“This is only a tiny piece of it. Would you like to see the rest?” asked Cecily. “I could take you round before I go to see my dog. He’s ill, and I must make sure that they’re looking after him properly in the village. Will you come with me, or would you rather stay here and rest?”
“May I stay here?” begged Philippa. “You see I’m silly enough not to be very strong, and the walk here has tired me a little.”
“Certainly,” returned Cecily, rising, “if you don’t mind being left for half an hour, perhaps. He’s in one of the cottages in the village, near the vet, and I’m afraid it will take me all that time to get there and back. Robert will look after you. Will you come, Dick?” she added, turning to Mayne. “I’d like you to see how he is.”
He had already risen. “Of course. I meant to go,” he returned.
“Diana is cycling over to Silverleafe for me, if you want any letters taken to the post, Robert,” she turned to say, as she passed through the archway in the yew hedge.
Mayne followed her. She did not speak as they crossed the lawn. Her crisp blue dress rustled softly over the grass. Glancing down at her, he noticed her thin cheeks, the compression of her lips. She looked ill—almost old. A tumult of thoughts and emotions filled his mind, as he walked beside this woman from whom he had parted five years ago, feeling that with her he had lost all that made life worth living; its savour, its keenness, its delight. Five years had shown him that in a man’s life, at least, risks, excitements, hard work, and some hard fighting can so soften a woman’s image as to make it no longer a thing of torture. On his first return to England, two years after his departure, he had not seen Cecily. He could not trust himself to meet her calmly, and he would not meet her otherwise. Ten days ago, after a further absence of three years, he had accepted, with unfeigned pleasure, her husband’s cordial invitation. Though he could think of her now with equanimity as another man’s wife, nothing could alter his affection for Cecily, and he had looked forward to seeing her, undismayed by the prospect of witnessing domestic bliss.
To-day, as he walked in silence at her side, old emotions stirred. He was glad of the safety-valve of anger. That Kingslake had met more than once the woman they had just left with him, he had been pretty well assured, even before he saw them together.
“Emotional fool,” indicated his summing-up of Robert’s attitude in her presence. Did Cecily guess? Had she left them together in bitter acquiescence? He glanced down at her again, but her quiet face baffled him. One other question insistently pursued him. Had Kingslake’s invitation to him been premeditated? Was it possible that—— A dark flush rose to his face. Then, suddenly, as though recollecting herself, Cecily began to talk. She talked recklessly, gayly, about anything, about nothing. He did not listen; he was thinking of her as she had appeared ever since he came to the house—desperately anxious to save appearances—never once naturally, quietly happy as he had imagined her, as he had come to be glad to think he would find her.
They went into the cottage and looked at the dog. All the time he was feeling the chest and the limbs of the sick spaniel, Mayne was determining to break down the barrier of convention which she had put up between them. He would at least talk to her. She looked like a woman drowning. He would not allow her to drown without a word. “Better; he’s much better, poor little chap,” he said, getting up from his knees.
Cecily fondled and patted the silken head, which was eagerly stretched out of the basket on her approach. The sound of her caressing voice shook Mayne’s composure. He remembered the baby she had lost, and with the memory came a flood of wild thoughts and wilder regrets. He moved abruptly to the door, where, on escaping from the garrulous old woman who owned the cottage, Cecily presently joined him.