IV

The songs followed one another quickly. There was no time for

conversation in between. Now and then, Sophy glanced at Amaldi. "If I

were a Roman Catholic and he were a priest," she thought oddly, "I could

confess anything to him." Then she smiled, her eyes on the open mouth of

the singer. That had been such a queer thought! Amaldi looked so little

like a priest. Rather as if he might make an impetuous soldier. Yes--one

of those young, fierce soldiers of the _Risorgimento_. With her quick,

visualising fancy, she tried to place him in his proper setting--as a

child. What sort of home had he lived in as a child? What sort of

countryside held his dearest memories as "Sweet-Waters" held hers? Como?

Had he lived in a beautiful old villa on Como? Had he played with the

little peasants of Cadenabbia? She saw the lovely lake floating purplish

blue before her--the dull silver of snow-peaks. Amaldi as a brown-legged

boy wrestling with the little villagers--swimming naked with them in the

purplish water like a little brown fish.

Suddenly Olive leaned over and whispered:

"This is getting dreadfully dull and stuffy. Don't you think so? Jean

won't sing any more. Do come with me. I'm going on to Kitty Illingham's

ball."

Without waiting for Sophy to answer, she said to Varesca:

"_Do_ help me to persuade her--you and Amaldi."

Varesca obediently began to gush forth entreaties. Amaldi said nothing.

She had not yet heard the sound of his voice. But his eyes said: "Please

come."

"Very well," said Sophy to Olive.

When she entered the ballroom, she felt, rather than saw, people turning

to look after her. She had the oddest feeling of being glad that she was

tall--that there was so much of her to feel that keen flame of life that

had sprung up so suddenly within her.

A woman who admired her said to a man:

"Do look at Sophy Chesney! It does her good to be immured by her ogre.

She's simply ablaze, to-night!"

The man said:

"I know she's been called the most beautiful American in England. But I

never thought so till to-night."

Sophy herself wondered if this queer, super-vitalised sensation that she

had was happiness. She could not tell. She was only one throb of

exultation at being alive.

A voice spoke close beside her.

"Will you dance this with me?" Amaldi was asking.

And as she moved off with him, it seemed as if they had often danced

together before.

When they stopped they found themselves near the conservatory.

"Let us sit in there a while," she said.

They sat down near a bank of gardenias, and Amaldi fanned her with her

fan of white peacock feathers.

"You're not afraid to use peacock's feathers?" he asked, smiling. "In

Italy we are superstitious about them."

She answered, smiling also: "I have my full share of superstition, but

not about things like that. Are you really afraid of peacock's

feathers?"

"No; but my mother wouldn't have one near her for worlds. She says that

she has added all the Italian superstitions to the American ones."

"Is your mother an American?" said Sophy, surprised and pleased at this

idea. If Amaldi's mother was an American, that would account in a great

measure, she thought, for her feeling towards him--that odd feeling of

having known him before.

"Yes," Amaldi was saying. "I am half American through my mother. She was

a Miss Brainton."

"I am an American," said Sophy; "a Virginian. My name was Sophy

Taliaferro. And that's odd"--she broke off, realising that her maiden

name was probably of Italian origin--"because, though it's pronounced

'Tolliver,' it's spelt 'Taliaferro.' I never really thought of it

before--but the first Taliaferro must have been an Italian!"

"Why, yes," said Amaldi eagerly, "There is a Tagliaferro family in

Italy."

"So you're half American and I'm half Italian," she went on, looking at

him pleasedly out of her candid eyes. "Such coincidences _are_ strange,

aren't they?"

"They're very delightful," said Amaldi, in a voice as frank as her look.

He was thinking: "You are the woman I have imagined all my life. It

seems very wonderful that you should have Italian blood."

Sophy liked this frank voice of his and the clear look in his eyes so

much that she gave way to impulse.

"It seems to me," she said with the smile that he was beginning to watch

for, "that Fate means us to become friends."

Amaldi thought: "And there is something of the child in you that makes

me worship."

He said a little formally, but with feeling:

"I should consider that the greatest honour that could come to me." Then

he added, also under impulse: "Since you're so kind, I'd like to confess

something. May I?"

"Yes--do!" said Sophy, still smiling.

"It is this: When Varesca introduced me to you this evening, I had the

feeling of having known you before. Strange, wasn't it?"

She was looking at him, her lips parted. She hesitated an instant, then

said:

"It was even stranger than you know--because I, too, had that feeling

about you. Such things almost make one believe in the old Hindu ideas.

