As she dressed for her ride, pride came to the assistance of her crushed spirit. Wilberforce, the faithful servant who had tended and loved Randolph from his infancy, and was ready to love his wife for his sake and her own, was aware of a subtle change in her young mistress that she did not understand, and which she could not well have described. Monica had been very quiet and gentle since her arrival, and very silent too. She was quiet enough to-day; but the gentleness had been replaced by a certain inexplicable hauteur. The pale face wore a glow of warm colour; the dark eyes that had been languid and heavy were wide open and full of fire. Monica looked superbly handsome in the brilliant radiance of her beauty, and yet the faithful attendant was not certain that she liked the change in her.
Randolph detected it the moment he entered the room, and found his wife equipped for the proposed ride.
“Why, Monica,” he said, smiling, “you have got quite a colour. It looks natural to see you dressed for the saddle.”
“Yes,” she answered, coolly: “we must turn over a new leaf now, must we not? You will be dying of ennui cooped up at home so long. Let us go out and enjoy ourselves. We must learn to do in Rome as Rome does.”
Randolph felt one keen pang of disappointment that the first return to health and strength should have brought a return of the former coldness and aloofness; but he had gained ground before, and why not now? Could he expect to win his way without a single repulse? So he took courage, and tried to ignore the change he saw in his wife.
He led her down the staircase to the hall door where the horses were waiting, and he saw the sudden flash of joyful recognition that crossed her face.
“Guy!” she exclaimed, “my own little Guy!”
Yes, there could be no mistake about it; it was her own little delicate thorough-bred, standing with ill-repressed excitement at the door, his glossy neck arched in a sort of proud impatience, his supple limbs trembling with eagerness, as he stepped daintily to and fro upon the pavement. He turned his shapely head at the sound of Monica’s voice, pricked his ears, and uttered a low whinney of joyful recognition.
“It was good of you to think of it, Randolph,” she said, a softer light in her eyes as she turned them towards her husband. “It is like a little bit of home having him.”