PROPER PRIDE.

A Novel.

Life may change, but it may fly not;

Hope may vanish, but can die not;

Truth be veiled, but still it burneth,

Love repulsed—but it returneth.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1882.
[All rights reserved.]

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

CONTENTS.

PROPER PRIDE.

CHAPTER I.
SIR REGINALD FAIRFAX AT HOME.

“I never knew such an unmitigated young idiot!” exclaimed Sir Reginald the next morning at breakfast, as he tossed aside a letter and tore open a paper with a rustle of impatience.

“You are not alluding to any of the present company, I trust?” asked Geoffrey mildly, as he helped himself lavishly to marmalade.

“No,” returned his cousin, without raising his eyes from the perusal of some interesting piece of military news, “no, only one of our fellows at the depôt.”

“Go on, I’m thirsting for particulars. What has he been doing? Getting married?”

“Setting up a racing-stable,” replied Sir Reginald, laying down the paper; “and he knows as much about the turf as—as—” looking round for a simile—“Maurice. He has a horse in for these Sundown Races, on Friday; a new purchase, called”—referring to the note—“Tornado, and has backed him heavily, of course.”

“Tornado,” echoed Geoffrey; “I know the brute well—a pulling, tearing, mad chestnut. He won the Chester Cup when Langstaffe had him. But he is a real devil to ride. He killed one jockey—bolted into a stable with him—and Langstaffe has had to pay up well for the support of his widow and children. I congratulate your young friend. Is he going to ride him himself?”

“No. As far as equestrian feats are concerned, he considers discretion to be the mother of all virtues; he will put up a professional of course.”

“Well, I hope he may be able to hold him, and keep him within the flags, that’s all,” returned Geoffrey, with a doubtful shake of the head; “he can gallop and stay like a good ’un, if he chooses, but I’ll take odds he bolts.”

“I find I have to go to town this morning,” said Sir Reginald, addressing himself to the whole circle. “Barker wants me to meet him to-day about some old leases; very probably I shall not come back till to-morrow night.”

“Then, my dear Regy, you will bring me down my watch from Benson’s,” cried Helen eagerly. “And I want some arosane and crewel wools; a few dark green and yellow shades to finish——”

“No; there I draw the line,” he interrupted with a laugh; “anything but fancy work! Imagine my going into a wool shop, and being discovered by some of my lady friends! I dare not trust myself to answer for the consequences.”

“Don’t forget to go to the Army and Navy Stores and order some new tennis bats,” observed Alice, without raising her eyes from an engrossing letter.

“And bring me a couple of boxes of cigarettes, as per usual,” put in Geoffrey.

“Yes; anything else?” replied Sir Reginald, entering these items rapidly in his note-book.

“You might bring down another box of books from Mudie’s,” added Helen suavely; “I’ll just make out a list,” rising and pushing back her chair and hastening into the next room.

“Well, don’t be long, Helen, as I am going off immediately. You may as well drive over to Manister and leave me at the station, Geoffrey. It will help you to kill your arch-enemy, Time. The trap will be round in ten minutes.”

The next day Sir Reginald, having transacted his business and all the commissions, was strolling down Pall Mall, when he was suddenly brought to a standstill by a vigorous slap on the back, and, turning round, he found himself confronting Captain Vaughan and Captain Campell.

“The very man I want!” exclaimed the latter eagerly.

“How fit you look, old fellow!” cried Captain Vaughan, devouring his late patient with his eyes and wringing his hand in an agonising grasp.

“When did you come to town? Where are you staying? Come on to the Club and tell us all about yourself,” they chimed alternately.

During luncheon, Mr. Campell ejaculated: “Talk of coincidences! Do you know that, five minutes before we overtook you, Fairfax, I had just sent you a telegram, and, as we turned into Pall Mall, you were almost the first man we saw! Odd, wasn’t it? ‘That’s Fairfax, I bet you a fiver,’ said Vaughan; ‘I could swear to his walk—subdued cavalry swagger.’ And sure enough he was right for once. I’m in a most awful hat this time, and no mistake; and you are the only fellow who can pull me through,” he added, leaning both elbows on the table and looking at his friend with an air of grave conviction.

“I?” echoed Sir Reginald. “How? What do you mean? I haven’t the faintest glimmering idea of what you are driving at.”

“You know I have a horse in for the Sundown Races?”

A nod was his reply.

