“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 a voice 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 is _your_ village! 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
husband yesterday 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.”
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,” he observed, 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 her eyes, 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 do
_hate_ this----” 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.