“No. Your own, I presume. I have no time to waste listening to such nonsense. Now mind you don’t encourage Alice in running about and tiring herself,” he concluded, as with a glance at his wife he walked rapidly away.
“What does he mean?” asked Geoffrey with raised brows and an air of veiled derision; “one would think you were made of sugar! I suppose he is going into Manister to buy a glass case to keep you in! You don’t mean to tell me you are about to set up as a young lady who faints and goes into hysterics, or a delicate creature with nerves? If you are, I’ve done with you!”
“Do not be alarmed; I think I shall reassure you at luncheon. I have the appetite of a ploughman, and I am yearning for the gong,” replied Alice as, shouldering her parasol, she turned towards the house, followed by her two friends.
Helen arrived the same afternoon and related her adventures and news at five-o’clock tea. She also delivered a short but severe lecture to Alice for having taken a long ride, and looking pale, heavy-eyed, and tired. In spite of Alice’s indignant denial she could not conceal from herself that she was very tired as she entered the drawing-room just before dinner and wearily seated herself in one of the windows. The only other occupant of the room was her husband, ensconced in an easy-chair and almost concealed by a large newspaper. She recognised him, however, by the slim brown hand that firmly grasped The Standard. He did not take any notice of her entrance. “He never did,” she thought with a sharp pang as she leant her head listlessly against the window-sash and looked out. Suddenly the grass appeared to heave, earth and sky seemed confusedly mixed. She turned her head, the room was swimming round and round; she was going to faint. She rose to escape to her own room whilst there was yet time, but it was too late; she tottered, grasped blindly at a chair; somebody, tall and strong, took her in his arms, and she remembered no more. Reginald had been surreptitiously glancing at Alice for some minutes. Her dejected attitude, the weary pathetic pose of her haughty little head, struck him painfully. How white, how awfully white she was; was she going to faint? She was; he saw her rise unsteadily and try to speak. In an instant he was beside her, and saved her from a fall for the second time that day. Very, very tenderly he carried her over and laid her on a couch. How light and fragile was his burden—she seemed like a child in his arms! She looked deathlike as he laid her down. He had never seen a woman faint before, and was at his wits’ end to know what to do. To leave her was impossible; he dare not. He rang the bell madly and returned to his post. As he thought of the doctor’s words the previous evening his heart stood still with horror. She looked so cold, so marblelike, so utterly inanimate—could she be dead? He took up one of her small limp hands and felt her pulse. As he was doing so, Helen and Mary, to his great relief, came into the room.
“Ah, I’m not one bit surprised,” said the former composedly. “Run for my salts, Mary. Fetch a glass of water and a fan, Regy. She will come round presently.”
Her quiet matter-of-fact manner relieved him at once. Mary’s mind was set at rest now and for ever on one subject—Sir Reginald did care for Alice after all: loved her as a man like him could love.
One glance at him had been sufficient. Even now, though reassured by Helen, his face was ashy white, and the hand that held the tumbler of water shook visibly. By this time they were joined by Mark and Geoffrey. Alice had revived; she sat up, looking very pale and dazed, and announced “that she was all right and going in to dinner, and really did not know how she could have been so stupid.”
She was quickly suppressed by Helen, who said:
“No, my dear, no dinner for you; you are going to bed, and Regy will carry you upstairs.”