“At the last moment—the eleventh hour—my jockey has thrown me over—last night actually—and the race comes off to-morrow. Where am I to get another unless you’ll ride for me?”—imploringly. “If you don’t,” he resumed, “I shall be smashed—horse, foot, and dragoons. Already the horse has fallen tremendously in the betting; but I won’t hedge a farthing,” with a resolute thump of his fist; “I mean to be a man or a mouse.”

“But why pitch on Fairfax like this?” said Captain Vaughan irritably. “I told you, when you were sending the telegram, how uncommonly cool I thought you. One would think he was gentleman-rider to the regiment. How you have the cheek to ask him to ride such a brute, considering his broken arm and his only just coming off the sick-list, is more than I can understand,” puffing resentfully at his cigar.

“Oh, Fairfax can manage anything. Tornado is not half as bad as that devil of Wyndham’s he rode at Poonah. Riding is child’s play to him.” Turning to Sir Reginald: “You will ride for me, won’t you?” he asked confidently. “If I don’t win this race it will be all U P. I shall have to send in my papers and volunteer as a trooper in one of those Cape regiments.”

“Come, I hope you are not so bad as all that. I must see what I can do; but I’m not by any means the wonderful jockey you imagine.”

“You will ride him, you will! I knew it. You were always a brick!” cried Captain Campell ecstatically, jumping up with such energy as to overset his chair with a loud crash.

“For Heaven’s sake, sit down and compose yourself,” exclaimed Captain Vaughan angrily, “unless you want the people to think you are a subject for personal restraint. Fairfax,” turning to his brother-officer with solemnity, “does your wife allow you to ride races?”

“My wife”—reddening—“allows me to do whatever I please.”

“What a matrimonial rara avis!” muttered Captain Vaughan under his breath.

“You will ride for me, Fairfax; I depend on you,” said Captain Campell.

“Yes, I’ll ride for you, though you have given me awfully short notice; but, remember, I don’t guarantee that I’ll win.”

“Oh, no fear of that if you can only hold him,” frankly returned his brother-officer, leaning across the table and volubly expatiating on the horse’s merits—age, pedigree, and performances—and giving a long and confidential résumé of his temper and traits. “His groom, who knows him well, will give you a wrinkle or two before the race comes off to-morrow. He and the horse started yesterday, and we,” indicating Captain Vaughan and himself, “run down to-night. You can’t think what a load you have taken off my mind,” he added, heaving a deep sigh.

“Have you telegraphed for rooms at the hotel?” inquired Captain Vaughan, always practical.

“No, by Jove!—I never thought about it.”

Little as Sir Reginald was prepared to expose his domestic concerns to public criticism, he felt that it behoved him to extend some hospitality to his two brother-officers—one of them his particular friend, so he exclaimed, with well-feigned cordiality:

“Sundown is in our part of the world—only eight miles from our place. Of course you will both come to Monkswood, and I can drive you over to the races to-morrow.”

“Thanks, my dear fellow, we shall be delighted,” returned Mr. Campell warmly, “if it won’t be putting you out—nor Lady Fairfax?”

“Lady Fairfax will be very glad to see you. I am going down by the 4.30, and we might travel together. It is now,” pulling out his watch, “five minutes past three; I must go and get my traps. Whatever you do, don’t be late, Vaughan; I leave you to take charge of Campell, who never was in time in his life—not even for an Indian train.”

The two hussars were not a little curious to see Fairfax as a family man. What was his home like? his surroundings? his wife? There must be something odd about her. She had always been shrouded in mystery, but now the veil was about to be pulled aside, and their long-starved curiosity would be satisfied at last!

4.30 found Sir Reginald and his two guests, comfortably settled in a smoking carriage, slowly gliding out of Waterloo Station en route for Monkswood; but, owing to a stoppage on the line they arrived at Manister fully two hours behind time.

“Anything here for me?” inquired Sir Reginald of a gracious porter.

“No, sir; the dog-cart waited till the half-hour and then went home; but Blake said as how he would come for the express.”

“How far is it to your place?” asked Mr. Campell.

“Only two miles and a-half by the fields.”

“Then I vote we walk. Anything is better than a stifling fly this fine warm evening. ‘Quick march’ is the word,” gaily shouldering his umbrella.

His motion was carried unanimously, and, leaving their luggage to be despatched in their wake, they started off at a smart pace, each armed with a cheroot.

