Proper pride

Alice, Miss Fane, and Geoffrey were seated at the breakfast-table one drizzling December morning. The post had just come in. Geoffrey, having unlocked the bag, was distributing the letters.

“One for you, Miss Fane; looks like a bill,” said he mischievously. “Two young-lady letters for you, Alice, and one from Fairfax, of course. I wonder he does not write thrice a day, and telegraph at intervals: ‘How are you, my darling? Are you thinking of me, my treasure?’ What will you give for it? It’s a pretty thick one,” feeling it critically. “See what it is to be a bride,” and he chanted:

“That you never did, you rude boy. Here, give me my letter at once, sir!” cried Alice, half rising.

“Madam, take it. You need not be blushing like that; it makes me quite hot to look at you. After all, you never did shock my sensitive taste as yet, and I hope you never will. Now for the newspapers,” diving again into the bag. “Halloa! here’s another letter, Alice—from India, I declare, and a good fat one too. Who is your correspondent—a former disconsolate admirer, writing from the East to upbraid you with your perfidy?”

“Nonsense, Geoff; how can you talk such utter rubbish? I’m sure I don’t know who it can be from,” turning the letter over. “Cheetapore! I know no one there.”

“Well, look sharp and open it, and you’ll soon see. Most likely a bill of Reginald’s. I thought he was a ready-money man,” said Geoffrey austerely.

Alice cut the envelope cautiously, and drew out a thin note and a long slip of paper. The note ran as follows:

Greatly bewildered, and with trembling hands, Alice unfolded the enclosure, and gazed at it for some time before she exactly understood what she was looking at.

White as a sheet, and trembling like a leaf, Alice handed this, along with the letter, to Miss Fane.

“What does it mean, Miss Fane?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

Miss Fane, having adjusted her pince-nez carefully, took both and read them, and as she read her countenance changed from purple to yellow, from yellow to purple, Alice meanwhile devouring her with her eyes.

“I cannot make it out,” she said at last. “It seems to be a perfectly correct copy of a certificate of marriage, does it not, Geoffrey?”

Geoffrey stretched out a ready hand for the letter and certificate; but the first glance at the letter had the same appalling effect on him as on the two ladies. After a dead silence, during which the ticking of the clock and falling of the cinders were distinctly audible, he plucked up courage to say:

“A hoax, of course.”

“How are we to know that?” asked Miss Fane, drawing herself up.

“I’ll take it up to London and show it to some first-rate solicitor and ask his opinion; it’s only four hours by rail. Will that do?” pushing back his chair and looking at Alice interrogatively.

“Yes, do, my dear Geoff; and go at once,” she cried eagerly; “for though I know it is a ridiculous mistake, still I feel quite odd and frightened. But perhaps,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “we should wait till Reginald comes home the day after to-morrow; he will clear it up. Yes, second thoughts are best; we will wait, thank you, Geoff, all the same.”

“No, no, my dear!” said Miss Fane, emphatically, “the sooner the matter is cleared up the better. I must beg you to take my advice on the subject as a person much older and more experienced than either of you. Geoffrey can easily catch the ten-o’clock train. It is now,” looking at the clock, “a quarter-past nine.”

After a short discussion, during which the elder lady carried all before her, it was settled that Geoffrey was to start at once; so he quickly bolted his breakfast, and within half-an-hour was speeding up to London as fast as an express could take him. Thinking it better to consult some older head, he drove from Waterloo Station to Wessex Gardens, where Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew, Sir Reginald’s first cousins, lived. The Honorable Mark and his wife were at luncheon when Geoffrey entered, and without any beating about the bush bluntly told his errand. They examined the certificate with the greatest incredulity, and laughed at the idea of “Rex” of all people committing bigamy, “he so upright, so honourable, a man of stainless character, who had never been known to make a love affair in his life till he met Alice,” they chimed alternately. “The idea was really too absurd; they wondered Geoffrey could lend himself to such a wild-goose chase.” Nevertheless there was the certificate, “and just to show that it is a forgery and to relieve Miss Fane’s mind, you and Geoff will take it to some respectable solicitors and quietly ask their opinion,” said Mr. Mayhew. So they took it to Bagge and Keepe, an intensely correct firm; and Mr. Bagge, after carefully scrutinising the certificate for some seconds, unhesitatingly pronounced it to be a genuine copy, and swore to the handwriting of the Rev. Hugh Parry, who had been one of their clients for years. “I can show you any number of his letters, and you can judge for yourselves, gentlemen,” he added, preparing to open a brown japanned box, on which “R. and H. Parry” was emblazoned in large white characters.

