"Will you do that for me?" she asked.
"If you wish it."
"Thank you very much. Now I think I shall go to sleep."
I went downstairs and led O'Rane to the far end of the library. He
stood with his hands in his pockets and his back to the fire, rocking in
his old way from heel to toe.
"Have you read it?" he asked me, when I had explained his wife's
request.
"Yes."
He held out his hand for the papers.
"And you remember everything she said?"
"Pretty well."
He rocked in silence for a moment and then smiled whimsically.
"I suppose you could--forget it, if you tried?" he suggested. "Perhaps
it would help you to forget it, if we got rid of this. I usually burn
myself when I start playing with fire; perhaps you wouldn't mind putting
this in. Don't set the chimney alight, will you?"
5
The next morning I again mounted guard, while Lady Loring rested. We had
agreed that, if no change for the worse shewed itself, it would be quite
unnecessary to continue this day and night attendance. Physically Sonia
was quite normal, but her nerves were unstrung, and for a time it had
certainly looked as if hysteria might develop into something graver. Two
nights' untroubled sleep, the belated recognition that she was among
friends and, most of all, the relief of confession had braced her and
built up her self-respect. When I went in to see her she was still a
little defiant, but it was the defiance of courage.
"Is David here?" was her first question.
"He went back to Loring House when he'd finished his packing," I
answered.
Sonia looked at me in silence, and her eyes narrowed.
"Oh! So _that's_ it," she murmured at length.
"What is what?" I asked.
She sighed carelessly.
"You were right, and he was wrong, that's all. I was right too.... I
knew that, when I left this house, I'd left David for good; if I hadn't
known it then, I knew it when--when we came here that night and he
offered to drop the divorce if I'd leave--you remember? He thought he
was somehow so different from other men.... What did he actually say?"
"He didn't say anything, Sonia. I think you're on the wrong tack. He
just asked if I'd read the letter and if I remembered it. I said 'Yes.'
Then he smiled and begged me to forget it."
"But didn't you read it to him?"
"He asked me to burn it."
She looked at me for some moments without understanding, then pulled
herself lower into the bed and half turned away, shading her eyes with
her hand. I walked to the window and gave her nearly a quarter of an
hour to order her thoughts. At the end I asked her why she had written
the letter.
"I felt I owed it to him," she said slowly. "I don't regret it, though I
suppose it's a selfish sort of gratification.... If he'd left me alone,
I should have said nothing, but when he went out of his way to have me
brought here and looked after.... I--suppose it's very magnanimous to
burn a letter of that kind without reading it, but I'd sooner have had
him read it. If he comes here, I shall have to tell him ... at least
that I'm going to have a child. Please don't think that I'm running away
from what I've done. I'm not trying to work on his feelings, I'm not
trying to make him take me back; I couldn't go back, if he begged me, if
his life depended on it."
"Then it doesn't matter much whether he reads the letter or not."
Sonia nodded slowly.
"I must see David, though."
"It will upset you without doing him any good."
She bit her lip to steady herself.
"Perhaps it will cure him," she suggested.
I was not present when they met; I do not even know how long they were
together. Sometime before dinner O'Rane came into the library and sat
down in front of the fire without speaking. From his haggard face I
guessed that he had been taken as much by surprise as any of us. During
dinner he roused himself with an effort, and I remember that we
discussed the coming unrestricted submarine campaign, the danger of
starvation, the inadequacy of our food control and the likelihood of
finding America ranged on our side in the war. We talked very
earnestly--I believe, very intelligently,--as though we had a critical
audience and were shewing our best form; but it was wonderfully
unengrossing.
"It's just a year since I was in America," I remember beginning in
preface to some new argument.
"I say--she told you everything, didn't she?" O'Rane interrupted.
"Yes."
He forced a smile.
"It rather--brings it home to one, doesn't it?"
"And yet--is this any worse for you than when they were living
together?"
"I was really not thinking of myself for the moment. My God, Stornaway,
if you were a woman and hated a man as she hates Grayle, how would you
like to be feeling that he'd had anything to do with your child, how'd
you like to go through all this hell of childbirth to bear _him_, a
child? All your life, even if you came to love it or at least to be kind
to it, you'd always be reminded, wouldn't you? You'd trace a likeness,
it would seem to get stronger and stronger.... I wonder what we should
do?"
"I imagine most women would try to stop the child being born."
O'Rane looked up quickly.
"Sonia wouldn't."
"Then I'm afraid she's got to accept this as her punishment."
"Hers?" he murmured.
