Dr. Carfew lived in Hanover Square. It seemed a cruelly short way there
to Sophy, for the motion of the cab, the rolling forward into the fine,
calm rain soothed her. The cabby wanted to lower the glass, but she
would not have it. The rain was only a thick drizzle. She put up her
veil, and let the beaded moisture beat in upon her face. How lovely were
the London plane trees against the varied grey ... and how she hated
them, and all that was England--England from whence had come her
unspeakable humiliation and misery!
But the next moment, with the soft homeliness of the air upon her cheek,
came the realisation that she could not hate the land over which it
breathed. It was in her blood as a Virginian to love England. It was
only disfigured for her as a friend may be disfigured by a cruel
accident, yet remain dear as ever. But though she loved England--she was
homesick--homesick. She yearned for the foothills of the Blue Ridge as
Pilgrim yearned for the Delectable Mountains. During the short drive to
Hanover Square, she was conscious only of this gnawing nostalgia and the
undercurrent of determination to return to her own land as soon as
possible. The old place, Sweet-Waters, had been left equally to her and
Charlotte. Now, Charlotte and her husband, Judge Macon, lived there, at
her request, but the house was large and rambling--there would be room
for her and Bobby--her thousand dollars a year would keep her from being
an expense to them. Joe was fond of her--he would not mind having her
live with them....
The cab stopped. She got out and stood face to face with the house of
the great specialist. It seemed to regard her superciliously, with a
look of hard, callous reticence. Architecture has its misanthropes as
well as humanity. This was a forbidding house; it seemed built to hold
impartial dooms and the gloomy prosperity that gains by the pain of
others. She could not think of healing as going forth of that house. Yet
Dr. Carfew had saved many. It was only Sophy's dark mood that thus
interpreted to her the expression of the great physician's house.
She went quietly up the steps, after her short pause, and rang the bell.
Dr. Carfew was out of town--would not be back until noon. Sophy thought
a moment.
"I will come in and write a note," she said.
The man led her into a gloomy room, and set writing materials to her
hand.
"Give this to Doctor Carfew the instant that he returns," she said to
the man, handing him the sealed envelope. "It is a matter of life and
death."
The sound of her own voice saying this struck her strangely. The "life
and death" that she had spoken of meant the life and death of Cecil. She
still hoped that he would die. She did not exactly hate him--but she
hoped that he would die.
She gave the cabman the address of Father Raphael of the Poor. As they
trotted on, she began to wonder what Father Raphael of the Poor would be
like. Was he old--young? She stiffened suddenly, as she sat there all
alone in the musty cab. No--she could not talk of such matters with a
young man. She could not risk so much as that--the ordeal of finding
that the priest was young. But then--she must speak out to some
one--some one who did not know her--some one quite removed from such a
life as hers. Yes--now she understood the power of the Confessional in
the Romish church. To kneel before a little grating and, unseen, whisper
out one's agonies and perplexities to another, also invisible.... To
speak without identity to one also without identity--that must be a
marvellous solace. To believers it must be almost like having God answer
them, thus to receive advice and consolation, as it were, out of the
void.
They crossed the river, and after twenty minutes entered the street
where was the Chapel of Mary of Compassion. Sophy felt herself advancing
into the perspective of this hideous street with a shudder. It was as
if she were being willingly driven into a wedge of gloomy brick from
which somehow she would not be able to withdraw. On each side squatted
the low houses, odiously alike. The toy-bricks of a gaoler's child must
be fashioned like these houses. A smell of hot tallow and refuse was in
the air, mingled with that omnipresent scent of malt that was here
stronger and more sweetish acrid than ever.
The chapel itself was not very different from the other houses. It
seemed like one of a large family that has been better nourished and
dedicated to religion. The shape of its roof and doorway was the
equivalent of a priestly habit.
Sophy's heart failed within her. Somehow this street, this chapel,
seemed reality--all else illusion.
Then she entered. The little chapel was empty and very still. There was
a smell of stale incense in the air. She could see the high altar, very
simple. A man was kneeling before it. He rose as Sophy entered, and came
towards her. He was a tall man, clad in a plain black soutane. He came
and stood near, looking at her gravely.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I would like...." faltered Sophy. "... If I might speak with Father
Raphael of the Poor...?" she ended.
"I am Father Raphael," he said. He had a beautiful, deep, tranquil
voice. Sophy's mind was beginning to be confused. All sorts of fantasies
whirled through it. She imagined that this voice indicated a tragedy far
back in the priest's life. That he had suffered in some deeply human
way. The church was dim. She could not see his face clearly, but his
hair shone out almost white from the shadows. His eyebrows were thick
and black.
"I am Father Raphael," he said again. "Will you come this way with me,
my daughter?"
He thought her a Catholic, of course; but at the words, "my daughter,"
spoken in that lovely voice, it seemed to Sophy that a band snapped
about her heart, releasing it. It was as if some benign, paternal angel
had troubled the pool of tears, far down among the very roots of her
being.
She followed him silently, and from her eyes there welled great, slow
drops--hot and heavy, like drops of blood from the inmost core of her
heart.