“Come and take off your things,” suggested Cecily. Her tone indicated
that conversation henceforward was to be of a surface nature, and again
Rose understood.
While she took toilet things from her travelling-bag, and straightened
her hair, they talked of Cecily’s journeyings, of travelling
adventures, of the places she had visited--and later of Diana and her
love affairs.
“It will be all right, I think,” Cecily said, laughing a little. “Isn’t
she quaint about it, though? But he’s a nice boy.”
When they returned to the drawing-room, and Cecily had settled herself
into her favorite chair, she said, comfortably:
“There’s one good thing, we sha’n’t be disturbed this afternoon. No one
knows I’m home yet.”
“I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but every one knows!” exclaimed
Rose, laughing. “The day I had your telegram I happened to be in town
in the afternoon, and I met Lady Wilmot.” She paused dramatically.
Cecily groaned. “You told her, of course?”
“Yes. She came sailing across the road, panting for gossip, and
immediately asked after you, hoping for the worst in every feature.
I couldn’t resist disappointing her. Then she put on her face of
mystery--you know it, and began, ‘My dear, we must have a talk----’ Of
course I found I had to catch a train, and rushed off in the middle of
a sentence, leaving her palpitating like her own motor-car. She doesn’t
know the exact moment of your arrival, but you may be very sure she’ll
be round before long.”
“To see whether the situation lends itself to elaborate or simple
embroidery? She’s a real artist. _Have_ people been talking much?”
she added, after a moment. “But of course they have.”
“Privately, no doubt. That doesn’t matter. But, as far as I can
discover, there’s been quite a successful conspiracy of mutual
acceptance of Diana’s illness. The paragraphs about Dick have been
useful, too.”
“What sort of paragraphs?” asked Cecily, slowly.
“Oh, things like, ‘We learn that Mr. Richard Mayne, the distinguished
traveller and explorer, is engaged in active preparations for another
expedition into the interior of Central Africa,’ and so on.”
“Is Philippa married?” asked Cecily, suddenly.
“No--apparently not, though why she should hesitate to make a good
fellow unhappy, I don’t----”
Her words were cut short by the maid’s announcement of Lady Wilmot.
Rose and Cecily had barely time to exchange glances before she was upon
them, in emerald green brocade and feather trimming.
Like a Meredithian heroine she “swam” towards Cecily, whom she
voluminously embraced.
“Welcome home, my dear,” she cried, and added in a gloomy whisper, “but
why didn’t you come before? And where is Diana? And how, I should ask,
_is_ Diana?”
This, while she shook hands with Rose, was delivered with the air of
one who, while allowing herself for philanthropic purposes to have the
appearance of being deceived, wishes to remind the deceiver that she
possesses intelligence.
“Diana has just gone out. She is splendidly well now, I’m thankful to
say,” answered Cecily, smiling. “That’s why I was able to come home.
And I was so glad it was possible, when I heard from Rose last week
that it was poor Robert’s turn to look ill.”
Lady Wilmot looked at her fixedly before she dropped, with an
undeniable thud, into a neighboring chair.
Her expression demanded imperatively whether ignorance or duplicity
accounted for the remarks of her hostess.
Cecily was faintly amused. She found herself a little curious as to the
meaning of her guest’s portentous behavior, though her wonder was only
slightly stirred, after all. Her mind was full of other matters.
She put her hand on the bell.
“We’ll have tea at once,” she said.
Lady Wilmot stopped her with a commanding gesture.
“Where is Robert?” she demanded.
“At Aldeburgh,” returned Cecily. “He may be back to-day, though. He
doesn’t expect me quite so soon. I’m to be a surprise for him.” Her
smile this time was tinged with impatience. Lady Wilmot’s stare annoyed
her.
“Are you sure he’s at Aldeburgh?” she now inquired in a deep voice.
“Certainly,” said Cecily, rather stiffly.
Lady Wilmot settled her back more comfortably into the sofa cushions,
and metaphorically untied her bonnet-strings.
“My dear Cecily,” she began, “I know I may speak before Rose, and you
mustn’t be upset by anything I am going to say. Now Robert _has_
been in town lately, I hear.”