The little hatchet-faced lawyer, with his penetrating gray eyes and mutton-chop whiskers, seemed so perfectly confident of the identity of the signature and the truth of the certificate, that Mr. Mayhew’s breath was, metaphorically speaking, quite taken away, and he gazed from him to Geoffrey—whose visage had visibly lengthened—with an air of utter stupefaction. His moral equilibrium was completely shaken, as he glanced from Mr. Bagge to the deed-box, from the deed-box to Geoffrey, from Geoffrey to the long slip of white paper—the cause of all the mischief—that lay on the green baize table before his eyes. He pushed his hat well to the back of his head, scratched his grizzly locks, and obviously obtained some kind of mental inspiration, for at last he found words:

“It is of no consequence at present, Mr. Bagge. I’m much obliged to you all the same. And—a—you are quite certain of this”—flourishing the certificate—“being Mr. Parry’s signature?”

“Quite certain. You can compare it yourself. Hancock,”—to a clerk—“just reach down——”

“Never mind—not to-day—another time. Thank you; a—good morning. Come along, Geoffrey,” said the Honorable Mark, backing himself through a swing-door, and effecting his exit with extraordinary promptitude, leaving Mr. Bagge under an impression that he had been visited by a gentleman who ought to be carefully looked after by his friends, if not immediately consigned to a lunatic asylum.

“It is a queer business, Geoff,” exclaimed Mr. Mayhew, once they found themselves in the street, “a very queer business!” striding along at a tremendous pace, and looking very red in the face; “but Reginald’s sure to make it all right, you may take your oath of that. Just leave it to him to settle. He’ll be back in a couple of days. Mind you don’t miss the train—it’s now a quarter-past five. Here’s a hansom. Hop in, or you’ll be late. Give Alice my love, and tell her it’s all right; it will be all cleared up when Rex comes home. Waterloo,” to the driver.

“All very fine,” muttered Geoffrey to himself as he was rattled over the pavement; “I wish he had to face Miss Fane, with Bagge’s opinion, instead of me. She’ll get it out of me before she sleeps to-night, so I suppose I had better make a virtue of necessity and tell the truth at once. Won’t she just make a row!”

Alice having despatched Geoffrey, and seen him fairly off to the station, as fast as the fastest harness hack could take him, went up to her own room, and there read her husband’s letter, from which her attention had been so rudely diverted. It was a nice letter for a young wife to get—not a spooney, love-lorn effusion, but a good, rational, amusing letter, that had evidently given as much pleasure to the writer to write as to Alice to receive, and that, without fulsome extravagance, breathed a spirit of true, proud, tender love from the first page to the last. Till now, yesterday’s had been to Alice the best and most precious of letters; now to-day’s came to put it aside, and would in turn give place to to-morrow’s, for the last was always the most prized.

Having read and re-read her letter, Alice felt a double reliance on her husband and a sovereign contempt for the marriage certificate, which must be either someone else’s or intended for a shameful hoax. Much emboldened and encouraged by these reflections, Alice ran downstairs in search of Miss Fane, whom she found knitting in the morning-room, with an ominous purse on her lips and a frown on her brow.

She was sitting in the window, and merely raised her eyes for a second as Alice entered. Alice approached her, and, leaning against the window—with one hand in her pocket surreptitiously grasping her precious letter—plunged boldly into conversation.

“Miss Fane, I want to talk to you about this dreadful certificate. What do you think about it? For my own part, I most certainly will never believe that Reginald was ever married to anyone but me. It is some excessively bad joke that he and I will be laughing over together before the end of the week. Don’t you think so?”

“My dear, if you have fully made up your mind, why ask me?” returned Miss Fane coldly.

“Because I have no one else to talk to about it. You are his aunt—his mother’s sister. You would not believe such a thing of him, I know.”

Miss Fane drew in her lips and knitted faster and more fiercely than ever.

Alice, kneeling beside her, softly laid her hand on her arm and said: “You know I have no mother to advise me, or think for me; and I am so dreadfully young, and foolish, even for my age. Don’t you think, if my mother were alive, she would say, ‘Trust your husband?’ In my heart I do sincerely trust him. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Miss Fane; and then, after a pause, added: “That is to say, as much as any young man can be trusted. His mother was certainly my sister, but we were very little together, as I lived chiefly at my grandfather’s. She was a handsome headstrong girl. Reginald has his mother’s eyes and his mother’s temper, or I am much mistaken. You would not have found her very easy to get on with, had she been spared,” observed Miss Fane charitably; “but she died, poor thing, when she was two-and-twenty. My brother-in-law was inconsolable; he adored her, and spoiled her, and did the same for her son.”