The great event of the following day was the one topic of Mr. Campell’s conversation. Sir Reginald lent him a ready ear, and together they made arrangements for an early visit to Tornado the next morning; they discussed weights, saddles, handicappers, and bits with much animation and enthusiasm, Captain Vaughan walking rather behind them, and smoking sullenly.

“If he’s as good as you say, he ought to be first past the post to-morrow, for his company is, after all, only second rate; and if he does pull off this race I want you to promise me one thing, Campell.”

“I’ll promise you any earthly thing, my dear fellow,” returned Captain Campell impulsively, stopping for an instant in the narrow moonlit path to give full emphasis to his asseveration.

“You will sell Tornado directly the meeting is over and give up racing for the next five years.”

“You may make your mind easy on that score. ‘A burnt child dreads the fire;’ and I have been badly singed. If I can only pull my chestnuts out all right this time I’ll never go near the turf again.”

“It is much easier to make good resolutions than to keep them,” growled Captain Vaughan from the rear. “If you lose, no doubt it will be all plain sailing for this high resolve of yours; but if you win, it will be another matter. Having once tasted blood, it will be hard to choke off your racing instincts. Why not scratch Tornado to-morrow and commence this reformation before the race?”

“Hear him!” cried Captain Campell angrily; “and my four thousand and odd pounds, where would they be? Your advice is no doubt kindly meant, Vaughan; but we all know that ‘Il est plus facile d’être sage pour les autres que de l’être pour soi-même.’ I shall not begin my reformation, as you call it, until the day after to-morrow.”

Half-an-hour’s brisk walking brought the three pedestrians near Monkswood. They crossed the park—how weird it looked in the moonlight!—and the house itself—what an imposing pile! They traversed the smooth-shaven pleasure-ground and ascended the shallow steps, where wide-open French windows gave forth streams of light and peals of laughter. They looked in, and this is what they saw: A long, low, old-fashioned room, brilliantly lighted and most luxuriously furnished—flowers, pictures, china, caught the eye on every side. A space had been cleared, and a dancing lesson was evidently in full swing. Close to the window, with her back to them, stood a young lady in a pink dress; beside her a portly middle-aged man was holding out his coat-tails and capering insanely. He was evidently being initiated in the “trois temps” by a lovely girl opposite, in black net, with quantities of natural pale-blush roses pinned into the bodice of her dress and her hair. She was slim, graceful, beautiful, and looked about nineteen. A handsome matron in black satin was playing a waltz mechanically, as she looked over her shoulder at the dancing. An old lady in a monumental cap was peering above her spectacles with intense amusement, and a long-legged youth had thrown himself into a chair in absolute convulsions of laughter. Having at length got breath, he said:

“Go on, Alice; go on. Show him once more.”

The young lady in black, thus adjured, held up her dress in front and modestly displayed a pair of the prettiest, most fairy-like Louis Quatorze shoes and the slenderest of black silk ankles.

“Now, Mark,” she said authoritatively, “mind this is the last time. One foot forward, so; bring up the other, and turn, so, one, two, three—one, two, three; nothing can be easier. Are you looking?”

“Of course he is looking. Do you take him for a fool? Isn’t he looking at the prettiest pair of ankles in Great Britain?”

“Geoffrey,” retorted the girl without turning her head, “I’m coming to box your ears directly. Go on, Mark,” she proceeded encouragingly; “if I could only reach round your waist I’d dance gentleman, and then you would soon get into it.”

Mark accordingly went on according to his lights, and the result was a perfect roar of laughter, in which Sir Reginald joined most heartily, and so betrayed his whereabouts. He and his friends advanced into the room, and he presented them to the girl in black.

“His wife!”

They had barely recovered from their astonishment before she had left the room to see about preparations for them, and to order an impromptu supper, which was speedily organised in a grand old dining-room.

Thither all proceeded, and a merrier party seldom sat down at Monkswood. As lively sallies and witty remarks were rapidly bandied about, and topic after topic was started, discussed, and dismissed, Captains Vaughan and Campell’s eyes frequently met.

“Could this be Fairfax’s home, this lovely girl his wife, and these charmingly amusing well-bred people his relations? Then why did he stay in India? Where was the skeleton in the cupboard?”

He was telling a story he had heard in town of an Irish wedding, where, by some blunder, the best man drove off with the bride by mistake. Declaring that to stop was unlucky, nothing would induce the coachman to pull up or turn back. Meanwhile the wretched bridegroom was pursuing them afoot, and running the gauntlet of a score of ragamuffins, who pelted him with stones and mud.