Perhaps in some other world and age we have been friends already. It's

really very mysterious...."

"But, after all," said Amaldi, "mystery is what makes life worth while."

"I know," she said; "yet people are always trying to solve it...."

"Yes; that's one of its chief uses, I suppose--but not its end."

Sophy looked at him, interested.

"What do you think its end is?" she asked.

"Itself," he answered. He went on in a lighter tone: "The destiny of the

Churchly God has always seemed so dreary to me. Think of it! A supremely

well-informed Supreme Man--for whom there could be no mystery. An

immortality of sound information that couldn't be added to or subtracted

from!"

"We really couldn't help being friends, you know!" said Sophy, smiling.

"You must come to see me. My husband is not very well--so I don't give

dinners or parties or go out much myself. But I like to have my friends

come to see me."

Amaldi thought:

"You have the most beautiful heart, and I don't misunderstand it. It is

full only of kindness. I shall suffer ... _ma ciao!_"

"_Ciao_" is Milanese, and it means many things.

V

It was four o'clock when Sophy and Mrs. Arundel left the ball. Olive

would not hear of her taking a cab, but sent her home in her own

carriage. As she rolled through the empty streets, above which the dawn

was beginning to quicken, Sophy had a queer feeling of driving through

the echoing halls of a vast and sinister house from which the roof had

been lifted.

Above Regent's Park a late moon hung bleak and glassy. It shone with

that wan glare as of a planet sick to death. Richard Burton's line about

the moon occurred to her: "A corpse upon the way of night." The reaction

of her extraordinary exhilaration of the early evening was upon her. All

about her seemed eldritch, sinister. Even the sparrows, the town's

familiars, the excellent, shrewd gossips of the pavement, seemed unlike

real birds.

When she entered her own hall, the sight of the pallid, heavy-eyed

footman who admitted her distressed her still further. She hated

servants to have to wait up for her. She always gave Tilda strict orders

to go to bed.

The footman lighted and gave her her bedroom candle. Chesney disliked

gas to burn all night.

"Good-night, William. I'm afraid you are very tired," said Sophy.

"Not at all, madam," said William politely. His tone suggested that he

really preferred taking his rest on a hard hall-chair with an hour's nap

in bed before rising at six o'clock.

Sophy sighed as she went upstairs. All her exultant feeling of the

evening had been only another illusion. The time was out of joint again.

As she passed Chesney's door, a thick, heavy smell of lamp-smoke made

her turn. She tried the knob softly. The door opened, and the nauseous

smell flooded her. Yes; he had gone to sleep still poring over that

odious book. The lamp, almost burnt out, was sending up a thick,

brownish smoke--the wick, barely moist with oil, was fringed with little

mushrooms of fire. Sophy extinguished the lamp and stood gazing down at

her husband. He had been a magnificent looking man, three years ago. He

was still handsome, but in the way that a fine stallion is still

handsome when its withers and back begin to sink. It was as if he were

sinking in on himself--as if the great muscles and sinews were relaxing

like elastic that has been over-used. Holding the candle closer, Sophy

gazed and gazed at him. It was as if she were gazing at a stranger.

There was a fine spangling of sweat on his broad forehead; as he

breathed his lips puffed in and out. They looked dry and cracked. He

slept heavily, as though his veins held lead, as though his limbs were

weighted. The solid heaviness of his sleep struck her as appalling. And,

suddenly, what Olive had told her rushed over her again. Standing

motionless, her eyes took frightened scurries about the room, over the

bed, the dressing-table, the little stand that supported the lamp. A

glass and bottle that had held cognac stood empty. She bent closer--then

suddenly drew back ashamed. She was not like Psyche spying on Love with

her candle; but a woman gazing at defenceless sensuality--at the

degraded body that had once housed love. An immense pity came over her.

She felt that she had been guilty towards him--guilty of staring at his

bare degradation with calm eyes while he lay unconscious. She was not

being his wife but a cold critic. And perhaps--perhaps, it was only she

who could save him, who could restore to him his real self.

Setting down her candle, she drew away the obscene book from under his

heavy hands, closed it, and laid it to one side. He did not stir or

mutter. Then she knelt down beside him, hiding her face against the bed.

She wished to pray for him and for herself. But her thoughts scattered,

whirled with the coiling sparkles against her closed eyelids.

"Mystery ... Mystery ... Mystery ..." This word kept beating through her

mind. Yes; it was all mysterious--pain, joy, illness, health, goodness,

vice--even love. But love was the greatest mystery of all. Whence did it

come, and whither go? Where was her love for Cecil?

