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!”