“You took precious good care that such a mistake did not occur, Regy!” said Geoffrey with a broad grin. “I had not much chance of driving off with you, Alice, had I? You remember how I wanted to come with you in the carriage from church, and how he nearly slammed my fingers in the door of the brougham, eh?”

Why did Lady Fairfax become scarlet, and Fairfax assume an air of rapt consideration of the pattern of the tablecloth? Why did they so seldom address each other—what was the meaning of the coolness between them?

Captain Vaughan made up his mind to watch them narrowly. But Captain Campell was far too much taken up with the topic nearest his heart to give the subject more than passing attention, and said:

“Lady Fairfax, are you coming to the races to-morrow? Capital races at Sundown.”

“N-o—I think not,” looking across at her husband interrogatively.

“Oh!” responding to her glance, “he is going right enough. He is to ride my horse, don’t you know—Tornado. I can’t get a jockey, and if I could now I would not change for the best professional in England.”

“Do you mean that my husband is going to ride?” she asked with a quaver of consternation in her voice.

“Yes; it is awfully good of him, is it not?”

“Awfully good of him,” she repeated mechanically, her face as white as the cloth.

“Reginald, you are not really going to ride Tornado?” said Geoffrey incredulously. “If you are, I hope you have made your will.”

“I have made my will, and I have made up my mind to ride Tornado. Come to the races to-morrow and see him win.”

“Or see you killed,” replied Geoffrey; “which?”

“You are a Job’s comforter with a vengeance. Your remarks are certainly not calculated to inspire a nervous man with confidence. Let us make a move to the drawing-room,” observed Reginald, anxious to avoid further discussion and the objections he sees that Helen and Mark are preparing to hurl at him, and determined to postpone the struggle.

The party in the drawing-room scattered about and broke up into groups of twos and threes. Miss Ferrars and Captain Campell strolled to the piano, and Captain Vaughan laid himself out to improve his acquaintance with Lady Fairfax. As he drew a chair near the table at which she was sitting, she said:

“Captain Vaughan, I am so very glad to see you. I know how much I owe you; how you nursed my husband through the worst of his illness. I never can sufficiently thank you——”

“Do not,” he interrupted, “it is not necessary. I owe him more than that. You do not know what a blow it would have been to all of us if anything had happened to him. You can’t think how much he has made himself beloved by both officers and men.”

Alice blushed deeply, and looked far more pleased than if she had received a direct personal compliment.

“I am sure he is,” she said in a low voice. “Nevertheless, you must let me thank you. I have often and often longed to do so. I only wish I had some way of showing you how grateful I am,” she added, looking at him with dewy wistful eyes.

“What a perfectly bewitching face! What a domestic treasure Reginald has kept quietly buried here! She would more than hold her own with the best ‘professionals,’” he mused as he glanced at her furtively, whilst he pulled his long tawny moustache.

Reginald, and Reginald’s exploits, formed the topic of their conversation. His hostess made the very best of listeners, and eagerly drank in all the details of her husband’s campaign, his rash adventure, and his illness.

“She is an angel!” thought Captain Vaughan rapturously.

He was by no means a ladies’ man. Nevertheless, it was a wholly gratifying sensation to have this lovely young creature hanging on his words, as though his lips were veritably dropping the legendary pearls and diamonds.

Presently the hero of his tale joined them, and, throwing himself into an easy-chair, said, as he crossed his legs:

“We must make an early start to-morrow, Vaughan.”

“I suppose so,” responded his friend discontentedly. “I think the whole thing is madness! You are not fit to ride a race. I wonder”—turning abruptly to Alice—“I wonder you allow him to ride, Lady Fairfax.”

“I wish I could prevent him,” she replied, with an appealing look towards her husband.

“Why don’t you enforce your wifely authority?”

The subject of their conversation was apparently engrossed in the contemplation of his exceedingly well-cut boots, and did not seem to hear them.

“Do you hear, Fairfax? Your wife takes my view altogether. You are not to ride to-morrow.”

“My wife,” he replied, looking up and transferring his eyes to her, “knows perfectly well that we never interfere in each other’s affairs. ‘Live and let live’ is our motto, is it not, Alice?”

“Yes,” she responded with a forced smile; but she added timidly: “I do very much wish you would not ride for Mr. Campell, he is a most dangerous animal. You heard what Geoffrey said.”

“Said that Mr. Campell was a dangerous animal?” he asked, with a look of comical interrogation.

