“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.