Cynthia wrote to him to go to her.
The day was bright, and a promise of spring was in the air as he
journeyed down. Some of its brightness seemed to tinge his mood, and
he was conscious of a vague wonder at the pleasurable emotions that
stirred him as fields and hedgerows shot past.
She was on the platform awaiting him, though he had not telegraphed
the time of his arrival. He saw her at once, and was momentarily a
prey to misgivings. Her welcoming smile as they advanced towards each
other dissipated his dread. But it revived his embarrassment, and his
embarrassment appeared to her pitiable.
"I knew," she said frankly, "that you would come by this train."
She gave orders to a porter about the luggage, and Kent passed into
Monmouth by her side. He heard that her brother had come down to see
her, and was at the cottage now. Cæsar was having a holiday, and had
been spending a fortnight with his parents.
"He was going back this evening, but I made him stay till to-morrow.
Mrs. Evans found him a room a few doors off."
He understood that it was to lessen the awkwardness of the first
evening for him that she had detained her brother, and he was grateful
to her.
"You must know the place well by now?" he said, looking about him.
"Every inch, I think. It's so pretty. I'm sorry it isn't summer; you'd
see. We have a lot of artists then. I got rather chummy with two girls
painting here in the autumn; we used to go to tea at each other's
lodgings. I learnt a lot.... That's our house--the one at the corner.
There's Mrs. Evans at the gate. She calls you 'the master.' She hopes
the master will find her cooking good enough for him. For tea she's
made some hot cakes specially in your honour."
As they drew nearer, a nurse approached wheeling a child. He heard that
it was "Humphrey," and bent over the little fellow timidly. Cynthia
hung about them, praying that the boy would not cry. She asked him who
the gentleman was, and, having been repeatedly told that "papa was
coming," he answered "Papa!" Whereat she triumphed and the man was
pleased.
In the parlour, which struck Kent agreeably with its quiet,
old-fashioned air, the Right Hand of McCullough was perusing a
financial paper. He put it aside to greet Kent cordially. His presence
dominated the evening, and, in the knowledge that he was departing
early next day, Kent even found him amusing, though to be amusing was
not his aim. Ostensibly he had come to England on a financial mission,
and his vague allusions to it were weighted by several names of
European importance. Occasionally his attention wandered and he lapsed
into a brown study, obviously preoccupied by millions. For this he
apologised, in case it had been unnoticed, and rallied Cynthia on the
"yellow-backs" that were visible on the bookshelf.
"I'm afraid I see a lot of yellow-backs!" he said, lifting a playful
finger.
A novel, by a woman, of which _The Speaker_ had written that "it's
dialogue would move every literary artist to enthusiasm," lay on the
window-sill--Kent had already observed it with gratification--and
Cæsar acknowledged that he had read it. He conceded that it possessed
a "superficial smartness." "Superficial" was his latest word, and when
his discourse took a literary turn, his authoritative opinions were
peppered with it.
Kent's bedroom was furnished very plainly, but it was exquisitely neat.
His gaze rested with thankfulness on a large table, of a solidity that
seemed to promise that it would not wobble. Beside the blotting-pad
was an inkstand, of whose construction the primary object had been
that it should hold ink; a handful of early flowers was arranged in a
china bowl. There was a knot in his throat as he contemplated these
preparations--the more touching for their simplicity--and when he sat
down, the table confirmed its promise, and he found that the position
afforded him a view of a corner of the garden.
It was here that he worked.
By degrees the frankness of her manner became more spontaneous in
Cynthia, and his embarrassment in her society was sometimes forgotten.
They were, as she had promised, the best of friends. Their rambles
together had a charm which one associates with a honeymoon, but in
which their own honeymoon had been lacking. In these rambles Kent was
never bored; it appeared to him delightful to place himself in her
hands and be taken where she listed in the April twilight. To seek
shelter from showers in strange quarters was adventurous; and milk had
a piquancy drunk with Cynthia in farmyards. He signed the extension of
the Streatham agreement with gladness.
The alteration in her impressed him still more strongly now that he
had opportunities for studying it; and the gradual result of three
years, presenting itself to him as the fruit of ten months, was
startling. His wife had become a woman--in her tone, in her bearing,
in her comments, which often had a pungency, though they might not be
brilliant. She was a woman in the composure with which she ignored
their anomalous relations--a very fascinating woman withal, whose
composure, while it won his admiration, disturbed him too, as the weeks
went by. It was in moments difficult to identify her new personality
with the girl's whose love for him had been so constantly evident.
Among her other changes, had she grown to care less for him? He could
not be surprised if she had.