“No,” she replied petulantly; “the horse I mean. Please do not ride him. I will only ask this once,” she pleaded earnestly.

“Sorry I can’t oblige you, Alice. I have given my word—and you know,” he added significantly, “I never break my promises.”

Alice, deeply hurt, turned away to hide her discomposure, and joined the group at the piano without another word. Captain Vaughan looked at his friend with unmeasured indignation; certainly he did not shine in home life. There had been a time when he thought no woman under the sun a fitting mate for Sir Reginald Fairfax; but now it appeared to him that Sir Reginald was hardly worthy of his wife!

Could she be the very same Alice to whom, when he thought himself dying, his last words and messages were sent? “Tell her I loved her—always!” Loved her, indeed! He has a curious way of showing it, thought his brother-officer with rising anger.

His looks of unqualified disapproval were entirely thrown away on his friend, who was busily endeavouring to balance a paper-cutter on the tip of one of his fingers, and never once raised his eyes. Captain Vaughan, rising suddenly, and giving his chair a violent push, that was in itself an angry expostulation, went over to the piano and joined the rest of the party in begging their hostess for just one song.

When all had left the drawing-room, excepting her husband, Alice lingered behind. He was setting the clock on the mantelpiece and did not observe her where she was kneeling, beside the piano, putting away some music. When all the songs and books had been neatly arranged she stole a glance at him. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, just as she had seen him for the first time at Malta; but oh, how different he was! He looked sterner and older, and instead of a gay smile there was a hard cynical expression on his lips as he gazed into vacancy.

She felt that she was afraid of him, but, all the same, she would speak and endeavour to dissuade him from riding for Captain Campell. No matter what he said, no matter how he froze her, she would be heard; she was his wife.

Rising to her feet, she approached slowly and hesitatingly. Her husband eyed her with cool surprise as she came close up to him.

“Reginald,” she said, “will nothing prevent your riding this race to-morrow?”

“Nothing,” he calmly replied, “unless the horse dies.”

“Could not Burke, the groom, ride him? He was a jockey once,” she asked timidly.

“Burke!” contemptuously. “Burke weighs at least twelve stone. His riding days are over. Why not suggest Mark at once?” with a supercilious smile.

“Could you not get some substitute?”

“No. Pray why should I? Campell has asked me to ride—I have consented. Voilà tout.”

“But,” she urged, nervously twisting her bangles, “I do wish you would have nothing to say to him. They say the reason Captain Campell could not get a jockey was that the horse had such a bad name. Say you will not ride him,” she pleaded brokenly. “Do, for my sake. I will tell Captain Campell that he must find another jockey, as I will not allow you to ride.”

“I don’t know on what grounds you should ask me to do anything for your sake.”

A silence.

“As to not allowing me to ride,” he continued with polite irony, “I’m afraid I cannot admit your authority.”

He felt he was brutally rude; but in rudeness was his safety. Another such look as she had just given him and he was a lost man. The farce of “Ward not Wife” would be played out, all his stern resolutions thrown to the winds, and he would have to surrender his pride, his self-respect, his word of honour. She was so close to him that he could feel the perfume of the roses in her hair and see a stray eyelash on her cheek. He moved to one side and, steadily looking at the floor, said:

“I could not break my word to Campell. If Tornado wins to-morrow he has promised me to give up his stud. If he loses, he will be ruined, and will have to sell out. Besides, it is not a steeplechase, only a flat race. Nothing very alarming in that, is there?”

“Not quite so bad; but bad enough. The horse did kill one man, why not another?” looking awfully white.

“Well, if he kills me to-morrow” (cheerfully), “you can put it in your marriage settlements that your second husband is not to ride races.”

Without another word or look, Alice turned and left the room.

“Stay a moment,” said her husband, cutting off her indignant retreat across the hall and politely lighting her candle. “Listen to me, Alice. What will you give me if, after to-morrow, I promise never to ride another race?” looking at her with serious eyes.

“Will you promise me that” (eagerly) “really and truly?” accepting the candlestick. “Then it is to be a bargain, remember.”

“How can it be a bargain, as you call it, if the transaction is to be all on one side? If I promise this, what are you going to do for me?” he asked with questioning gaze.

“Promise, and I’ll tell you,” she said archly.

“Well,” speaking slowly and with grave expectation in his eyes, “I promise; and what then?”

“Then, if you like,” she replied, blushing furiously and holding her candle well between his face and hers, “then I’ll—I’ll give you a kiss.”

