Rose Summers had gone, and during the week which separated her
departure from Mayne’s expected visit, Cecily spent the long solitary
days in the garden. Early every morning Robert cycled to the station.
There was always a little fuss and confusion before he started. Robert
was more helpless than most men. He could never find anything. His
cigarette-case was lost, and when it was discovered by Cecily under a
heap of papers in his study, there were no cigarettes left. She must
open a fresh box; she must run to find his notes without which he could
not get on at the Museum. Always, since their marriage, Cecily had been
at hand to perform these little services, which had gradually become a
matter of habit to both of them.
For the last few days, however, as she ran from the dining-room to the
study, and from the study to the flagged courtyard, where Robert was
feverishly busy at the last moment, adjusting bicycle screws, and
blowing up tires, Cecily’s mind was active. She thought of early days,
and of the joy of discovering that Robert was such a child, needing so
much care, and, in little things, so dependent upon her. She remembered
his kisses, his words of extravagant praise when she found one of the
many things he had lost, the brightening of his eyes when he saw her
running downstairs.
To-day, just as he was started, she had found a note-book he had
evidently intended to take, lying on the hall table, and she had dashed
out with it. He had travelled a few paces down the lane when she
called to him, and with an irritable exclamation he had dismounted and
returned, wheeling his bicycle with one hand, and reaching for the book
with the other.
“It didn’t matter,” he muttered, and absent-mindedly took the book
without thanks, and rode off.
Cecily stood leaning upon the gate, watching his retreating figure.
Presently her lips parted in a bitter smile. “No. It didn’t matter. He
won’t use notes to-day,” she thought, and quietly retraced her steps up
the flagged path, through the hall, and out into the garden.
She went at once to her favorite seat under the beech tree and sat
down. For the last few days she had done this almost mechanically.
It seemed impossible to do anything else. She idly sat there with a
book on her lap, and let thoughts sweep through her mind. Thoughts
and memories--memories of past caresses, of intimate talks, when she
and Robert had been really one; when to disassociate her mind from
Robert’s would have seemed an absurdity at which to smile. She and
Robert had been _like that_--she could not even to herself phrase
it otherwise. And it was possible that he could forget, ignore, wipe it
all out, and begin again with some one else; begin the same dear words,
the same intimacies, convey to this other woman the same belief that it
was she, she, out of all the world, who _mattered_, who meant the
heart of life to him?
Though the process of disillusion, of the overshadowing of her
happiness, had been a gradual one, this fresh knowledge had the
effect of reviving with intolerable poignancy the memory of the early
sunshine, the early sense of being blessed above all women. It placed
that memory in bitter contrast to her outlook of to-day.
“Fool that I was!” she whispered, drawing in her breath with a spasm
of physical pain. “What a fool!” Her partly realized thoughts ran on,
ran high, like tumultuous waves. “It’s a common experience. Why should
I escape? Men are like that. I knew it theoretically. Why should I
have thought that Robert----” And then would come the impotent rush
of protest and despair. It was just that! He was _Robert_, and
mad, childish, futile as it was, it was just that which made the truth
impossible.
She looked round her. The sunshine on the grass was hateful, the warm
blue sky an insult. All beauty was a lie, a meaningless, soulless lie,
like the love of men and women, which held no faith, no steadfastness,
no pity even.
She thought of her five years of married life. Five years of
self-immolation in which she had known no desires, no ambitions,
no joys except through the desires, the ambitions, the joys of her
husband. “All wasted, all no good,--no good,” she wailed unconsciously
in her misery, saying the words half aloud. She sprang to her feet, and
began to pace restlessly to and fro between the borders of flowers she
had planted and tended. The sight of them reminded her of how they had
come into their existence. She remembered how she had fought to still
some of her first heartaches with the planting of these lilies, the
pruning of that rose-bush. It had been a relief to work hard, manually,
while she hoped that the old glamour would return and once more
descend upon their lives. Now the roses mocked her with their glowing,
passionate faces.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” Over and over again the despairing
question welled up into her mind.
It was out of these long blue summer days, which for her held
nothing but chaotic memories, rebellious and hopeless thought, that
self-condemnation and a resolve grew slowly in Cecily’s mind. She had
been wrong, wrong so to sink her individuality. It had been one of
those mistakes for which one suffers more than for one’s sins. She had
been lacking in self-respect. It was time she found herself again--a
miserable, shattered, helpless self, it was true, but a self for
all that. From the outset she had dismissed the idea of telling her
husband of Rose’s unconscious revelation. With a sick prevision she
had imagined the whole scene, heard his “reasons” for not having told
her of a “perfectly harmless friendship.”... Women were so deplorably
jealous; they could not take large views; they refused to believe in
ennobling companionships; they deliberately stunted their spiritual
growth by attributing base motives.... There was no need to sketch
out further the inevitable line of defence. She knew Robert’s powers
of rhetoric, she knew now whence came the influence which had lately
directed its nature, and with a weary sigh she recognized the futility
of provoking a discussion. It would be enough to take the step she
intended, without assigning any specific reason. “Diana is coming
to-morrow,” she reflected. “It must be settled between us before she
comes.”