“Do not say that, Miss Fane. If Reginald had been spoiled he could never have grown up as he has done—so good, so honourable, so——”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Miss Fane irritably. “All brides of two or three months say the same.”

“There are very few like Reginald, nevertheless,” said Alice warmly. “I know him, of course, better than anyone now.”

“Or you think you do,” interrupted Miss Fane, “which comes to the same thing.”

“I know I do! I don’t believe he has a thought that I might not share; he is true, upright, unselfish. Self he never thinks of; I am his first thought in everything. He loves me far too dearly to bring any such dreadful grief near me as this certificate hints at. I will put all thoughts of it out of my head till he comes home. Don’t you think I am wise?” she asked earnestly.

“Yes; in a certain sense you are; but if it is not cleared up you will be all the more unprepared to receive the shock. My motto is, ‘Prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and take what comes.’ This is a very serious matter, and requires serious thought. I have been turning it over in my mind for the last hour. Shall I tell you what I think?” gazing solemnly over her glasses at Alice, who was still kneeling at her side.

“Oh yes, of course. Please do,” she replied eagerly.

“I think that you are by no means the first girl Reginald was in love with, or that was in love with him.”

“Oh, but I know I was,” cried Alice with assured confidence; “he told me so, over and over again,” she added with a lovely blush.

“Stuff!” replied Miss Fane, viciously spearing her ball of worsted with a knitting-needle. “And you believed him, you little goose! Do you think,” she proceeded in a cool ironical tone, “that an extremely handsome young man like him has lived seven years in the army without as many love affairs to match? I tell you—and I am an experienced old woman—I tell you no, ten thousand times no. I can’t say that I ever heard of any special affair. I did hear a whisper that when he joined he was one of the wildest of wild boys; but I believe, thanks to his father, he soon steadied down. But take my word for it, young men in the cavalry are a wild, bad lot.”

“Do you mean—that—Reginald——?” cried Alice, struggling to rise.

“No, no, no,” replied Miss Fane, keeping her down by laying her hand heavily on her shoulder. “Be patient, and hear what I have to say. I only mean taking them generally—no one in particular. Reginald,” she resumed, “has spent a great deal of time abroad. Who knows,” she proceeded mysteriously, and dropping her voice to a whisper, “but he may in some mad moment have married a half-caste girl; and then, tired of her, and ashamed of his folly, have bribed her to silence and left her in India; and she, finding his second marriage too much for her fortitude, has sent you this certificate! What do you think of that idea?”

“Think of it!” cried Alice, jumping to her feet, and almost inarticulate with passion. “I think it a very wicked, horrible idea to entertain of your own nephew, and you ought to be ashamed of it!”

“So I will if this certificate proves a false one; but if not, have you thought, my poor girl, since I must speak plainly, of the position in which it places you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if Reginald was married more than two years ago, as shown by the certificate, you are not his wife; you are nothing but Miss Saville once more, with your name and fame for ever blighted.”

“How dare you say so?” cried Alice, crimson to the roots of her hair. “How cruel, how unkind of you to talk to me like this! I will never, never speak to you again as long as I live. You have a bad uncharitable heart,” she added, moving rapidly towards the door. “What you say never, never could be true.”

“Stay, stay,” cried Miss Fane, following her briskly; “I would not have said all this if I had not—if I did not love you, and if I had not altogether your good at heart. You surely do not think it can be pleasant for me to doubt my own nephew?”—but it was very pleasant—“I only want to open your eyes, my poor dear child, in case of the worst. There is no one to perform this very disagreeable, thankless duty, except myself. I mean all for the best, I do indeed,” taking Alice into her bony embrace and kissing her effusively. Alice, on the verge of hysterics, her brain reeling, gladly escaped upstairs, to lock herself into her own room for the remainder of the day, where she had ample leisure to digest and understand Miss Fane’s ideas.

Miss Fane, as we have already seen, had no love for her nephew, and, as far as the certificate was concerned, he was already tried, found guilty, and condemned, in her opinion. A domestic tragedy, such as this promised to be, was her glory and delight. Slander and gossip of all kinds were as the breath of her nostrils; her letters, thoughts, and conversation all turned in that direction; and she was an adept at serving up the most delicate dish of scandal, accompanied by sauce piquante, and followed by entrées of her own suggestions. She had the worst opinion of the world and everybody in general, an opinion she prudently kept to herself. An affair in her own little circle, such as this was likely to be, would afford her materials for conversation and letters for an indefinite time. It would give her a certain importance, too, to say: “I was in the house at the time when it all happened; I saw and heard everything with my own eyes and ears.”

