CHAPTER XVI
LATE in the afternoon of the following Tuesday, Robert sat over the fire in his study, reading his wife’s book.
He had found it on his writing-table, when he returned to the flat soon after three o’clock, after lunching with Travers at his club.
The sight of the green-covered volume with Cecily’s name in gilt letters upon it affected him with an odd, unclassified, but very strong emotion. It was a moment before he could touch it. Then he turned to the title-page. It was empty of any dedication, but his initials and Cecily’s, in her handwriting, stood in the right-hand corner. He took up the book hurriedly, possessed with a sudden burning curiosity, and throwing himself into a chair, began to read. He read straight on, and now he had almost reached the last page. A few moments later he closed the book, and sat looking down at the cover, with unseeing eyes. It had been a curious experience. To a stranger the book would probably seemimpersonal, if anything; rather unusually impersonal for a woman, perhaps. To Robert it was full of Cecily; full of her personality; full of the self which, in the first months of their marriage, she had revealed to him, and, as he divined, to him alone. It was like something lost and remembered in a dream; something so beautiful and intimate that only in a dream could its memory be recaptured. Very gently, as though fearing to break the spell, he laid the closed book upon the table. In the background of consciousness his critical faculty was awake, slightly amazed, and more than slightly approving.
The book was immature, but it had power, it had distinction, it was moving. The artist in him rejoiced; the man was troubled by conflicting emotions. There was latent pride, there was more than a twinge of jealousy, to name only two of them.
He rose abruptly and stood leaning against the mantelpiece. It was odd that for the last three hours he had completely lost sight of Philippa. She had had no existence beside that fleeting vision of his wife. He thought of her now with a sort of shock, as though she were a stranger. Only yesterday he had been torturing himself about the state of herfeelings towards him. Did she care for him as much as ever? Now, for the moment, at least, it seemed not to matter.
He wanted to go and speak to Cecily, and remembered with an inexplicable pang how long it was since they had exchanged more than a few conventional words. Sometimes he wondered whether she suspected his relations with Philippa; but long ago he had persuaded himself that, even if she did, it was no matter, since she had ceased to care about him. She was in the drawing-room, but, as he expressed it to himself, in the company of “a whole crowd of people.” This he gathered from the faint murmur of talk which reached his study. He wondered whether Mayne was there. He wondered whether—— But this was a speculation which had been more or less present to his mind in a scarcely acknowledged form for more than a year, though never till to-day had it made his face change as it changed now. He began to pace the room.
Would those chattering fools never go? Cecily was always surrounded by them! And he wanted to tell her that he liked her book.
He had worked himself into a fever of impatience before the hall door closed for thelast time. Then, at last, hearing no sound from the next room, he went in.
The door was a little ajar and Cecily, who was sitting in a low chair by the fire, did not notice his entrance. It had grown dusk, but the lamps were not yet brought in, and the firelight fell full upon her face as she leaned back in her chair. Robert remembered Lady Wilmot’s remark—“She’s looking quite pretty again.” It was long since he had noticed Cecily’s looks, and it was with a sense of surprise that he admitted the justice of his godmother’s remark. He had thought Cecily had grown faded. She did not look faded now; and she was charmingly dressed. Standing in the shadow of the door, Robert watched her a moment. Her eyes were fixed on the fire, and a little smile played about her lips. He wondered what she was thinking about, and an unexpected stab of jealousy smote him, to realize that he didn’t know, that he might not ask.
He moved forward and Cecily, rather startled, raised her head. She rose with a kind of embarrassment at the sight of him and stood waiting by the mantelpiece as he came near.
“I’ve read your book,” he began.
She flushed nervously.
“Already?” she asked, with a laugh.
“Yes. I read it at a sitting.” He paused. “I wanted to tell you that I like it. I like it more than I can——” Again he stopped, and Cecily looked at him, surprised and touched. Robert, who was always so fluent! That Robert should stammer and hesitate meant much.
Impulsively she put out her hand. “Really? I’m so glad,” she began, softly.
“Mr. Mayne,” said the maid’s voice suddenly, and Robert dropped the hand he had the previous moment eagerly taken.
“That you, Mayne? You’ll excuse me—I must get to work,” he said, making towards the door at which Mayne had just entered.
He had seen his wife’s eyes go past him and brighten as they fell upon her visitor, and he closed his study door with a bang.