"Mystery ... Mystery ... Mystery."

When she reached her own bedroom, and found herself once more alone,

that overkeyed, excited feeling came back upon her. She glanced at the

bed with distaste. It was impossible to think of stretching her limbs

out calmly and resting her head on a pillow. She went from one window to

the other, drawing back the curtains. Her room was a corner one and

looked south and east. The sun was now rising. The whole lower heaven

was covered by a dull-red down of cloudlets. It looked softly convex

above the quiet tops of the trees, like the breast of a vast bird.

Somewhere, far above, out of sight in the pale-grey vault of air, she

fancied its golden crest and beak, darting among the stars, that were as

little, shining gnats to it. She went and glanced at her watch which

Tilda had placed on the table beside her bed. A quarter to five. She

would wait until a quarter past, then she would ring up the butler (he,

at least, had had a night's rest) and order her horse.

As the sun rose higher, a thin white mist began to coil softly like

steam among the trees of Regent's Park. At five minutes to six she was

mounted. The brown gelding seemed as glad to be abroad as she was. He

_quhirred_ with pleasure and good spirits at every step. She loved the

creaking of the saddle, and the massive satin of his shoulders as each

step sent the great joint in rotary motion, making a shining ripple

along the sleek hide. She felt all lifted up high above the normal

griefs and trials of life. As she galloped to and fro, she thought of

Amaldi, and recalled her presentiment of something important about to

happen to her last evening. Had it happened? Was her meeting with Amaldi

an important thing? Perhaps his friendship was to prove vital. He, too,

had known unhappiness--of that she was certain. She thought of her

fancying how, if he were a priest, she could confess anything to him. It

came to her suddenly that it was because he would be sure to

understand--even things alien to his own nature.

* * * * *

She did not see her husband that day. He sent word that he had waked

feeling badly and would "sleep it off." Towards evening, when she wished

to go to him, his man told her that he was still sleeping. She went to

bed herself without seeing him. The next morning again he sent word that

he felt better, but would not be up till after luncheon and wished to be

left quiet. This made her uneasy; she would have liked to go to him in

spite of his wish, but she dared not. Such intrusions only made him

furious.

As she had some shopping to do for the baby, she spent the early

afternoon in this manner. When she returned and went to her

writing-room, a gay little apartment looking out on the small garden,

she found Cecil lounging there in one of the easy-chairs. As soon as she

glanced at him she saw that he had what she called his "good" look--that

is, his face was quiet and rather pale, and his mouth and eyes gentle.

He gave a rather embarrassed smile as she entered, lifting one shoulder

slightly in a way he had when nervously self-conscious. She knew that he

was repentant for the way that he had behaved to her on Thursday

evening, and would tell her so.

She went up to him, laid one hand on his hair and kissed his forehead.

He put up his hand and patted hers softly.

"So you're all right again? I'm so glad," she said, taking a chair in

front of him. "I was worried about you yesterday."

"Yes. I had a devilish time," he said. As he spoke, he blew a cloud of

cigarette smoke that half veiled his face from her, and again he smiled

in that half-sheepish way. This smile always roused in Sophy a feeling

mingled of tenderness and irritation. She sat watching him smoke for a

few moments without saying anything more. He always seemed to her to

smoke feverishly, avidly, as if the cigarette were a sort of food and he

very hungry. His cigarettes were enormous, made to order for him. He

smoked without a holder, down to the very end. She thought that it must

be bad for him to smoke so fast, and such quantities of these huge

cigarettes. But she dared not say anything. A word only was sufficient

to throw him from a "good" mood into a "bad" one.

He broke the silence himself.

"I say, Daphne," he blurted suddenly. "I was a beast to you the other

night. Beg pardon."

Sophy looked at him consideringly without replying. Somehow this casual

apology roused anew all the feeling of outraged anger that she had then

felt. She hated, too, for him to call her "Daphne" on these occasions.

It seemed such a cheap sentimentality. He had given her the name of

"Daphne" in their sweetheart days, because of that book of verse which

she had written at twenty-one, and which had brought her a momentary

fame.

"Going to sulk a bit--eh?" he now asked, with that self-conscious,

conciliatory little grin of his.

"No; it isn't sulkiness," said Sophy. "I'm only wondering how much you

really care?"

"I care a deuce of a lot, Daphne. 'Pon my soul I do."

