She flew to the door, opened it, and felt herself caught in his arms.
'Robert, you are quite damp!' she said, fluttering and shrinking, for all her sweet habitual gravity of manner—was it the passion of that yearning embrace? 'Have you walked?'
'Yes. It is the dew on the common, I suppose. The grass was drenched.'
'Will you have some food? They can bring back the supper directly.'
'I don't want any food now,' he said, hanging up his hat. 'I got some lunch in town, and a cup of soup at Reading coming back. Perhaps you will give me some tea soon—not yet.'
He came up to her, pushing back the thick disordered locks of hair from his eyes with one hand, the other held out to her. As he came under the light of the hall lamp she was so startled by the gray pallor of the face that she caught hold of his outstretched hand with both hers. What she said he never knew—her look was enough. He put his arm round her, and as he opened the drawing-room door holding her pressed against him, she felt the desperate agitation in him penetrating, beating against an almost iron self-control of manner. He shut the door behind them.
'Robert, dear Robert!' she said, clinging to him, 'there is bad news,—tell me—there is something to tell me! Oh! what is it—what is it?'
It was almost like a child's wail. His brow contracted still more painfully.
'My darling,' he said; 'my darling—my dear dear wife!' and he bent his head down to her as she lay against his breast, kissing her hair with a passion of pity, of remorse, of tenderness, which seemed to rend his whole nature.
'Tell me—tell me—Robert!'