I made no answer, but my mind went back to the luncheon at Crowley
Court, when Roger Dainton sat with drooping mouth and troubled brown
eyes, wondering if he had heard aright that his own daughter was likely
to be divorced, waiting to wake up from the bad dream. And I remembered
Lady Dainton. She had an adequate allowance of maternal feeling, I doubt
not, but on that day she was less moved by Sonia's plight than by a
sense of social failure, of a rare and delicate instrument broken--as if
after twenty years' training the hand of the violinist was become
paralysed.
"It's a bit one-sided, isn't it?" suggested O'Rane quietly.
I still said nothing. Grayle was being punished in the one part of him
that I knew to be capable of feeling, but perhaps the punishment did not
stop there. For all I could tell he might in time know a pang of desire
to see his own child. O'Rane's black eyes were sunk low in their
sockets.
"It's damnably all-embracing," I said.
He pushed his chair back and returned to the fire, where he threw
himself on a sofa.
"D'you know where George is dining to-night?" he asked. "I want to talk
to him.... I suppose you think me a great fool, Stornaway, for not
seeing it before. I loved her so much, I love her so much still....
Anyone can manage a boat when the water's calm, it wouldn't have
required much love just to live with Sonia while everything was sunny,
but I was prepared to do so much more.... When I went down to Melton the
night after she left me, I set my teeth and told myself that I must keep
my head. I knew it wasn't a trifle, like a fit of bad temper, I knew it
was a very big thing she'd done. And I haven't much use for the kind of
man who blindly protests beforehand that he'll forgive his wife whatever
she may do.... It isn't love, it isn't generosity; it's just dam' folly.
But I did feel that my love for Sonia would be a poor, cold thing, if it
only lasted while everything was going well, if it wasn't strong enough
to live through a bad storm. You won't exactly have to strain yourself
to imagine what it was like thinking of her with Grayle.... I don't know
that I can explain, it's all the little things, the little personal
touches that I missed--even without being able to see her. She was such
fun, she always enjoyed life and got so much out of it; she made a story
out of everything and she loved telling me everything she'd been doing
and she knew I loved hearing about it. I missed that frightfully when I
was alone at Melton, before she left me; I used to feel quite jealous
when I thought of her going about with other people, being a success,
when I wasn't there to hear about it afterwards. But I always knew that
I should be with her again in a few months. Well, I felt that my love
for her would be just like other people's love, if I didn't first of all
mind like hell and then recognise that in _spite_ of it all, in _spite_
of it all.... You saw me trying to get her away from him--for her own
sake; it honestly was; I tried to keep myself in the background. You
know I always hoped she'd come back. But now...."
He drew his legs up under him and sat with his chin on his fists.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"That's what I wanted to see George about. She must have the house as
long as she wants it, and I'll try to persuade Violet to come and look
after her regularly when the time draws near. Then if she'd like to go
on living here.... You see, there's rather an important money question.
I've got the freehold, so there's no rent to pay, but Bertrand runs the
place. He won't stay on with her and without me, and I doubt if we can
afford the upkeep by ourselves. I shall make myself responsible for
Sonia, of course, but we shall have to cut things pretty fine. George is
my trustee, and I wanted to discuss it with him.... As regards the
child...." He paused, and I could see him furtively moistening his lips.
"Something's got to be done about that. It _will_ be Sonia's child, and,
whoever else is to blame, the kid mustn't suffer. If I make George
trustee of a fund.... That gives him an official status, you see; he'd
have a voice in the upbringing of the child, the education--I don't
trust a woman by herself----"
"Are you--recognising the child?" I asked.
"Certainly." He smiled for the first time. "Poor little devil! it will
have as much right to my name as I have. I daresay you know that my
father ran away with someone else's wife? Ever since the smash came--I'd
never thought of it before--I've been wondering how the other man felt.
Fellow called Raynter--he was at the Legation at Berne. My father ran
away with her, and Raynter wouldn't divorce her.... I've never precisely
_liked_ being illegitimate, because it seemed a reflection on my father,
but I always used to think there was a certain amount of romance about
the whole thing.... Bertrand knew my mother; he says she was one of the
most beautiful women in Europe; my father loved her and they were
frightfully happy for the little time that they lived together before I
was born. I--I thought it was very fine and plucky of them.... But
lately I've been wondering what Raynter thought of it all, what kind of
life _he_ had. I believe he loved my mother too, and it killed her when
I was born. I wonder what he thought of the man who'd killed his
wife.... I suppose you never met him in your diplomatic wanderings?"
"No. He left the service immediately after what you've been describing."
"What happened to him?"
"I believe he took to drink," I said.
O'Rane made a sound of disgust.
"But perhaps it's just because it doesn't appeal to me ..." he
apologised. "I certainly did hope to be finished off in France after I'd
lost my sight, but there's such a tenacity about life. I'm glad I pulled
through, even to be where I am and as I am now. Yes, I've been feeling
that there may be rather more to say for Raynter and--I suppose--rather
less--for my father."