Shortly after his arrival, Messrs. Kynaston had begun to send his
proof-sheets, and in May _The Eye of the Beholder_ was published. In
the walk that they took after Cynthia had read it, she and Kent spoke
of little else. It had amazed him to perceive how eager he was to hear
her verdict, and at her first words, "I'm proud of you," the colour
rushed to his face. He would never have supposed that her approval
could excite him so much, or that her views would have such interest
for him. When the criticisms began to come in, it was delicious, as
they sat at breakfast, to open the yellow envelopes and devour the
long slips with their heads bent together; and then, after he had paid
a visit to the child, he would go up to his room and wish that the
corner of the garden that he overlooked contained the bench.
* * * * *
Despite the seven rejections, and the opinion of Messrs. Cousins'
reader that the construction rendered the novel hopeless, the
criticisms were magnificent. The more important the paper, the less
qualified was the praise. The lighter periodicals were sometimes a
little "superior," but the authoritative organs were earnest and
cordial, and in no less powerful a pronouncement than _The Spectator_'s
the construction was called "masterly." _The Saturday Review_ repeated
that Mr. Kent's style was admirable; and _The Athenæum_, and _The Daily
Chronicle_, and _The Times_, and every paper to which a novelist looks,
described him as a realist of a high order.
* * * * *
Delusions die hard, and the bitter reviewer, rending the talented young
author's book, is a companion myth to the sleepless editor poring
indefatigably over illegible manuscripts in quest of new talent. As
a matter of fact, it is only to his reviewers that the struggling
novelist ever owes a "thank you"; and Kent wrote with exultation and
confidence under the stimulus of the encouragement that he received.
_The Eye of the Beholder_ did not sell in thousands--you may lead
a donkey to good fiction, but you cannot make him read--but in a
moderate degree it was a success even with the public; and work had an
irresistible attraction in consequence.
Nevertheless, the question whether Cynthia's attitude was not perhaps
the one that had become most natural to her haunted Kent with growing
persistency. Had it been possible, he would have asked her. He found
himself wishful of a little tenderness from the woman who had once
wearied him--or from the woman who had sprung from her. She was
merciful, she was charming, she drew him towards her strongly; but
she talked to him as a sister might have done. The suggestion of a
honeymoon in their rambles now tantalised him by its illusiveness, and
he was piqued by the feeling that their intercourse was devoid even of
the incipient warmth of courtship.
It occurred to him that the book that he was writing might be dedicated
to her, and the idea pleased him vastly. It begot several other ideas
which he indulged. Roses were transferred from a shop-window to
Cynthia's bosom, and he sent to town for a story that she had said she
would like to read. Her surprise enchanted him, and he wished, as her
gaze rested on him, that he could surprise her oftener. The thought of
the evening to be passed beside her would come to him during the day,
and fill him with impatience to realise the picture again. Tea was no
sooner finished than they put on their hats, to wander where their
humour led them. Generally they returned at sunset; and sometimes they
returned under the stars. Supper would be awaiting them, and afterwards
they sat and talked--or dreamed, by the open window--until, all too
early, she gave him her hand and said "Good-night."
His heart followed her. Surely Kent comprehended that the feeling
that she awoke in him was more than admiration, more than pique, was
something infinitely different from the calm affection into which his
first fancy had subsided. He knew that the conditions that she had
imposed had aroused no ephemeral ardour, but had illumined in himself
as vividly as in her a development that possession had left obscure. He
knew he loved her--he loved her, and he was unworthy of her love. He
could not speak--that was for her--but his eyes besought, and the woman
read them. She made no sign. So speedily?--her pride forbade it. Her
manner towards him remained unchanged. But tenderness tugged at her
pride, and joy at what she read flooded her soul.
She would be contemptible to condone so soon, she told herself. He
would never know how he had made her suffer--never suspect how in
minutes the unutterable recollection that she had hidden for his sake
had wrenched and tortured her while she talked to him so easily; she
prayed that he never _might_ know! But to yield at his first sigh,
because he looked unhappy--how could she contemplate it?
Yet was his unhappiness her sole temptation? She trembled. Was she
despicable to long for his arm about her again? Was it degraded to feel
that even to-day----
In July Kent was lonelier than he had been hitherto. His wife could
seldom contrive to accompany him when he went out, and the excursions
were in any case curtailed. She seemed to care less for walking, and
there were little tiresome things that demanded her attention, or to
which, at least, she chose to give it. The child missed her, when he
woke at eight o'clock, if she was not at home to run in to him; she
wanted to practise on the wheezy piano; there was needle-work she was
compelled to do--always something!