“A kiss!” he stammered, very much taken aback. “A kiss,” he repeated, reddening; for a second he hesitated, then said in a low voice, as he turned to take up his candle: “No, thank you, Alice.”

Alice seized the opportunity to make her escape, and when her husband had turned his head she was gone.

“After that,” he muttered to himself as he leisurely ascended the stairs, “I can resist anything. I have put St. Anthony himself completely in the shade. His temptress was not a quarter as pretty as mine, I’ll swear. But if I had taken it I should have had to take a dozen, and thus lay down my arms. Better as it is, better as it is; I’m not likely to be tempted in the same way twice,” he added with a sigh.

Meanwhile Alice had fled along the long corridor and locked herself in her dressing-room. “No, thank you, Alice,” was still ringing in her ears. She sat with her face buried in her hands for nearly a quarter of an hour. To have offered a kiss to a man and been refused, even though that man was her husband, what shame, what indignity! Her very throat and forehead were dyed with blushes as she thought of it. “What does he mean? Why does he treat me so? He dislikes me, that is very evident. Am I uglier, less attractive than I used to be? Did he marry me only for my pretty face, and am I pretty no longer?” she asked herself as she looked into her glass. But no, the glass declared she was prettier than ever, as, with both elbows on the table, she studied her reflection critically, and saw clouds of lovely golden-brown hair, perfect features, a flawless skin, over which the blushes were chasing each other rapidly. “I am as pretty as ever,” she said to herself dispassionately. “Can he be a little wrong in his head?” she mused. “Can his wounds and the Indian sun have affected his reason? Mad people always evince a dislike to their nearest and dearest; but no, impossible. Reginald mad? she must be insane herself to think so; and oh, doubly, trebly mad to have put herself in the way of meeting such a rebuff as she had received that evening.”

CHAPTER II.
CARDIGAN.

The next morning all was bustle and confusion at Monkswood; the Mayhews and Miss Ferrars had decided to go to the races, and the high-stepping, supercilious-looking carriage-horses were to do a good day’s work for once.

Nothing would induce Alice to join the party, but she busied herself all the morning looking after the cold luncheon which was to be taken to the course, and helping Helen and Mary to make gorgeous race toilettes. By mutual consent, she and her husband had carefully avoided each other, but just as the latter was about to start, he discovered that a button was coming off his light overcoat. The dog-cart, in which Captain Campell was already seated, was waiting at the door, and there was not a moment to be lost.

“Call Alice,” cried the ever-officious Geoffrey; “she has just mended me. There she is in the hall.”

“Alice, come here with your needle.”

Alice, entering the library, found that she had to operate on her husband this time, which was more than either of them had bargained for; but there was no help for it, with Captain Vaughan and Geoffrey standing by. She had scarcely commenced her task ere they left the room and went out to the dog-cart, leaving her alone with Reginald. She ventured to steal a glance at him, he stood still as a statue, without so much as the flickering of an eyelash, whilst her fingers trembled a good deal, and her heart beat so loudly she was afraid he could hear it. As he had not removed his coat they were brought into uncommonly close contact, and the top of her head was dangerously near to his moustache. Very quickly and silently she stitched, without again raising her eyes. Through his open coat she perceived his scarlet silk racing-jacket and faultless breeches and boots.

“What are you looking so serious about?” he suddenly asked. “Why are you so pale? There is no occasion to keep up appearances; we are alone. Pray don’t feign anxiety about me—that you really don’t feel; you know very well you don’t care a straw whether I break my neck or not.”

He was in a merciless humour; many sleepless hours had he brooded on his wrongs, and wrath and contempt were uppermost.

Alice made no reply, but having sewn on the button, twisted the thread off with a sharp snap.

“Well, good-bye,” he said, holding out a dogskin-covered hand and looking at her keenly. “Don’t overact the part. At present you are superb. Any bystander now would be fool enough to think——that you cared for me. You and I know better than that, don’t we?” he added, with a curious smile, as he opened his cigar-case and carefully selected a cheroot.

“Rex, are you coming?” shouted Geoffrey. In another moment he had taken his seat in the dog-cart, the pawing, fiery chestnut had “got his head,” and the trio were bowling down the avenue at a liberal ten miles an hour.

Alice stood in the window for fully twenty minutes; her lips trembled, her bosom heaved.

