the wind through the rigging, and the weather-beaten sailors’ anxious faces. Seems so only; in his heart he is saying:

“If this goes on she will founder. It will be a terrible thing for all these poor fellows and their friends at home, but a rare piece of good luck for me.”

However, the Alligator did not go to the bottom, thanks to Providence, rare seamanship, and her own sea-going qualities—but that she never was out in anything that tried the latter so thoroughly was admitted by the oldest salt on board.

Geoffrey escorted Alice down to Monkswood about a fortnight after her husband had sailed. The carriage they occupied was empty; for the first part of the journey they had it all to themselves. Geoffrey thought this an excellent opportunity for giving Alice what he called “a little bit of his mind,” so, having arranged himself and his rug to his complete satisfaction, in the seat facing hers, and sticking his eyeglass firmly in his eye, he commenced:

“You are a nice young woman, I must say. I have the worst, the very worst possible opinion of you.”

“You can’t think how grieved I am to hear you say so,” said Alice, looking up from Punch with a complacent smile.

“It’s no smiling matter,” he replied angrily, “you heartless, obstinate little—little—I don’t know what to call you.”

“Don’t hesitate to relieve your mind; you have generally a fine command of language. Pray don’t let my feelings stand in your way.”

“Well—vixen, then—a little vixen!—allowing your husband”—with much emphasis on the word—“to go out of the country in this way: the very best, the nicest fellow in the whole world. His little finger is worth ten of you. Letting him go when a word would have stopped him. The idea of a chit like you”—with scathing contempt—“having it in her power to control a fellow’s movements! Now you have sent him to that white man’s grave-yard—India—I hope you are satisfied?”

“There was no occasion for him to go.”

“Every occasion, once you had taken it into your head to leave him. You could not both live at home, and apart, without no end of a scandal—a young couple barely out of their honeymoon. Even now there are whispers, I can tell you; but, as everyone knows Rex to be a red-hot soldier, the row that they say is going to come off out there will be sufficient excuse to most; few will guess the real reason of his leaving England—an obstinate, credulous, heartless wife.”

“Really, Geoffrey, you have the most astounding assurance! What next, pray?”

“One great comfort to me is,” proceeded Geoffrey, removing his glass and leaning back with folded hands, “that when this tremendous lie is found out, and squashed, everyone will be down on you like a thousand tons of bricks. I am quite looking forward to it, I can tell you,” rubbing his hands. “Thank goodness you are not my wife, that’s all.”

“To be your wife!” she exclaimed contemptuously, “what an alluring idea! Why not suggest Norman at once?”

Geoffrey’s youth was his tender point.

“I am glad you are not my wife,” continued Geoffrey, perfectly unruffled by her interruption. “I remember you as a small child, a horrid, cross, cantankerous little monkey, flying into awful tantrums and rages for nothing at all. You bit me once, I recollect, my young lady.”

“I’m sure I never did,” cried Alice indignantly.

“Pardon me; I have every reason to remember it. Your teeth were as sharp then as your tongue is now. You asked my pardon, and said you were very sorry, and all that, and I forgave you. Query, will Reginald forgive you for the nice trick you have served him? What possessed him to marry you is a riddle I have given up long ago. However, if anyone can break you in to trot nicely and quietly in double harness, Reginald is the man. He stands no nonsense, as I daresay you know by this time, madam.”

“Have you done, Geoffrey?”

“Not quite yet. Supposing he is killed out there, or is carried off by fever or cholera, how will you feel? The chances are fifty to one against his ever coming home. If he does not, his death will lie at your door as surely as if you had murdered him.”

Now Alice, whatever fear she had of Helen, had no awe of Geoffrey, and whatever she might suffer from self-reproach, had no idea of being taken to task in this way by him.

“One would think, to hear you talk, Geoffrey, that you were the injured party. Pray what business is it of yours, my kind and complimentary cousin? If you could contrive to mind your own affairs and leave me to manage mine I should feel obliged,” said Alice with much dignity, taking up Punch once more from her lap and casting a look of indignant defiance over the top of its pages at her irrepressible cousin.

“By rights you ought to be at school; you are barely eighteen—far too young to know your own mind; not that you have much mind to know,” he added, crossing his legs and gazing at her dispassionately.

“Much or little, it is made up on one subject most thoroughly,” returned Alice with an angry spot on either cheek. “If you do not cease these civilities and leave me in peace, Geoffrey, I shall get out at the next station, and travel in another carriage.”

“Here you are then!” he returned unabashed, as the slackening pace and large sheds full of rolling stock and network of lines betokened their arrival at a junction.

“This will do,” said a high treble voice, and the carriage-door opened and displayed two very fashionable-looking ladies, a maid, a poodle, various monstrous wicker travelling cases, a varied assortment of small parcels, dressing-cases, umbrellas, and other light odds and ends. The party were under the charge of a stout, red-faced, irascible-looking old gentleman, who seemed by no means equal to the occasion, and was soon to be seen coursing up and down the platform, inveighing at porters, accosting guards, and altogether in a state of excitement bordering on delirium.

The two ladies, the poodle (smuggled), and many of the smaller packages found places in the carriage with Alice and Geoffrey; and after a time were joined by the old gentleman, frightfully out of breath and out of temper.

