It was very hard to get Bobby to sleep that night. At last, however, he
wearily subsided against Sophy's breast and, thumb in mouth, demanded
"All a gees." This meant the old nursery song of "All the pretty little
horses." Obediently she began to sing in her rich contralto that was
like the flutes and viols of love, tempered to the inanity of the
nursery rhyme. But though she sang and sang, it was after seven o'clock
before the boy fell fast asleep. She dressed hurriedly for dinner,
slipping into a tea-gown of dull orange that Cecil particularly liked.
She had made up her mind to talk to him about his attitude towards
Bobby. She wished it to be as quiet a talk as possible, so she put on
the orange tea-gown to please him, and set in her hair some tiny, orange
lilies that had been sent down from Dynehurst that morning. He liked her
to wear flowers in her hair. But though she made these preparations, she
was quite determined to face anything in the matter of having "her say
out" about his relations with the boy. She had long realised, in
silence, that there was a strong antagonism between father and son. It
seemed terrible, but she knew that such things were. It had been the
same between Cecil and his own father. But she would not have the child
terrorised and herself treated with indignity because of Cecil's moods.
No; not even his illness could make her put up with that. And she
thought, with a hot wave of pain and shame, of the scene that Amaldi had
just witnessed.
Chesney came in to dinner, rather late and very much excited. He began
rattling politics to her. The damned government was going under. He'd
give it two more years. Then, by Jove! he was going to cut in and give
his Radicalism a fling! The Conservatives were pretty well played out;
they'd been in just four years too long, confound 'em! 'Twas Kitty
O'Shea had saved the Union for 'em, and none of those rotters in office.
As a clever Irish Unionist had said, they ought to raise statues to
Kitty O'Shea all over Ulster--and so on and so on.
Sophy listened pleasantly, putting in a word every now and then to show
that she was really attentive. She was thinking all the time how pale
his face was, and how dark and excited his eyes. This last was all the
more noticeable, as of late his eyes had been so dull and faded looking.
Now the pupils almost covered the iris. And she noticed, too, that,
though he helped himself freely from every dish, he ate scarcely
anything. This made her apprehensive. He was so much more apt to be
irritable when he did not eat. Then he suddenly ordered a pint of
champagne.
"Will you have some, too?" he asked her. "But you don't like it, do
you?"
"Sometimes--when I'm thirsty. Not to-night."
"And just send another pint up to my room, Parkson. I shall read late
to-night," he added, as an explanation to Sophy.
In the drawing-room after dinner he was very restless, roaming to and
fro, smoking those great cigarettes, one after the other. He kept
glancing at the clock. Sophy had drawn on a pair of long
gardening-gloves and was peeling the stems of some roses. The butler had
placed a great trayful of them on a low table before her, and as she
peeled the long, thorn-armed stems, she arranged the roses in a crystal
vase. They kept for days longer when stripped of their outer rind in
this way. The tranquil monotony of her movements seemed to get on
Chesney's nerves.
"For God's sake," he said finally, halting near her, "get through with
that business and sing me something."
She sat down at once to the piano and sang some of Schumann's _Lieder_
and soft, melancholy Russian folk-songs--the songs of a people bowed
immemorially by oppression--almost in love with sorrow, as a prisoner
comes to love his prison. She was glad that he had asked her to sing.
Many a time had she played David to his Saul. Music, her singing
especially, always softened him. Now it would be easier to talk with him
of Bobby.
When she paused, he looked up at her from the chair in which he had
stretched himself, his head sunk moodily forward. "By God! You're a
sweet woman," he said.
Sophy rose, and, going over to him, sat on the arm of the big chair.
"I want to talk to you about something, Cecil. Something very important.
Will you be nice to me?"
She had yielded him her hand, and he was looking at it earnestly,
turning it this way and that in his great fingers, which were covered
between the knuckles with a light furze of reddish hair--playing with
the rings that he had given her. Sophy hated these rings, but he
insisted on her wearing them; he was proud of their beauty on the beauty
of her white hand. There were three, a pink pearl, an emerald, a ruby.
As she spoke, he clutched the hand with which he had been toying and
looked up at her.
"Eh?" he said. "What's up?"
"It's about you and Bobby, Cecil."
He put her hand back upon her knee.
"Oh, the tigress and her cub. I see."
"No, Cecil, you don't see. I don't want to be disagreeable. I only want
to try to explain things to you."
"Your son's high priestess interpreter?"
"No, dear; just a woman who understands babies better than a man could."
"Well?"
"I think the boy gets on your nerves, Cecil, and----"
"He does. Cross-grained little beggar."
"Yes, he is cross-grained. But harshness only makes him worse. He's one
of those natures that can only be controlled by love."