She had no respect for her nephew’s name—she was not a Fairfax—no pity for his young wife. The excitement of a cause célèbre in her family caused her neither shame nor horror; quite the reverse. She knitted the heel of a stocking; made an excellent lunch off fish cutlets, curried fowl, tarts, and cream; took an airing in the pony-carriage; and awaited Geoffrey’s return with imperturbable mien.

“Alice would return to live with her,” she reflected, “if this turned out as she imagined; and she would make her a handsome allowance, say three thousand pounds a-year, as before. Brighton or Cheltenham would suit her best; she loathed the country, and would be able to give nice little dinners, card-parties, and suppers, and keep a brougham and pair—bays or grays—iron-grays looked dashing; mulberry livery and silver buttons, and of course a cockade—it looked so smart. Perhaps a victoria, too, for summer.”

Here her castle-building was interrupted by the entrance of Alice, watch in hand—Alice, who had not tasted a morsel all day. She had spent hours alternately pacing the room and reading her husband’s letter; at one moment revived with hope, at another sickening with despair, according as her own convictions or Miss Fane’s came uppermost. Pale, but composed, she drew near the fire, and mechanically spread her hands towards the blaze. “Have you dined yet, Miss Fane? I am very sorry to have left you alone, but really my head ached so badly there was no use in coming down. Geoffrey will be here in ten minutes if the train is punctual.”

“Then in ten minutes you will know your fate,” said Miss Fane, laying her knitting down and looking at the clock.

“Oh, it’s sure to be all right,” replied Alice bravely, but white as ashes to the very lips; as steadying herself by the mantelpiece, she kept her eyes fixed on the door.

Miss Fane’s favourite motto, “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” was suddenly curtailed by sounds in the hall.

Geoffrey’s face, as he entered with a would-be cheerful look, spoke volumes, quite sufficient for Alice, who knew every expression of his familiar features. Her dry lips tried to form a question, but no sound came from them.

“Alice!” he abruptly blundered forth, “they say it’s a correct copy, and all that sort of thing. There is no use concealing the truth. Mark and I are certain that Reginald will clear it all up; it’s some frightful mistake, but nothing more. I swear it is not,” he said, taking her icy cold hand. “Don’t you fret yourself about it,” he added earnestly, for Alice’s white face and stony fixed expression alarmed him not a little.

“A correct copy did you say?” screamed Miss Fane. “Good heavens, what an unprincipled wretch Reginald must be! It’s well his father and mother are in their graves. My worst fears are confirmed.

“Alice, my poor child,” turning towards her with outstretched hands, “you will always have a friend and guardian in me.” But her future ward did not hear her; Alice was lying at Geoffrey’s feet insensible.

Next morning Alice had a long interview with Miss Fane, who came to condole and reason with her. She was in bed, and utterly at Miss Fane’s mercy. All her hopes were speedily nipped in the bud. Every loophole of excuse that during the night her busy brain had conjured up was speedily scattered to the winds by Miss Fane’s common sense.

“There is no doubt about it now,” she urged; “none whatever. You must brace up your courage, and prepare to act as a girl of spirit. No doubt you have a terribly hard task before you, and you have been cruelly deceived; but for the honour of your sex—not to speak of your own good name—be firm. He will declare the whole thing a lie from first to last, and will try to soothe you down with fond words and caresses, so as to gain time to act; for doubtless this certificate will give him a very unpleasant surprise. He will spare no money, you may rest assured, to silence the other person—Fanny Cole, in short. I daresay he would bribe her with half his income, so as to keep you as his wife; but do not listen to him. Be firm; in fact it will be best for you not to see him, but to leave the house before he arrives. You and I can live together as before. At first we will go to some quiet spot until this dreadful affair has blown over, as I suppose you will not wish to take any legal steps against him?”

“Oh, Miss Fane!” said Alice—who had not heard a quarter of what Miss Fane had been saying—suddenly sitting up in bed and pushing back her hair behind her ears, “is it not a bad dream? Have I been a little off my head? It can’t be true. It is a dream!” she said, administering a severe pinch to her round white arm, from which she had pulled back the lace-ruffled sleeve. But as she watched the vivid red mark slowly dying away, she fell back on her pillow with a gesture of despair. “No dream—no dream,” she said half to herself; nevertheless, Miss Fane heard it.

“I am sorry to say it is no dream, but a very sad reality. If you will take my advice, Alice”—and here Miss Fane paused—“Yes?”

“You will leave this to-day, and not await your hus—I mean,” correcting herself, “Sir Reginald’s return.”