The presence of outsiders put an end to hostilities between our young friends, and their discussion was postponed to a more appropriate occasion. Alice even vouchsafed to accept a fresh foot-warmer and a cup of tea from Geoffrey’s hands in token of a truce.

Although the month was March, it was still bitterly cold, and Alice shivered as they sped along through fields still brown, past curious old hamlets and farm-houses, with red high-pitched roofs or quaint black and white timbered walls; past dumpy little high-shouldered-looking village churches; past gray manorial halls peeping through their still bare leafless woods; past flaming scarlet modern erections in the all-prevailing Queen Anne style; past scattering cattle and galloping long-tailed colts, at thundering express speed.

Alice saw but little of the landscape; her eyes were dim with unshed tears, that nearly blinded her.

Was ever any girl so miserably unfortunate, so wretchedly unhappy as herself? She had had to abide by principle and duty—to hold aloof from her husband till he could clear himself. But where was Reginald now? What was he doing? Could he but guess the awful blank he had made in her life? Supposing that Geoffrey’s prediction came true! she thought, with a sudden contraction of her heart. What would she not give for one moment’s glimpse of him now? Query, would she have been happier had her wish been gratified? The picture would unfold a hazy languid afternoon, the Alligator steaming down the glassy Red Sea twelve knots an hour; the passengers enjoying a practical experience of the dolce far niente—some dozing in cane chairs or on the benches, their caps pulled over their eyes, gracefully nodding and coquetting with the fickle goddess Sleep; some playing deck-quoits; some endeavouring, spite of drowsiness, to interest themselves in a yellow-backed novel; some playing draughts; some smoking; some one or two, “though lost to sight to memory dear,” beneath a shady umbrella, in company with a lot of flounces and neat little steel-buckled high-heeled shoes.

Down in the saloon, half-a-dozen kindred spirits are drinking the cup that cheers etc., dispensed by the pretty little hands of a pretty little woman, the wife of a colonel returning from a six months’ European tour, charged with quantities of nice new dresses and a freshly-whetted appetite and zest for flirtation. She has helped to “get up” theatricals on board, and played her part to admiration; she sings delightfully piquante French songs to an audience of enthralled fellow-passengers; she tells amusing little stories about the other ladies in her cabin to her ravished listeners; she treats everything as a joke—even Sir Reginald Fairfax amuses her. He avoids all the ladies, never speaks to them, and keeps aloof from the fair sex in a manner that stimulates her vanity and her curiosity alike. However, she has overcome circumstances, and by a propitiously-dropped book made his acquaintance, and finds that “he is altogether charming, and every bit as nice as he looks.” This she explains to the lady at the next washing-stand, as she dresses elaborately for dinner.

Sir Reginald is compelled to come to five o’clock tea—there is no escape for him—and he submits to circumstances with as good a grace as he can muster.

Behold the picture Alice would have seen, had second sight been vouchsafed to her: Pretty, very pretty Mrs. Wynyard, in a dressy pink cotton, pouring out tea at the end of one of the saloon tables for the benefit of two ladies and five gentlemen, who are all in the highest possible spirits, and discussing the lottery that they are getting up on passing Perim. Her husband is the object of Mrs. Wynyard’s most marked civilities; he has been deputed to cut the cake, and is fulfilling the task with wonderful skill and alacrity, and is laughing and talking with as much animation as anyone else. For the moment he has cast care behind him and closed his eyes to the past; and, indeed, care is but a sorry associate for a young man of five-and-twenty.

To leave the tea-party on board the Alligator, and return to Alice in the railway carriage, does not take us more than a second. Whilst her face is steadfastly turned away from the new arrivals, they have been regarding her with a long exhaustive stare.

“Who are these young people?” they ask themselves with the intolerance of people in their own county. “The girl is well dressed, and might be good-looking if she had more colour and not those dark rings round her eyes,” was their mental verdict. These ladies themselves, attired in fashion’s latest hint of fashion, by no means disdained to bring art (and a good deal of art) to the aid of nature.

One of them was not merely rouged, she was raddled; and over her head fully forty summers had flown. Nevertheless, her sight was still eagle-keen, and on the strap of a dressing-case she deciphered a card and the name “Fairfax.” Electrical effect! Yes, “Fairfax” as plain as a pikestaff. Was this girl the young bride, the beauty, that there had been so much talk about? She must be.

And the youth. Was he her husband? That boy! Preposterous! If not her husband, who was he, and where was Sir Reginald Fairfax?

You may rest assured that she did not keep her discovery or her surmises to herself; and no sooner had Alice and Geoffrey left the train than she took her companions into her confidence, and pointed out with emphasis the open carriage and imposing-looking pair of bays that were visible above the palings outside the station, and into which Lady Fairfax and her companion had just stepped and driven off.

Why did the bride come thus, alone? Where was her husband? Who was her escort?

The rosy-cheeked lady lived within an easy distance of Manister, and she set the ball of rumour and conjecture rolling along so gaily and so speedily, that all the matrons within miles of Monkswood soon regarded Alice with feelings bordering on ferocity. In the first place, she had carried off the best parti in the county. This was bad enough; but to be separated from him within three months of their marriage, and to arrive on their hands as a very bad little black sheep, was surely beyond endurance. She had nothing to expect from their charity or generosity.