It was after dusk the following evening when Robert drove across town
from Liverpool Street.
He had telegraphed to one of the servants, who had lived with them
since their marriage, that he should return that evening, and as he
neared the desolate home he pictured, he was thinking drearily that
some settlement of the situation was inevitable. He had no hope of
Cecily. Rose had said so little that he had returned from his visit
to her more despondent than ever. She must be in Cecily’s confidence.
She knew Cecily’s attitude--and she had said nothing; given him no
comfort. The outlook was inexpressibly dreary. He longed for Cecily.
She was never out of his thoughts. She haunted his dreams--his
terrible, mocking dreams. In these nightly visions, he saw her over and
over again; in the garden at the Priory, walking bareheaded under the
trees, smiling as she ran towards him. Or he turned, to find her at the
door, her eyes full of laughter, her arms outstretched to him. Always
the radiant, happy Cecily of their early married life. And then the
waking--the heart-breaking return to reality; his shame, his bitter,
useless self-reproach.
Fool--fool that he had been! He writhed to recall his infatuation, and
all that it implied. He thought of it incessantly. He did no work. He
scarcely slept. He suffered as a highly-strung nature always suffers,
keenly, extravagantly--to the serious danger of health and sanity. When
she saw him at her country home, Rose had felt that poetic justice was
satisfied. Robert, in her opinion, and she was no lenient judge, had
borne enough.
He opened the door of the flat with his latch-key, and Smithers, the
parlor-maid, came running down the hall.
There was suppressed excitement in her demeanor, but he scarcely
noticed it, as he bade her good-evening, and put his wraps down on the
table. There were flowers in the hall. He noticed them, and thought
of Cecily. She always suggested flowers. She had a way of filling
every pot and pan in the house with them. He was passing the door of
her bedroom. It was ajar, and there was a light within--flickering
firelight. He wondered why--wondered with a pang at his heart. It
was cruel to light a fire in there, it made it seem so much as though
Cecily----
“Robin!”
He started violently, and felt the color die out of his face. His name
was repeated, the “little” name that Cecily had not used for years. He
pushed open the door.
His wife sat by the fire, looking back over her shoulder. She was in a
tea-gown of soft silk, which fell away from her arms. As he stood on
the threshold, she rose, smiling, as he had often dreamt he saw her,
and held her hands out towards him.
Somehow he stumbled to her, and fell on his knees at her feet.
She bent down to him, and stroked his hair.
“Robin, dear,” she said, gently, as a mother speaks to her child. “Oh,
Robin, what a thin little boy!”
He began to sob convulsively, like a child, and she put her arms round
him, and held him--in silence....
Presently he began to speak, pouring out his love and longing for her
in the old voluble, vehement fashion, accusing himself--praying for
forgiveness.
She sighed a little as she soothed him.
“But it _is_ all right, darling, isn’t it?” he said anxiously at
last. “Really all right, I mean?”
“Yes, Robin, we’re going to understand each other in future.”
“And you _do_ forgive me, Cis--for everything?”
“Yes, dear--hush! Don’t let us talk about it.”
“And you love me?” he urged, with the persistence of a child.
She hesitated, almost imperceptibly, before she assented.
“As you used to?” he asked, breathlessly. “In the old way? Just the
same?”
She looked at him with troubled eyes. “Robin, shall we begin by not
asking each other too many questions?”
The arms he had clasped round her dropped slowly. “Then you don’t!”
There was inexpressible disappointment in his tone.
“We can’t set the clock back,” said Cecily, at last, slowly. “I am a
different person now.”
He put his head on to her knee. “I want the old Cecily!” he cried.
Cecily’s eyes filled with tears. When he raised his head he saw them.
“You mean, I might have kept her? Do you mean that, Cis?”
She made a movement of distress. “Oh, Robert, don’t. Let us leave it.
We can’t wake the past. It is dead. Let us think of the future.”
“But it’s the past that _makes_ the future,” said Robert, drearily.
“Yes,” she admitted in sad agreement.
There was a silence. Cecily looked at the fire with eyes that he
watched hungrily.
“Cis!” he implored, presently, “say what you’re thinking! Don’t keep me
outside your thoughts. Why must things always be different?”
She looked at him wonderingly. “Why?” Was it impossible for him to
realize all that the years had done? She thought of the girl who had
married him, and contrasted her with the woman who sat here now, by the
fire, gently stroking the head against her knee. She could either have
laughed or cried aloud.
“Because I’m different,” was all she said. “I’ve learned things, and
one can’t do away with knowledge.”
“What have you learned?”
“For one thing, what most men mean by love.”
“You don’t doubt that I love you, Cis!” he begged, despairingly.
She hesitated. “It’s so difficult to say anything that won’t make you
think I’m really bitter and resentful in my heart,” she began. “And you
see, Robin, I’m not. If I were, you would have a better chance of--of
what you want me to feel. I didn’t want to discuss this, but you make
me.”
