One day early in April, Kingslake, who was walking towards the district
station at Victoria, was stopped by a man he knew slightly and would
like to have known better; a man justly celebrated in the world of
science and letters.
“How are you, Kingslake?” he said.
“Where are you going? I’m just on my way to you.”
Robert shook hands cordially, but looked mystified.
“On your way to me?” he began.
“Calling on your wife. Bless the man, he doesn’t know his wife’s
at-home day, I believe!” Powis laughed good-temperedly as he spoke. “I
expect you hate that kind of thing. Well, so do I, as a rule. It takes
as charming a woman as Mrs. Kingslake to get an old fellow like me out
calling nowadays, I can tell you.”
Robert smiled. He had no idea that Cecily knew Powis at all.
“I see her book’s coming out on Monday,” the elder man went on. “Great
excitement for you both, eh? Well, I hope it’ll be a great success. She
deserves it. Clever girl! I always thought, even when she was a little
thing at home, she’d astonish us all some day. You kept her in the
country too long, Kingslake. We’re all glad to see her back.”
Robert murmured a fairly appropriate reply. He felt rather dazed and
confused.
“When are we to have your new novel?” was the next question. “Mustn’t
lag behind your wife, you know. Why don’t you collaborate? But I expect
you do. Well, we’re impeding the traffic here. Sorry I sha’n’t see you
at the flat this afternoon. Good-bye.” He hurried off, leaving Robert
to ponder his voluble words.
Cecily’s book out on Monday? He didn’t even know she was writing a
book. He walked on to the station, and mechanically took a ticket for
South Kensington. “Great excitement for you both.” The genial words
fell again on his ear with ironical effect, while he was at the same
moment conscious of one more stab to his vanity--an important personal
equipment, which, of late, had been wounded more than a little. His own
new book had been out quite six weeks, and it had fallen absolutely
flat. This fact, a not uncommon check to the rising novelist, had
depressed him considerably. Cecily had been very sympathetic about it.
He remembered this still, with gratitude. Cecily, he reflected, was one
of the few people who could be sorry for one without wounding.
So she had been writing a book! It seemed strange to think of it. He
remembered how, in the early years of their marriage, he had sometimes
found her “scribbling.” He remembered how he had at first laughed and
teased her, and afterwards, when she had shown symptoms of “taking it
seriously,” how he had shown his disapproval. He thought of this now,
and it seemed to him rather a contemptible attitude to have adopted.
He felt vaguely ashamed. But he had been jealous, really jealous; he
recalled the sensation now with a curious stirring of a forgotten
emotion with regard to his wife--jealous that she should be absorbed
in anything that did not concern him. How long ago it all seemed! And
now she had written a novel, and he did not even know who was her
publisher. He supposed she had placed it the more easily because of
his name, which was also hers. There was comfort in that reflection.
He was glad to have been of use to her. He hoped she would get some
encouragement; he hoped----
And then he shook himself impatiently, conscious that he was not really
thinking any of these things. All that was vividly present in his mind
was a touch of resentment, a curious sense of bitterness that he knew
so little about her; that he did not even know the men who went to the
house. Except Mayne. He frowned involuntarily. Mayne was there a good
deal. Well, he himself had often impressively invited him. With some
haste he dismissed this reflection. At the moment it was one he did not
feel disposed to investigate. It was unfortunate that he could not feel
cordial towards Mayne. But after all, one’s likes and dislikes were
not within one’s control, and Mayne was Cecily’s friend, and so---- He
banished the subject with an impatient shrug.
On emerging from the station at South Kensington, he heard his name
uttered somewhat piercingly, and in response to a peremptory order, a
motor-car drew up smoothly beside the curb.
“How are you, Robin?” Lady Wilmot exclaimed, extending a hand. “And why
are you in this direction on your wife’s at-home day? I’m on my way to
her. How is she? As pretty as ever? I met her at the Duquesne’s last
week, and thought her looking charming. The country and your exclusive
society, my dear, evidently disagreed with her.”
“You are always kind,” returned Robert.
“And what is this I hear about a book of hers?” she pursued.
“It’s coming out on Monday,” said Robert, thankful to be able to supply
the information.
“You’ll have a rival near home!” chuckled his companion. “That last
book of yours isn’t doing much, is it? Knights and castles and things
are off for the moment, I think. Why don’t you write a society novel?
They always take, if you make the women spiteful enough; but I admit
the difficulty of that. Well, I must be off. Your wife’s a good
hostess. I never miss her parties. Good-bye, my dear. When will you
come and dine?” The last question was put in a shrill voice over her
shoulder, as the car glided off.
Robert walked on. The little interview had not raised his spirits, and
as he turned into the quiet, rather shabby little road which contained
Philippa’s studio, it was with a shock the reverse of pleasant that
he saw Nevern coming down the steps of her house. He knew the young
man slightly, and nodded to him as he passed. Before the door opened,
he noticed that Nevern turned and watched his admittance with what his
imagination, at least, construed into an angry frown.