"And you think such things as you said and--and did to me, the other

night, can be made all right by a 'beg pardon'?"

Chesney moved uneasily. His eyes slipped from under hers. He lit another

cigarette with elaborate care.

"Look here, Daphne," he said in a would-be bluff, frank tone. "What

_did_ I say ... and do? You know I get confoundedly blurry sometimes,

when one of these beastly attacks is coming on."

"You really don't remember?" Sophy asked, looking at him keenly. She saw

a slow red cloud his pale face.

"Well ... I've a hazy notion that I went for Gerald ... about those

pearls. Nasty things!" he broke off viciously. "Mere pretty

diseases--tumours--you know I loathe 'em."

Sophy had wondered many times what had become of her pearls after he had

strewn the floor with them. She said now:

"What have you done with them, Cecil?"

His shoulder went up crossly.

"Oh, they're safe enough," he said grudgingly. "I'll have 'em strung

over for you. Counted 'em this morning. They're all there. So you

haven't got _that_ against me."

Sophy sat looking down at her hands, and turning her wedding ring slowly

round and round. She had never thought that she could come to hate an

inanimate object as fiercely as she sometimes hated her wedding ring.

But to-day she did not hate it. It seemed a dreary little symbol of a

dreary fact that must be borne somehow, that was all. Suddenly she

lifted her eyes to his.

"I don't harbour things 'against you,' Cecil," she said. "The pearls

were the least of it all. It was the way you spoke of Gerald and that

... that loathsome book." Her look grew suddenly impassioned with

resentment. "Why should you wish to show me such a thing?" she asked

very low, and her voice trembled.

Chesney was deeply embarrassed again. He looked away from her, and that

slow red rose in his face.

"Oh--men are hell!" he said thickly. "You'd never really understand a

man, Sophy. There are abysms ... cess-pools in us."

He got up suddenly and flung himself on his knees beside her, hiding his

face in her lap like a child.

"Don't try to understand," she heard him muttering. "Just try to ... to

forgive."

There was something at once piteous and repulsive, in that huge figure

crouching so humbly at her knee.

Sophy felt a choking sensation.

"Get up ... get up, dear," she pleaded. "I do forgive you! Please,

please get up!"

"Will you kiss me then?" came the muttering voice, muffled by her

skirts.

"Yes. Yes, I will. Only get up--do, dear, do!"

He knelt up, and, flinging his arms around her, reached his mouth

thirstily to hers. That kiss was a deathly draught to Sophy, but pity

made her accept it without shrinking visibly. In her mind the thought

went round and round: "Mystery--mystery. What was once like life to me

is now like death--worse." Then: "I must be kind to him. If I am kind

perhaps I can save him."

Chesney was fingering the folds of her gown shyly.

"I say--what a darling you look in this frock, Daphne," he said. "It

clings so--shows your lovely Greek body so beautifully. What's it made

of?"

"They call it Chudder Cloth," she said, smiling.

Chesney gasped, as if she had sprinkled water in his face, then, sinking

back upon the floor at her feet, he went into fits of the most

immoderate mirth. "Oh! Ah!" He could scarcely get his breath. "Forgive

me, Sophy! But 'Chudder Cloth'--'Chudder'--I never heard anything so

ludicrous in my life----"

And he rolled over on the floor, shaken from head to foot with

preposterous laughter, beating the carpet with his hands.

Sophy was used to these outbursts caused by some especial, yet

apparently trivial, word. Sometimes they took the form of mirth, as

to-day, sometimes that of rage. She remembered what Olive had told her.

Her heart felt very heavy.

There came a knock at the door. Chesney sprang to his feet, scowling at

the closed door.

"Come in!" said Sophy.

It was William, with a card on a tray.

"The Marquis Amaldi to see you, madam."

"Very well," said Sophy.

Cecil lighted another of his huge cigarettes.

"Who's this----foreigner?" he asked, amiably enough.

Inwardly Sophy contracted at the brutal adjective that she detested.

Outwardly she was unmoved.

"A friend of Count Varesca's. I met him at the Illinghams'--no, at the

Ponceforths' the other night."

"Mh!---- Well, so long. I'll make myself scarce for a bit. Can't stand

foreigners."

He started towards a side door, turned, came back, and lifting her hand

kissed it tenderly.

"You're a splendid thing!" he said very low. "I'm often a beast to

you--but I love you--always."

He was gone. Sophy stood looking after him for some seconds, then she

lowered her eyes to Amaldi's card, which she still held. She left the

room thinking ... thinking....