Part 52 (1/2)
In the afternoon he loitered about the Strand, looking at portraits in shop-windows and at the theatre-doors. Home was more, instead of less, repugnant to him. He wanted to postpone decision; but if he returned to Cecily, it would be necessary to say something, and in his present mood he would be sure to make matters worse, for he felt quarrelsome. How absurd it was for two people, just because they were married, to live perpetually within sight of each other! Wasn't it G.o.dwin who, on marrying, made an arrangement that he and his wife should inhabit separate abodes, and be together only when they wished? The only rational plan, that. Should he take train and go out of town for a few days? If only he had some one for company; but it was wearisome to spend the time in solitude.
To aggravate his dulness, the sky had clouded over, and presently it began to rain. He had no umbrella. Quite unable to determine whither he should go if he took a cab, he turned aside to the shelter of an archway. Some one was already standing there, but in his abstraction he did not know whether it was man or woman, until a little cough, twice or thrice repeated, made him turn his eyes. Then he saw that his companion was a girl of about five-and-twenty, with a pretty, good-natured face, which wore an embarra.s.sed smile. He gazed at her with a look of surprised recognition.
”Well, it really _is_ you!” she exclaimed, laughing and looking down.
”And it is really _you_!”
They shook hands, again examining each other.
”I thought you didn't mean to know me.”
”I hadn't once looked at you. But you have changed a good deal.”
”Not more than you have, I'm sure.”
”And what are you doing? You look much more cheerful than you used to.”
”I can't say the same of you.”
”Have you been in London all the time?”
”Oh no. Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and had a place there for nearly six months. But I got tired of it. In a few days I'm going to Brighton; I've got a place in a restaurant. Quite time, too; I've had nothing for seven weeks.”
”I've often thought about you,” said Elgar, after a pause.
”But you never came to see how I was getting on.”
”Oh, I supposed you were married long since.”
She laughed, and shook her head.
”You are, though, I suppose?” she asked.
”Not I!”
They talked with increasing friendliness until the rain stopped, then walked away together in the direction of the City.
About dinner-time, Cecily received a telegram. It was from her husband, and informed her that he had left town with a friend for a day or two.
This was the first instance of such a proceeding on Reuben's part. For a moment, it astonished her. Which of his friends could it be? But when the surprise had pa.s.sed, she reflected more on his reasons for absenting himself, and believed that she understood them. He wished to punish her; he thought she would be anxious about him, and so come to adopt a different demeanour when he returned. Ever so slight a suspicion of another kind occurred to her once or twice, but she had no difficulty in dismissing it. No; this was merely one of his tactics in the conflict that had begun between them.
And his absence was a relief. She too wanted to think for a while, undisturbed. When she had seen the child bed and asleep, she moved about the house with a strange sense of freedom, seeming to breathe more naturally than for several days. She went to the piano, and played some favourite pieces, among them one which she had learnt long ago in Paris. It gave her a curiously keen pleasure, like a revival of her girlhood; she lingered over it, and nursed the impression. Then she read a little--not continuously, but dipping into familiar books. It was holiday with her. And when she lay down to rest, the sense of being alone was still grateful. Sleep came very soon, and she did not stir till morning.
On the third day Elgar returned, at noon. She heard the cab that brought him. He lingered in the hall, opened the library door; then came to the drawing-room, humming an air. His look was as different as could be from that she had last seen on his face; he came towards her with his pleasantest smile, and first kissed her hand, then embraced her in the old way.
”You haven't been anxious about me, Ciss?”
”Not at all,” she replied quietly, rather permitting his caresses than encouraging them.
”Some one I hadn't met for several years. He was going down to Brighton, and persuaded me to accompany him. I didn't write because--well, I thought it would be better if we kept quite apart for a day or two. Things were getting wrong, weren't they?”