CHAPTER III
“HERE’S Robert!” exclaimed Cecily, under her breath. “Don’t worry. I’m all right. It doesn’t matter.”
Rose saw with relief that though her face was still colorless it was quite calm, and almost before she had realized that a man was crossing the lawn towards them, she heard her voice again.
“Robert,” she said, “it’s Rose. She took me by surprise to-day.”
Kingslake put out his hand, smiling. “You have been expected for some time. Why, it’s—how many years?”
“Five,” returned Mrs. Summers, laconically.
“Only five? I thought it was longer.” He began to ask about the journey, the date of her arrival, all the conventional questions relating to the circumstances, in the midst of which, as Rose observed, he had apparently forgotten a greeting to his wife. He turned to her at last.
“Well, dear! I’m rather late.” He put some letters on the tea-table. “The post’s in. I found these in the hall.”
Cecily took them up, and began to open the envelopes.
“May I, Rose?” she murmured, absently.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Summers,” urged Kingslake, “we need not go in for ten minutes.”
He seated himself also as she complied, and while he continued the desultory conversation he had begun with her, Rose noticed that he glanced every now and then at his wife, who was deep in her letters.
At first sight he was not much altered. He was still the good-looking, rather picturesque man she remembered; but the hint of weakness in his face was more pronounced, and the lines about his mouth had grown querulous. As she talked, Rose watched him curiously. She was wondering at the reason for the furtive looks he occasionally threw in his wife’s direction. There was a trace of anxiety in his face for which she could not account. Cecily’s correspondence lasted for some time, but at last she raised her head.
“This is quite remarkable,” she said, in avoice which struck Rose as rather clearer even than her usual clear tones. “I’ve just heard from an old school-fellow—a girl I’ve lost sight of for years.”
Mrs. Summers’ eyes flashed with sudden comprehension.
“She says she has met you, Robert,” continued Cecily, in the same tone.
“Oh? May I smoke, Mrs. Summers?” He drew out his cigarette-case. “Who is the lady?”
“Philippa Burton.”
“Oh, yes! She was dining at Lady Wilmot’s last night.” He threw away the match. “What does she say?”
His wife began to read:—
“Dear Cecily,—You will wonder who is addressing you in this familiar fashion, and even when you look at the signature, I wonder whether you will remember your old school-fellow—Philippa Burton? I am writing because, after this week, I shall be a near neighbor of yours. I have broken down a little, over my work; my doctor has ordered me country air, and I find the village to which he is sending me isyourvillage! Sheepcote is so easy of access to town that I can run up when it is absolutely necessary, do as much work as I am allowed, and, I hope, renew my friendship with you. I met your husbandyesterday at Lady Wilmot’s. What a charming man he is, and how proud you must be of him.”
“Dear Cecily,—You will wonder who is addressing you in this familiar fashion, and even when you look at the signature, I wonder whether you will remember your old school-fellow—Philippa Burton? I am writing because, after this week, I shall be a near neighbor of yours. I have broken down a little, over my work; my doctor has ordered me country air, and I find the village to which he is sending me isyourvillage! Sheepcote is so easy of access to town that I can run up when it is absolutely necessary, do as much work as I am allowed, and, I hope, renew my friendship with you. I met your husbandyesterday at Lady Wilmot’s. What a charming man he is, and how proud you must be of him.”
“Spare my blushes,” interpolated Kingslake, in a lazy voice. Cecily concluded—
“May I sign myself, as in old days,“Affectionately yours,“Philippa Burton.”
“May I sign myself, as in old days,
“Affectionately yours,“Philippa Burton.”
She folded the letter deliberately, and replaced it in its envelope.
“Well, you can look after her a little, can’t you?” observed Kingslake. “You might see about getting her rooms, perhaps? Wouldn’t old Mrs. Green take her?—or the Watford woman? But this isn’t very amusing for Mrs. Summers, I’m afraid.” He turned to her politely.
“Oh, on the contrary,” she answered, “these bright, brave young women who work for their living, and at intervals have nervous breakdowns, interest me enormously. It’s a new type to me.”
Kingslake’s face darkened at her flippant tone.
“Ah! you happy married women who are shielded from the world are rather slow to understand some of the truths of life,” heobserved, a note of indignation struggling through the suavity of his tone.
“Is it only the lies we encounter then—we happy married women?” she returned, lightly. “That doesn’t speak well for the men who shield us!”
Cecily rose. “Come,” she said, “it’s nearly dinner-time.”
Upstairs, in the spare room to which she showed her friend, Rose turned round with sudden vehemence. “Little devil!” she exclaimed, pointing to the letter her cousin still held. “It’s a feminine masterpiece. Not one untrue statement, yet a lie from beginning to end.”
Cecily was silent. “Don’t!” she said at last, under her breath. “I’ve got to get through the evening.”
Rose glanced at her, and, without speaking again, let her go.
When Cecily entered her bedroom, Kingslake opened his dressing-room door.
“Miss Burton told me she was a school-fellow of yours,” he began. “Were you great friends?”
“Not particularly,” returned Cecily, taking her tea-gown from the wardrobe.
There was silence for a moment.
“She seems a nice sort of girl,” he continued, tentatively.
“She used to be pretty,” said Cecily, staring at herself in the glass as she took down her hair. “Is she pretty now?”
“Yes—rather. At least, yes, I suppose she is.” His voice was studiedly careless. “Mrs. Summers hasn’t altered much,” he continued. “Looks very young still.” He pushed the door wider, and came into the room as he spoke, still fidgeting with his tie.
“We’re a contrast in that respect, aren’t we?” said Cecily, slowly. “I’ve altered a great deal since we were married, haven’t I, Robert?” She still kept her eyes fixed upon the glass from which, as she arranged her hair, her own set face confronted her.
Robert was wandering rather aimlessly about the room. “Oh, I don’t know. Have you?” he replied, absently; then, glancing over her shoulder into the mirror, “You’re looking very washy just now,” he added.
His wife said nothing, and presently he flung himself on the window-seat, and began to play with the silver ornaments on the dressing-table.
“Oh, by the way, whom do you think I ran across at Waterloo this afternoon?” he broke out with a suddenness obviously premeditated. “Mayne—Dick Mayne, you know, just home from Alaska, or Siberia, or wherever it was.”
Cecily pinned on the brooch in front of her tea-gown with deliberation.
“Central Africa,” she said. “Did you speak to him?”
“Speak to him? Of course,” echoed her husband. “I asked him to come down and stay a bit,” he added, opening and shutting a pin-box while he spoke. “He’s a great fisherman, fortunately, or else I don’t know what amusement we could offer him in this God-forsaken spot.”
He glanced at Cecily.
“Well?” he broke out impatiently, after a moment. “You’ve no objection, I suppose? What’s the matter?”
She began to put on her rings, very slowly.
“Nothing’s the matter,” she said. “I was only thinking——”
“Yes? Thinking what?” he urged, moving irritably.
“How jealous you used to be of Dick Mayne.” She turned from the glass, and hereyes, for the first time, met her husband’s. He evaded their glance by springing up.
“Oh, my dear Cecily,” he began angrily. “What nonsense! I dohatethis——” The deep sound of the gong downstairs cut him short.
“Please don’t let us discuss it now,” she said, and moved before him out of the room.