Cecily had risen, and was standing leaning against the mantelpiece,
looking down at her guest with a grave face, touched with involuntary
displeasure.
“Robert was here a week ago, I believe,” she said, coldly. “He came to
see to the opening of the flat, when the servants came back.”
“Precisely,” nodded Lady Wilmot. “Now, my dear Cecily, if you will
allow me to say so, you have made several grave mistakes in your
dealings with Robert. Oh, yes! I was prepared for a dignified
expression, and all that sort of thing. It’s just what a woman honestly
endeavoring to do her duty must of necessity expect.” At this point in
the monologue Rose somewhat hurriedly changed her seat to a position
from which her face was not visible to Lady Wilmot. “In the first
place,” pursued that lady, “what, in the name of foolishness, induced
you, as a married woman of some years’ standing, to allow Philippa
Burton to act as your husband’s secretary? In the second, how could
you have the stupidity to leave a man like Robert--or for that matter,
_any_ man--for three months? Men will be men, and we can’t stop
them. We can only be drags on the wheel. You should have stopped at
home, my dear, and been a drag. In the third----”
Cecily made an impatient movement. “I shall feel much obliged,
Lady Wilmot, if you will at once tell me why you have called this
afternoon,” she said, very coldly.
Lady Wilmot bridled.
“With pleasure,” she returned, quite truthfully. “This day week I was
driving past these flats on my way home from a bridge party. It was
twelve o’clock at night. Twelve o’clock, I know, because----” For a
moment or two Cecily lost the thread of Lady Wilmot’s recital. Her
attention was fixed upon something else. From her position by the
fireplace she commanded the room. Both the other women had their backs
turned towards the door; it was, therefore, only she who saw it quietly
open, and Philippa Burton appear on the threshold. As she entered, Lady
Wilmot was speaking her name....
“Twelve o’clock, when the hall door opened and Philippa Burton came
out. I watched her down the road from my carriage window. And now,” she
continued, half rising, “having done my duty by you, for which I shall
get, as I expected, little thanks, I shall go straight to the Neverns.
Gaby and fool as God knows Sammy Nevern to be, I have a respect for his
parents, and therefore----”
Again Cecily lost the thread of Lady Wilmot’s remarks, continued during
the occupation of hunting for a feather boa. Above the heads of the
two unconscious women in the room, the eyes of the other two met. In
Philippa’s there was agonized supplication.
Cecily never knew what prompted her next words. They rose to her lips
fluently, and apparently without volition. She was even startled as she
heard herself give them utterance.
“I have let you go on, Lady Wilmot,” she said in a voice drained of all
expression, “though you did not see that Miss Burton was in the room.”
Lady Wilmot turned as though a fog-signal had gone off under her chair.
Rose sprang to her feet, and moved nearer to Cecily.
“When I tell you that Miss Burton was here the other night at my
request,” Cecily went on in the same tone, “you will understand that
you have made a grave mistake.”
The faintest flicker of eyelashes was the only sign of surprise
which Rose allowed herself. She stood and waited, with an impassive
countenance, while Lady Wilmot gasped.
“At your request?” she stammered.
“Yes. Why not?” returned Cecily, her mind still working, as it seemed,
independently of her. “Miss Burton, as you know, was my husband’s
secretary up to the time we closed the flat. A few days ago he wrote
to me from Aldeburgh about a manuscript which he thought I had taken
abroad with me. I happened to know it was here. Naturally, as Miss
Burton knew all about his papers, I wrote to her to come and find it.
I don’t know why she should have chosen the late hour you mention,
certainly. That is her own affair. Probably she was busy earlier. In
any case, my husband was not in the flat at the time. As I tell you, he
wrote to me from Aldeburgh.”
Lady Wilmot finished patting her boa, and readjusted her veil, with an
assumption of calmness which Rose secretly admired.
“I’m sure I’m very sorry. Philippa, my dear, I must apologize.” She
held out her hand to Cecily. “And I’m quite sure neither of you young
people will bear me any malice,” she added, looking from one to
another. “You, my dear Cecily, will certainly appreciate the motive.”
“Perfectly,” said Cecily, gravely. “Rose, do you mind going to the door
with Lady Wilmot?”