The first time, Kent was merely disappointed, and came back early in
low spirits; but after the third of his solitary walks, misgivings
oppressed him with double weight. She was indifferent--no other
explanation was possible; she was indifferent, and no longer chose to
mask it!
"You're always busy," he told her at last. "I miss you dreadfully,
Cynthia. Is it so important that what you are doing should be gone on
with to-night?"
"I should like to finish it to-night," she said constrainedly--"yes.
I'm sorry you miss me, but the girl is clumsy with her needle; one
can't expect perfection."
"Yesterday something else prevented you. You have only been out with me
once this week."
"Surely more than that?" she said calmly; "twice, I think?"
"Once. You went with me on Tuesday. There's all day for the boy,
Cynthia; you might spare me the evening."
She bent lower over the pinafore, engrossed by it.
"It isn't only the boy, poor little chap! What a tyrant you'd make him
out! Yesterday I didn't feel like going; I was up to my eyes in a book."
Kent regarded her hungrily.
"I've very little claim on you, I know; but when I first came----"
"'Sh!" she said.... "What a mountain out of a molehill! If I haven't
been with you since Tuesday, we must have our walk together toil
morrow."
Kent found this very unsatisfactory. It was a concession, and he did
not seek her society as a concession. The walk, as usual latterly, was
short, and neither had the air of enjoying it very much. They roamed
along the dusty roads for the most part in silence, and for the rest
with platitudes. He could not avoid seeing that her companionship was
reluctantly accorded, and after their return, when she put out her hand
in the stereotyped "Good-night," he resolved not to beg her to go with
him any more.
He wasn't without a hope that, by refraining from the request, he might
move her to gratitude; but her avoidance of him did not diminish, and
when August came, he questioned whether he ought to leave her for a
while. The part that she had allotted to herself was plainly more than
she could sustain; to relieve her temporarily of his presence might be
the most considerate plan he could adopt? But the notion repelled him
violently. Though she was colder and ill at ease, she enchained him.
He had very little, and that little he was loath to lose. To look at
her across the room, unobserved, in their long pauses was not charged
with regret only--the bitterness had an indefinable joy as well; he
liked to note the effect of lamplight on her profile as she read, took
pleasure in her grace when she moved. To spare her what distress he
could, however, was his duty--yes, if she wished it, he would go! He
debated, where he sat smoking by the window one evening, whether she
would wish it if she knew how dear she had grown to him; whether if he
stammered to her something of his remorse----His pain had become almost
intolerable.
The hour was very still. In the west, on the faint azure, some smears
of flame colour lingered; then, while he stared out, faded, and hung
in the sky like curls of violet smoke. Over the myriad tints of green
came the low whinny of a horse. His wife sat sewing by the table, and,
turning, he watched the rhythmical movement of her hand. A passionate
longing assailed him to free his tongue from the weight that hampered
it and cry to her he loved her, though she might not care to hear. He
knocked the ashes from his pipe, and sauntered nearer.
"Aren't you going to smoke any more?" she said.
"Not now; I've been smoking all day."
"You should try to write without."
"I ought to--but I never could."
He touched the muslin on her lap diffidently--it _was_ on her lap.
"What are you making--another pinafore?"
"Yes. Do you think it's pretty?"
His hand lay close to her own; but she held the garment up to him, and
perforce he drew back.
It was not so easy to voice emotion as to feel it. Half an hour crept
away; shadows filled the room, and a grey peace brooded over the grass
outside. The tones deepened, and beyond a ridge of blackened boughs the
moon swam up. He decided that he would speak after supper. But after
supper, when she resumed her sewing, he felt that it would be useless.
He sat by the hearth, holding a paper that he did not read. Presently
the landlady was heard slipping the bolt in the passage, and Cynthia
pushed her basket from her, preparing to retire. With her change of
position, a reel escaped and rolled to the fender. Kent had not noticed
where it fell, but he became conscious, with a tremor, that she was
stooping by his side. In rising, it seemed to him that her figure
brushed his arm as if with a caress. She had drawn apart from him
before he could do more than wonder if it had been accidental, but now
he watched her with a curious intentness. She wandered about the room
a little aimlessly, righting a photograph, settling a flower in a glass
on the shelf. Having gathered up her work, she hesitated, and sought
some books; when she had chosen them, her arms were full and she could
not give him her hand.
But she did not say "Good-night," either. A she passed him on the
threshold, her face was lifted, and for a moment her gaze engulfed him.
When he dared to interpret it, Kent stole shakenly up the stairs. The
way was dark; but ahead--in a room of which the door had been left
ajar--his eager eyes saw Light.
THE END