* * * * *
She was in the garden that evening in her usual seat, when she saw her
husband coming towards her across the grass. Her hands grew suddenly
cold, and a nervous trembling seized her. More than anything she
dreaded the possibility of a scene with Robert; exhortations, counsels
of perfection, all the dialectical machinery he would bring to bear to
prove the unreasonableness of her attitude--to put her in the wrong.
“And the mere fact that it’s come to be a matter of reason means
that, from my point of view, there’s nothing further to be said.”
So she mentally opposed the forthcoming argument while she watched
his approach. He came slowly, his hands in his pockets, his eyes
absent-mindedly fixed upon the grass. A half smile was on his lips.
Bitterness rose and swelled like a flood in his wife’s heart. Her
trembling ceased. How transparent he was! He was like a child. For a
moment contempt, a woman’s contempt for unsuccessful concealment, was
her predominant emotion.
“How much better I could do it!” was her mocking comment.
He sank into a basket-chair near the tea-table, and absently took the
cup she offered him.
“Have you had a tiring day?” Cecily asked, picking up some needlework.
For a moment he did not reply. Evidently the sense of her question had
not yet reached his preoccupied brain.
“Tiring?” he repeated at last, with a start. “Oh, yes. But I’ve nearly
come to the end of it, thank goodness. I sha’n’t go up after to-morrow.”
“I’ve taken Mrs. Taylor’s rooms for Philippa Burton,” pursued Cecily
after a moment, working steadily.
“Oh! Let me see, when does she come?” She could have smiled at the
quick turn of his head, and the carelessness of his voice. “Decent
rooms?” he went on, dropping lumps of sugar into his tea.
“Very nice, I think. That sugar will begin to show at the top if you
don’t stop.” Robert flushed, and dropped the sugar-tongs with a clatter.
“I’ve heard from Diana. She’s coming to-morrow.”
Robert leaned back in his chair, frowning, and felt for his
cigarette-case. “I can’t think why you asked Diana,” he observed,
irritably, “with Mayne coming, and--Miss Burton. She’ll expect to be
asked up to dinner and things, I suppose. It’ll make a lot of work for
the servants.”
“You are very considerate--for the servants.”
He moved restlessly and glanced at her, as he lighted his cigarette.
“Well, you know best, of course,” he began.
“Robert,” said Cecily, suddenly, “there’s something I want to say. And
I want to say it before Diana comes, so that we--we may understand each
other, and things may go smoothly--as I want them to go.”
His start of apprehension was not lost upon her. It had the effect of
making her want to scream with laughter, and she tightened her grasp on
the arm of her chair and went on quickly.
“We’ve been coming to this for a long time. Let us speak frankly this
once, and afterwards let the matter alone. All that you’ve been saying
lately, about the wider scope and broader interests necessary for your
intellectual growth is just another way of explaining that you’re bored
with me.”
“Now, my dear girl!” ejaculated Robert, relief making his tone almost
jocular.
“No, please, Robert, let me finish. I’m not complaining, you
understand, or pleading, or doing anything futile of that sort. I’m
merely stating the fact--and accepting it. I want to do what I can,
to--to make things more interesting for you. All this summer we shall
have visitors. In the autumn, when we go to town, it should not be
difficult to see very little of one another. But we needn’t wait for
that. Let us be free now. I mean, let us give up pretending to be
lovers. We shall then, perhaps, be better friends.”
For a moment before he began to speak he looked at her uncertainly.
Then he broke into the torrent of speech she had dreaded.
Wasn’t it time to take a broader outlook? Why did she resent any
attempt on his part to widen the horizon of their married life? What
had he done to be treated in this fashion?... But, of course, if she
wished this state of things, so let it be. He could not coerce her. He
respected her rights as an individual. That was, in fact, his whole
philosophy of existence,--individual freedom, individual liberty, the
expression of oneself....
“I regret it, of course, but if you wish it, that is enough. It is
your doing, remember--entirely yours. If you choose to put your own
interpretation upon views of life which, in all sincerity, for our
mutual benefit I have tried to make you share, I have nothing to say.
Must a man necessarily be bored with his wife because he wishes a wider
outlook for her, as well as for himself?” He paused indignantly on the
question.
Cecily took up her embroidery. “Not necessarily, perhaps,” she said,
“though he generally is. But need we say any more, Robert? The thing is
settled, isn’t it?”
“By you, remember,” returned Robert, “in utter unreason, in----”
“Never mind how, so long as it _is_ settled,” murmured Cecily.
He rose, and walked away, while mechanically with a sort of feverish
haste, Cecily went on working. His words rang in her ears, false and
insincere. His eyes had spoken truth, and in them she had read relief.
In the beech tree, above her head, a thrush began to sing. Cecily
listened to the first low, passionate notes, then letting her work fall
into a heap on the grass, she sprang to her feet and hurried blindly
towards the house, and the shelter of her own room. There she crouched
against the bed, and drew the counterpane up till it covered her ears.