Philippa opened the door--she kept no servant--and he followed her
upstairs without speaking.
When the studio door closed she turned round and looked at him, inquiry
in her eyes.
“Well?” she said, tenderly, in her deepest voice as she held out both
hands.
Robert ignored them, and walked moodily towards the fire.
“Robert!” murmured Philippa.
He was silent.
Philippa hesitated a moment, then, as though taking a sudden
determination, she followed him to the fire, and resting one elbow on
the mantelpiece, looked at him haughtily.
“Will you explain?” she demanded.
“What was Nevern doing here?” asked Robert, abruptly.
Philippa raised her eyebrows.
“He was calling on me.”
“Does he often call? Do you often have men here--to see you?” He spoke
in a voice of suppressed anger.
“Quite often,” returned Philippa, firmly; “why not?”
Robert was silent. Presently he turned sharply towards the window, and
stood looking out upon the roof-tops opposite.
Philippa remained standing by the mantelpiece. There was impatience in
her face, and a certain indecision. Once she opened her lips to speak,
and refrained. Finally, with a shrug of the shoulders, she went to him
and laid her hand gently on his arm.
“Surely this is not jealousy, Robert?” she said, plaintively. “After
all our talks? After our mutual agreement upon that subject?”
“It’s all very well!” exclaimed Robert; “but if, under--our
circumstances, a woman doesn’t know what is due to the man she
professes to love, would you have him say nothing?”
“I would have him so trust the woman he professes to love that he
should feel jealousy an insult to her,” she returned, with lowered
eyelids.
Robert did not answer for a moment; when he spoke his voice was husky.
“You don’t understand,” he began, “how a man feels when----”
“When a woman spends half an hour in giving good advice to a boy?”
smiled Philippa. “Oh, Robert, don’t let us profane our love. Do let
us keep vulgar jealousy out of it. I want so much to make it a real
inspiration, an ennobling influence in our lives. Come, Robert! Be
good.”
The last words were uttered pleadingly, and he turned. She looked very
beautiful, with her face upraised to his, and moved by a sudden gust of
passion, Robert flung his arms round her and kissed her white throat.
* * * * *
An hour later, however, in spite of their reconciliation, Robert was
again moody and depressed. He pushed his tea-cup away from him, and
began to wander restlessly about the room, a sure sign with him of
mental perturbation. Philippa lay back in her low chair, and watched
him furtively. There was a certain exasperation in her face which,
if he had not been too preoccupied, Robert would have found easily
discernible.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with my work,” he was saying,
irritably. “The book’s not going a bit.”
“Not a bit,” agreed Philippa, with somewhat exasperating calm.
“What’s the reason?” demanded Robert, coming to an abrupt pause before
her chair.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Your dear public’s tired of that
particular mild blend, I suppose. You must mix something else. Give it
them stronger.”
Robert glanced at her. It struck him that her tone was not quite
sympathetic. Philippa had an occasional odd trick of dropping the
mystic for the pronouncedly colloquial turn of speech. “You speak as
though I were a tea merchant or a tobacconist,” he exclaimed.
“Don’t you wish you were?” she asked, stretching out her hand for a
cigarette.
“No,” returned Robert, shortly.
At times, also, Philippa was quite disconcertingly materialistic.
He never quite knew what to make of her at such moments. It was
such a curious lapse from her usual lofty standpoint. She saw his
bewilderment, and after a moment put out her hand to him.
“Dear, I know how it frets you as an artist, but, after all, even
artists must live. And to do that they must condescend to the stupid
multitude. Why not write a society novel, Robert?” She sat upright in
her chair. “With lots of titles, you know----”
“And the women spiteful enough,” put in Robert, with a short laugh.
“I’ve had that advice once to-day--from Lady Wilmot. I scarcely
expected it from you, Philippa.”
She rose, and began to put the tea-things together.
“You are unreasonable,” she began, coldly, after a slight pause. “First
you grumble because your book doesn’t suit the public, and then when I
suggest something that probably will, you turn upon me.”
He did not immediately reply, and when he spoke, Philippa recognized
with a flash of anger that he had not been attending to her words.
“Do you know that Cecily’s been writing a book?” he asked, suddenly.
“It’s to be out to-morrow.”
“Oh?” she returned, coldly. “What a lot of scribblers there are in the
world, to be sure.”
Robert felt annoyed. He parted coldly from Philippa, and taking a
hansom in the Brompton road, drove to his club. On the stairs he met
Travers, a friend of his. Travers looked perturbed and angry.
“Women are the very deuce!” he exclaimed, in reply to an interrogation.
“I agree,” said Robert, with fervor.