“Oh, I can’t, I won’t. I must see him once more!” cried Alice excitedly. “He is so clever, so clear-headed, he is sure to be able to unravel this horrible mystery.”

“Humph!” said Miss Fane, with a scornful sniff, “it will take a cleverer man than I take him to be to do that. A marriage certificate is not to be explained away, or what would be the good of one?”

“But someone else may have forged his name,” persisted Alice; “may have been married in his name two years ago.”

“They could hardly do that, as the chaplain must have known him by sight. And look at the chaplain’s own signature, recognised and sworn to by his solicitors.”

“A forgery perhaps.”

“Nonsense. What could be anyone’s object? What would they gain? If you will persist in shutting your eyes to plain facts, I cannot help you. I am certain he will declare the whole thing a falsehood, and talk you over, in which case I must warn you that all respectable society will drop your acquaintance. This is by no means the first event of the kind in my experience. The same terrible scandal occurred in the Loftus family only two years ago. Mr. Rupert Loftus married one of the Darling girls, and shortly after the marriage another wife, married in Jersey years before, came on the scene. Quite a parallel case to yours. I must say I gave you credit for more self-respect than to imagine you would cling to a man who is another woman’s husband.”

A crimson blush dyed Alice’s throat, face, and ears; indignant tears started to her eyes; she tried to speak, but no words came, and, turning her head, she buried her face in the pillow, motioning her tormentor away with her hand. Miss Fane, finding it impossible to carry on conversation with the back of a small shapely head and a huge coil of golden-brown plaits, took her knitting and her departure.

She went, but she left a shaft behind her that rankled deeply. “Another woman’s husband!” The thought was maddening! Not hers? Nothing to her any more; and he who had told her over and over again that he had never loved anyone but her! “You little witch,” he had said, “you made me break all my resolutions, for I had not meant to marry for years and years, and, thanks to you, find myself at five-and-twenty a married man, with the prettiest little wife in England.” How could he—how dared he talk like this, and he already married?

Towards the afternoon Alice submitted to be dressed, and took some tea and toast, but remained all day in her own room. She spent a long time sitting in one of the windows, with her hands listlessly crossed in her lap, and thinking profoundly. As she watched the gray rain drifting across the park, uppermost in her thoughts was Miss Fane’s parting speech.

Over and over again her lips framed the unspoken words, “Another woman’s husband.”

She paced the room restlessly from end to end. Suddenly a thought struck her as she arrested herself at the door of her husband’s dressing-room. She had never been in it. She slowly turned the lock of the door and entered. It corresponded in size to her own; but oh, how different to that luxurious apartment! It had a cold unoccupied feel, and she walked across to the dressing-table on tiptoe, for some mysterious reason she could not have explained. There was a small photo of herself in a stand occupying a post of honour; a large old-fashioned prayer-book, which she opened—“Greville Fairfax, from his wife,” was written in a faded delicate Italian hand, on the first leaf; a familiar breast-pin was sticking in the pin-cushion; a familiar coat was hanging on a peg. How near he seemed to her now!

Her eyes, roving round the room, took in every detail. Two old-fashioned wardrobes, a battalion of boots, a bear-skin and two tiger-skins spread on the floor, a couch, a small brass-bound chest of drawers, and a few chairs. Over the chimney-piece hung his sabre, surmounting a fantastic arrangement of whips and pipes; the chimney-board itself bristled with spurs. Above the sabre, spurs, and whips was a small half-height portrait of his mother, evidently copied from one in the dining-room—a lovely dark-eyed girl, in a white satin dress and fur cloak. Alice stood before the picture for a long time.

Reginald had his mother’s eyes, only that his had not such a soft expression. Yes, certainly his eyes were like his mother’s.

“And what is it to me?” she thought with a sudden pang. “What would his mother think of him if she could but know?” she said half aloud, fixing her eyes on the picture as if expecting an answer from those sweet red lips. “What would my mother think if she knew all?” she said, burying her face in her hands. Then suddenly raising her eyes, she looked once more round the room and walked to the door.

“Good-bye,” she said aloud. “Good-bye, the Reginald Fairfax I loved, that was everything to me in the wide world. Good-bye,” she repeated, softly shutting the door. “As for the man who is coming to-morrow, he is nothing to me; he is—oh, shameful, shameful thought!—another woman’s husband!” and throwing herself on her knees beside her bed, she sobbed as if her heart would break.

After a while she rose more composed, dried her eyes, stifled her long-drawn sobs with an enormous effort, and said to herself aloud:

“I have done with tears; I have done with weakness; I have done with Alice Fairfax!”