“It’s better,” he returned, in a dull voice. “I would rather. Let us at
least be honest with each other.”
She began to speak after a moment, hesitating a little, and feeling for
the words.
“You see, Robin, when I was lonely and sad, and you saw me every day,
I bored you. For nearly two years now you have seen very little of me.
I--they say I’ve got pretty again, and people--men like me, and pay me
attention, and all that. And now you are ‘in love’ with me again. Oh,
yes,” as he made a hurt, protesting sound, “I’m very willing to believe
it’s more than just that. But it’s difficult to forget--the other,
isn’t it?”
He bowed his head.
“I suppose I ought to have managed better,” she went on, musingly.
“But--in the old days, when we married, I never looked upon you as a
man to be ‘managed’ like the rest. It would have seemed to me like
insulting you--an insult to the love I thought you had for me.”
“Yes,” said Robert, humbly, “I know. I’ve laid myself open to that
reproach.”
She patted his hand softly.
“Marriage is a very difficult game to play, isn’t it?” she went on.
“And do you know, Robin, I’ve come to the conclusion that to play it
successfully the woman at least ought not to be in love. _Then_
she can ‘manage.’ Then she can play skillfully, and find her success
amusing. But suggest her methods to a girl in love, and she thinks them
degrading.” She smiled sadly. “Love is a horrid little god to woman,
Robin. He first robs her of her best weapon, her sense of humor, and
then, as the only method of restoring it to her--flies out of the
window.”
“Oh, Cis!” he sighed, “I’ve given you reason enough. But--I don’t offer
it as an excuse, but do you know, I wonder, how difficult it is for a
man----”
“To be what is called faithful?” she asked. “Yes, I think I do. And, if
_that_ were all, Robin---- It isn’t that exactly which shakes a
woman’s trust to the depths, and changes the world for her. It’s what
goes with it. The loss of all the other things at the same time. Her
husband’s consideration, his tenderness, his friendship. That these
should go too, when he’s ‘out of love,’ is what most women find so hard
to bear--so incomprehensible.... You see, since I’ve been able to think
dispassionately, I’ve tried to make it _my_ case. Men say ‘women
are so different.’ It’s a convenient phrase, but it isn’t true. You’d
be surprised to find how many women are remarkably like men in every
way. I’m one of them.” She paused. All at once she lived over again a
moment in the fierce Roman sunshine. “I can imagine myself tempted as
you were tempted,” she added, quietly.
“Tell me--what would you have done?” asked Robert, in a low voice.
“I think,” she said, rather huskily, “I should have remembered the
great love we had when we were married--and all the dear little
everyday things afterwards. I should have remembered that, at the
bottom of my heart, you were more to me, just because of those little
home things, than any other human being. I should”--her voice sank
lower--“I should have remembered our child. Ah!”--she drew in her
breath sharply--“but that’s different for me--I was her mother!”
Robert laid his cheek against her hand. “Anyhow,” she went on
presently, more calmly, “I would have fought with myself. I should have
been so afraid the new love would pass, and that then, when it was
gone, I might find I’d lost my first real treasure. But men never seem
to think of that. Perhaps they are greater gamblers than women. I don’t
know.” She shook her head quietly, her eyes looking far away.
“Cecily!” he implored. “Don’t say I’ve lost it. Oh, Cecily, love me
again!”
Her eyes, full of tears, met his. “You ask for something that’s gone,”
she said, miserably. “Dead roses are always dead roses. Not all our
tears will make them fresh again.”
There was a long silence. Presently he rose and began to walk up and
down the room.
“Why did you come back?” he asked at last, sharp pain in his voice.
She got up and went to him.
“I thought you wanted me.”
“Not if you no longer care.” His lips trembled.
She put both hands on his arm, and drew him to her.
“Robin, dear,” she whispered, “listen! There are different sorts
of love. It’s true--I can’t deny it--that I don’t feel in the old
way,--in the way I did when--when we first married. But all the same
you are more to me than any man in the world. Your troubles are my
troubles. I hate you to be unhappy. When Rose told me how ill you
looked, I wanted to fly all the way home, to look after you.” She
thought suddenly of the letter she had read in the hotel bedroom,
and was thankful to feel that she was speaking truth. “All that part
of my love has never failed. Do you know, Robin, when one has loved
very much, I believe one spins a sort of web, made up of a thousand,
thousand threads, binding one to the loved person? They are very
slight, but very strong. We can’t break them. I can’t break the threads
I spun round you. I have tried, but I can’t. Oh, Robin, don’t say I
oughtn’t to have come back!”
He laid his head on her breast with a touchingly helpless gesture.
“If you hadn’t come back I should have died,” he said. “I don’t deserve
anything, Cecily. But, oh, my dear, give me--as much--as you can.”
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.