"Like yours, eh?"
"Exactly."
Chesney thrust his hands deep into his pockets and smiled. It was an
ugly, secretive smile.
"What the little monkey needs is a good thrashing," said he.
Sophy struggled desperately to keep her voice natural. Her heart was
beginning to beat so fast that she felt her voice must surely tremble.
"Ah, Cecil, do be nice to me," she murmured. "You were so gentle and
kind this afternoon."
"'Gentle and kind!' Oh, Lord!" he went off into a sort of frenzy of
smothered laughter. "'Gentle and kind'--that's your ideal of
manhood--husbandhood---- Eh? What?"
Sophy retreated from him. She remained standing, very quiet, very pale,
her lips pressed together.
"As for being nice to you," he continued between his chuckles, "I
thought it was your offspring you wanted me to be nice to."
Sophy said nothing. She was so angry, and so mortified at her own lack
of self-command in allowing him to make her angry, that she was
literally afraid to speak.
Chesney got up and lounged towards her.
"Look here," he said, putting his face close to hers. "I'd like you to
realise, once for all, that that boy is mine as well as yours--at least
I hope he is----" he interpolated brutally. "And what's more, if I
choose to, I'll go upstairs this moment and thrash him in his crib!"
There is no doubt of it. At that moment Sophy felt the full force of the
expression to have murder in one's heart. In her heart there was
certainly murder. She felt herself saying over and over in thought, as
to some Dark Power: "Let him fall dead. Let him fall dead. Before he can
touch my son--let him fall dead, _dead_."
"Pfew! What eyes!" said Chesney, somewhat sobered. "You look a regular
Jael--glowering at me like that...."
Sophy's eyes blazed on. She felt them burning in her head. She said
nothing.
Suddenly his mood took another turn. He gave her a glance of would-be
shrewdness, very hateful.
"Ill tell you what's at the bottom of all this," he said sullenly. "It's
that dirty little foreigner who was coddling the brat when I came in
this afternoon. You've been discussing me with him behind my back. A
pretty----"
"_How dare you!_" It came in a slow, fierce whisper. "_How dare you!_"
she repeated.
"All the better--if I'm mistaken," he retorted, again rather sobered for
the moment.
"Oh...." Sophy drew a long breath, another. She shuddered convulsively,
then grew rigid. "Oh...." she said finally. "To think I ever thought
myself ... _in love_ with you!" Her emphasis on the words "in love" was
sick with self-contempt.
A ghastly look came over Chesney's face. It turned grey, and moisture
sprang out on his forehead. He collapsed all at once into a chair,
leaning his forehead on his hands.
"By God--I'm an ill man----" he stammered. Sophy stood an instant in
doubt. He was a great actor in his way. But that livid face was not one
that could be assumed at will. She rang for help--went over to him.
"What is it? Do you feel faint?" she asked, in a constrained voice. He
seemed unable to answer. Parkson appeared in the doorway. "Send Gaynor
at once. Mr. Chesney is very ill."
She thrust her handkerchief into the vase of roses, and drawing his
heavy head against her shoulder, moistened his brow and temples. She
felt somewhat as if she had risen from the block, to minister to the
headsman, who had inadvertently wounded himself with his own axe.
Gaynor came within ten minutes. He was a small, quiet man, a little
older than his master. He had been in his service ever since Chesney
left Cambridge, had travelled with him, knew his every idiosyncrasy.
Chesney would have no one but Gaynor with him during his mysterious
attacks. Parkson was waiting at the door to know if he could be of
assistance. "It's nothing serious, madam," the valet assured Sophy.
"I'll just get the butler to help me to assist Mr. Chesney upstairs.
He'll come round in half an hour. Pray don't worry, madam." Gaynor spoke
very prim and correct English, when he did speak. He was singularly
taciturn. Chesney used to boast that he had trained Gaynor to be silent
in season and out of season, as some people train a pet dog to "speak."
Three-quarters of an hour later, as Sophy was sitting before her
dressing-table while Tilda brushed out her long hair for the night,
there came a knock at the door. Tilda went to answer it, and returned
with an envelope in her hand. It was a note from Chesney, written by
himself. It said that he felt much better--implored Sophy to come to his
room before going to bed. She gazed down at the handwriting, feeling
mystified. It was strong, flowing, and abounded in eager flourishes
where the pen had glided from word to word without lifting from the
paper. Yet she had seen Cecil only a short while ago in a state of
collapse that really alarmed her.
"Who gave you this?" she said to Tilda.
"Mr. Gaynor, m'm."
"Very well. Tell Gaynor to say to Mr. Chesney that I will come in a few
moments."