“How dared he! How dared he!” she whispered, as the blood mounted to her pale face, and her whole frame quivered with anger at his taunts. But her indignation, as was usually the case, quickly died away—it gave place to “apprehension’s sudden glow.” “Supposing he was brought home badly hurt—or dead? Supposing that those dark eyes, that had just now looked at her so scornfully, were closed for ever ere nightfall?” The very idea was more than she could bear. She would busy herself all day, and not give herself time to think.

Drying her eyes, she ran upstairs, and helped Helen and Mary to put the finishing touches to their toilettes; and pressed on Mary a perfect parasol, arranged Helen’s bonnet and veil satisfactorily, and saw them off from the hall-door steps with many smiles and good wishes.

Although Alice wore a smiling face in public, and her gaiety and buoyant spirits were the amazement of Helen and her aunt, yet her heart was heavy enough, and when alone, escorted by the dogs, strolling through the woods with idle aimless footsteps, her face was very downcast and sad. The task of regaining her husband’s affection seemed to be altogether beyond her; all her advances were coldly repulsed; she would venture no farther. Perhaps were she to emulate his own studied indifference, he might think more of her.

Men never cared for what was easily gained; probably he despised her for her humility. Well, she would assert herself, and meet him on his own ground as a last resource. “He pleases himself; I shall please myself, and I shall ride Cardigan this very afternoon,” she said aloud, as she entered the hall and flung her hat on a chair.

Sundown races were very popular, and the present meeting augured a great success. The stand was crowded, and the course at either side was lined three deep with carriages, gay with bonnets and parasols. Every small eminence and every box-seat was seized as a coign of vantage.

As the big race of the day was about to be run, five starters emerged from the paddock, slender and sleek-coated, mounted by jockeys gorgeous in every colour of the rainbow.

Tornado’s appearance excited considerable sensation as he took his preliminary canter. He was a remarkably handsome animal, and was handled to admiration by his jockey.

“Who is the fellow riding him?” asked one of the Steepshire magnates. “Seems to know what he is about. That brute takes a lot of riding.”

“It’s ten to one if he does not bolt,” replied a supremely horsey little man. “If he could be kept on the course he’d run away with the race, but he has a nasty awkward temper and a gentleman jock riding him. Precious little good his four pounds will do him in this case. They are making Dado a hot favourite.”

“Who is the gentleman jock?” reiterated his companion.

On reference to the correct card, they saw “Captain Campell’s Tornado; scarlet jacket, black cap, Sir Reginald Fairfax.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed a pompous D.L., “who would expect to see him here? Good-looking fellow—wonder he likes to come into the neighbourhood, considering all things. Wonder where he is stopping?”

The flag dropped to a capital start, and they were off, Tornado making a determined but useless attempt to bolt. Those wrists that were guiding him were of steel, and kept him on the course willy-nilly. He had his master on his back, he soon discovered; his runaway tendency was turned to good account, for his rider, knowing him to be a stayer, forced him through the other horses, and cut out the work at a terrific pace, which he kept up throughout, having a clear lead halfway up the straight, and winning easily by six lengths.

Sir Reginald, who was now recognised by many of the neighbouring gentry and farmers, who remembered him a lad on his pony, was cheered loudly as he piloted his horse through the crowd to the weighing-stand. Some of the neighbouring élite came up and claimed his acquaintance, and overpowered him with congratulations. He received them with a distant politeness none knew how to assume better than himself, and declining various offers of luncheon, arm-in-arm with the radiant Captain Campell, made his way to the Fairfax landau, where he was received as a hero indeed. This victory was something palpable, and Helen felt a pleasing consciousness that their carriage was the cynosure of many eyes and many opera-glasses, as her cousin shared the box-seat with Mary Ferrars.

“Where is she?” was whispered behind more than one fan among the ladies on the stand. “How odd it is that he should have come into the neighbourhood! How handsome he is, and how much he is to be pitied, poor fellow!”

The “poor fellow” made a capital luncheon, lost several pairs of gloves to the two ladies, and suddenly announced his intention of going home.

“Going home?” echoed Geoffrey; “why there are two more races on the card. You are not serious?” he said, gazing at him with might and main.

“I am, indeed; the best of the day is over, and I want to get off before the crowd begins to make a rush. You can all stay if you like.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Captain Vaughan; “I’m sick of races, and we will jog home quietly and escape the dust.”