He fell to musing, and I smoked in silence until George came in. Then we
had the discussion re-opened; Bertrand returned from the House at
eleven, and I heard it a third time. If O'Rane hoped for advice or
comfort, I am afraid he did not get it, though Bertrand did indeed tell
him bluntly that he was burdening himself needlessly.
"I could have got rid of it all by divorcing her," was the only answer.
"You're not responsible for the child."
"Somebody's got to be."
Bertrand sighed and held his peace, while George and O'Rane talked in
undertones.
"What are you going to do yourself?" I asked.
"I've hardly thought. You see, until four hours ago I'd always
contemplated having Sonia as--as part of my life. I've got to think
things out afresh.... But there's plenty of time. For the present, of
course, I'm going back to Melton. To-morrow."
"Have you said good-bye to Sonia?" George enquired. "I mean, have I got
to explain all this to her?"
O'Rane hesitated in doubt.
"I'm not quite sure. You see, she said she wanted to tell me something,
and I went in, and then she told me that she was going to have a child.
I can't say if I _shewed_ anything--more than surprise, I mean. I
said--I really don't know what I _did_ say. We talked about how she was,
and I said I hoped she was better, and was there anything that she
wanted? And she asked me when I was going back to Melton.... I told her
to let me know if there was anything I could do.... We didn't take any
formal farewell, but I came away as soon as I could, we weren't either
of us enjoying it very much."
"You gather that she proposes to stay here?"
"I think so. And I should tell anyone who asks. This is the natural
place for her to be, her friends may as well come to see her. I shall
get over to Crowley Court as soon as I can and tell her parents ... and
I think the best thing I can do is to find work of some kind abroad.
We've thrown dust in everyone's eyes for fairly long, but it can't go on
indefinitely, if she's living here and I never come near the place ... I
don't know yet; I haven't had time to think. I never thought that her
having a child by someone else could suddenly make all the difference,
but it has. I'm not _angry_ with her, or _aggrieved_, or anything of
that kind, but I've just discovered that she doesn't belong to me any
more. I'd still do anything she asked me to do, but something's been
killed, something's been taken away.... If only someone else were going
to benefit by it! I believe I could forgive Grayle, if he'd proved that
he was making her happier than I'd done.... We haven't made much of a
success, have we?"
He smiled wistfully, and his face looked suddenly older, as if the
accumulated strain of years had exhausted him. Bertrand took his arm and
told him to go to bed. George and I got off our chairs and waited
without knowing what to do.
"Is Violet on duty?" he asked. "If you're all going up, I'll come with
you and see if Sonia wants anything."
The bedroom door was ajar, and I saw Lady Loring reading a book. She
raised one finger warningly, as O'Rane came into the room; then
remembered that he could not see the signal and touched his wrist.
"Is she asleep?" he whispered.
"Yes."
He felt his way to the bed and ran one hand lightly over the blankets
until it reached the pillow. Then he bent slowly forward, listening to
his own breathing, and kissed his wife on the forehead.
"You'll look after her well, won't you, Violet?" he said, as they came
to the door.
"Trust me, David," she whispered. "I'll do all I can, and we'll get in a
regular nurse to-morrow."
It may have been fatigue, but I thought that she was looking worried.
"You told me this morning," I said, "that a nurse wasn't necessary any
more for the present."
"I didn't think so--then, but she's not quite so well to-night. We
mustn't talk here, or we shall wake her. You didn't say anything to
upset her, did you, David?"
"I hope not. What's been the matter?"
We came into the passage, and George and Bertrand considerately
whispered good-night and left us. I would have gone, too, but O'Rane had
slipped his arm through mine.
"She's so nervous and fanciful," Lady Loring explained, "that she makes
herself quite ill. I suppose, never having been through it before....
To-night she was quite ridiculous. Didn't it sometimes happen in bad
cases that the mother or the child had to be sacrificed? Well, what
happened then? And who decided? She worked herself up into the most
pitiful state, imagining herself unconscious and at the mercy of a mere
brutal man, who could order her to be killed." Lady Loring looked
through the open door and smiled compassionately. "She's so afraid of
dying, David, that it never occurs to her that this sort of thing is
happening every hour of the day and that it's the _exception_ for
anything to go wrong. I don't quite know what to do about her...."
O'Rane stood for a moment without speaking; then he disengaged his arm
and said good-night to us. I heard him busying himself in the library
for a few minutes; the front door closed gently, and I caught the sound
of footsteps, as he walked away. The next morning he telephoned to ask
how his wife was. In the afternoon he called with a cab for his luggage
and drove to Waterloo without coming into the house.