Well he guessed his friend’s intention—he was going home to set his wife’s mind at rest, and he was. Her pale face and trembling fingers had risen up more than once reproachfully before his mind’s eye, and he felt both remorseful and penitent for his undoubted rudeness. Cautiously steering through the crowd, they were soon on their road home, smoking and discussing the events of the day as they trotted through the cool country lanes; both had the pleasing inward conviction that they were doing the “right thing.”

Within a mile of Monkswood the sound of a horse galloping close by in a field arrested their attention. Soon he came in sight—a powerful raking chestnut, ridden by a lady. Pulling him up gradually to a canter, she trotted him up to a hog-backed stile, over which she landed him in the most workmanlike manner into the road, a hundred yards ahead of the dog-cart, which evidently was a vehicle not to his taste, for the instant he caught sight of it he turned sharp round and bolted in the opposite direction.

The lady was Alice, the horse Cardigan. In two minutes she had reduced him to obedience, and, returning at a trot, ranged up alongside of the dog-cart. Her light hand seemed to have a wonderfully soothing effect on the fiery fretting chestnut. She had evidently given him a good gallop, if one was to judge by the state of heat he was in and the lather on his sides, and so subdued his exuberant impulses, but his wild eye and nervous ears spoke volumes: “Only for the lady on my back,” they said, “I would think very little of jumping into that dog-cart.”

“So you have come back?” exclaimed Alice cheerfully, “and not on a shutter,” with a glance at her husband.

“So you see,” he replied shortly.

“After all, it was only a flat race! I need not have been so frightened. Did you win?”

“He did, splendidly! by six lengths, hands down,” replied Captain Vaughan enthusiastically. “You ought to have been there to see for yourself, Lady Fairfax. There has been capital racing.”

“What has brought you home so early?” she asked, not noticing his suggestion.

“Oh, we had had enough of it; the best races had been run, and we thought we would get away before the crowd.”

“Alice,” said her husband, suddenly tossing away his cigar, “I thought I had forbidden you to ride Cardigan?”

“Did you!” she replied airily; “just in the same way that I forbid you to ride races,” and she laughed as she leant over and patted Cardigan’s neck. “‘Live and let live’ is our motto, is it not, Captain Vaughan?”

“You won’t live long, at any rate, if you persist in riding that brute,” returned her husband angrily.

“He calls you a brute, Mr. C.; do you hear that? You and I understand each other perfectly,” she said, stooping forward again and patting his hard neck, thereby more fully displaying her perfect figure and her perfectly-cut habit.

“You have torn your glove, Lady Fairfax. Why, the whole palm is gone!” exclaimed Captain Vaughan.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she replied, looking at it hurriedly, but not before a deep red weal across her delicate white palm was visible to both gentlemen.

“He pulls a good bit, does he not?” asked Captain Vaughan dubiously.

“A little, when he is fresh; but he knows me. All the grooms are afraid of him, and he knows that; but I’m not a bit afraid of you, am I?” addressing herself once more to her steed, and emphasizing her remark with a touch of her whip.

His reply was a plunge that would have unseated a less experienced rider. Another touch of the whip—another plunge.

Captain Vaughan looked askance at his friend. For a man who had just won a race, on an awkward horse, in a first-class manner, he looked decidedly nervous. Never had Captain Vaughan seen fear written on Reginald Fairfax’s face till now, and there it was plainly to be seen, as Cardigan executed plunge after plunge before them down the road. Subdued at last by his mistress’s voice, they again joined the dog-cart.

“Alice,” said her husband, administering a wicked but quiet cut to the dog-cart horse, “you’ll never ride Cardigan again after to-day.”

“Oh, shan’t I? Who is to prevent me?” she asked, innocent wonder depicted on her pretty face.

“I will,” he replied emphatically.

“Do not be too sure of that,” she returned, with a smile at Captain Vaughan that exasperated her husband beyond description. “Farewell for the present; here is a lovely piece of turf,” and with a careless wave of her hand she turned off the avenue and was soon galloping away across the park at the top of Cardigan’s speed.

The two young men watched her in dead silence till she disappeared behind a clump of trees.

“By Jove, how she rides!” exclaimed Captain Vaughan in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

“Vaughan,” said his friend solemnly, as he withdrew his eyes from the vanishing horsewoman, “let me give you a piece of advice; take it as coming from one who speaks from experience. Whatever folly—whatever madness you may be guilty of, be warned by me, and never marry!”

CHAPTER III.
“A KISS, AND NOTHING MORE.”

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:

“Will you walk a little faster,

Said a whiting to a snail,

There’s a lobster close behind me,

And he’s treading on my tail.

“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.