Lady Wychcote entered the drawing-room abruptly, very smart and
untravel-stained in her blue serge gown with little _gilet_ and toque of
purple velvet. She never suffered from seasickness, and through her veil
of black-dotted tulle she certainly did not look more than
five-and-forty. She barely gave herself time to brush her
daughter-in-law's cheek with the chenille dots of her veil and mutter
"How d'ye do?" In the same breath, in her brittle, imperious voice, she
rapped out:
"What's the matter with Cecil? What does Craig Hopkins say?"
Before she could be answered, and in spite of a real anxiety, she seated
herself. Though she was a tall woman, Sophy was at least two inches
taller; and this always exasperated her. She liked to look down on
people literally as well as metaphorically.
"Doctor Hopkins has not seen Cecil," said Sophy. The storm must break
sometime; why not at once?
"Eh?" cried Lady Wychcote sharply. "What's that? What d'you say?"
Her voice had the bark in it that Cecil's always had when he was angry,
and that he had inherited from her. She reared her head suddenly and
looked at Sophy along her delicate nose.
"D'you mean to tell me that you haven't consulted a doctor about your
husband?"
"Yes; I have seen a doctor, but not Doctor Hopkins."
"_You have--seen--a--doctor--but not the family doctor?_ Your reasons,
pray?"
The tone was scathing, even insolent. Sophy felt her blood rise, but her
calmness did not forsake her.
"I have some very painful things to tell you, Lady Wychcote. Please try
to listen patiently."
"'Patiently'?" She put up her _face-a-main_. The dotted veil prevented
her from seeing clearly through it, but the _geste_ was all that she
desired. This habit of sarcastic echoing was one of her most trying and
effective methods. "Pray explain yourself!" she added, in a tart voice.
Sophy explained very thoroughly. When she had finished, her
mother-in-law drew her eyelids together and said through narrowed lips:
"How did you come to think of this Doctor Carfew?"
"I asked for a nerve-specialist's address. Gaynor knew of this one."
"You sent for a doctor for my son at a servant's instigation?"
Sophy frowned a little.
"I went to Doctor Carfew myself--of my own accord. Please take another
tone with me, Lady Wychcote," she added. "I think we can arrive at more
useful conclusions in that way."
They looked at each other in silence for a moment; then Lady Wychcote
said:
"Is Cecil awake?"
"I do not think so. Gaynor was to send me word in that case."
"You evidently rely on this man Gaynor for everything."
"I consider him reliable. I have no one else to rely on."
Lady Wychcote rose.
"I must tell you," she said, "that I intend sending for Craig Hopkins at
once."
"I wired for you, to consult you," said Sophy evenly.
"Quite so. And I presume that you are not surprised that I refuse to
take the opinion of a quack on a matter so near to me as the health of
my son."
"I do not think that Doctor Carfew can be justly called a 'quack.' He is
celebrated."
"Pardon me, but that's nonsense. All so-called specialists are quacks,
more or less. And I believe that Cagliostro was a very celebrated
person."
Sophy shrugged her shoulders.
"I only beg that whatever you decide to do will be done quickly," she
said.
"You shall be gratified. Craig Hopkins shall be here within the hour. I
will go for him myself--and return with him."
"Thanks," said Sophy gravely.
This "thanks" seemed to irritate Lady Wychcote beyond endurance. She
turned pale under her rouge, and bit the shreds of what had once been a
lovely, though heartless, mouth.
"I don't doubt," she said at last, "that Hopkins's opinion will coincide
with mine. I am convinced that the whole matter has been grossly
exaggerated."
"Of course, only a doctor can be the judge of that," said Sophy, still
quietly.
Lady Wychcote had reached the age when in mothers of her type the
affections wane as the ambitions wax. She desired to have her pride
satisfied rather than her heart filled. And of her two sons, one was an
easy-going invalid, and the other a brilliant failure. She was bitterly
thinking, as she bruised Sophy's spirit with her hard, implacable eyes,
"If Cecil had married a clever woman of his own class and country--she
could have made him. How many Englishmen have been made politically by
their wives! Even Chatham--one never hears much of his wife, to be
sure--but there's the fact. His first really active, successful part in
politics was taken shortly after he married her."
When Dr. Hopkins came and had seen Cecil (he also requested to see him
alone, and would have neither Sophy nor Lady Wychcote go in with him) he
looked very grave, and stated that, in his opinion also, Mr. Chesney was
suffering from the overuse of opiates.
"'Opiates'? That is an elastic term," said Lady Wychcote impatiently.
"Say plainly what you mean, please."
Hopkins looked pained, but answered straightforwardly that, in his
opinion also, Mr. Chesney was in the habit of taking morphine
hypodermically.
"Why hypodermically?" asked Lady Wychcote.
"It is self-evident, your ladyship. His arms are in a terrible condition
from the use of the syringe."
Lady Wychcote grew pale. And Sophy, looking at her, thought how strange
it was that her random slander of herself (Sophy) had so come home to
her. She had accused her daughter-in-law of giving her son drugs--idly,
as she said such bitter, untrue things of people when displeased with
them, not counting the cost to others involved. She had noticed Cecil's
growing eccentricity, and in order to attribute it more directly to what
she termed his "disastrous" marriage, had accused Sophy of this dark
thing. And now--lo! the dark thing was no lie, but the truth--only it
was her son himself who was his own destroyer, not the woman whom she
hated.
She rallied suddenly, rearing her head back with the gesture habitual to
her.
"I wish to see for myself," she said haughtily, moving towards the door.
"He will not know. Show me these marks on his arms."
"No!" said Sophy, in a low voice, stepping in front of her.
"What! You try to prevent me from seeing my son?"
"I shall keep you from going to him while he is helpless--for such a
purpose."
She laid her hand on a bell near by.
"Let me pass," said Lady Wychcote, in a suffocated voice. Dr. Hopkins
looked the image of respectability in distress. The heavens would not
have been enough to cover him. He would have preferred something more
solid--the whole earth between him and these incensed ladies.
"No!" said Sophy again. "If you insist, I shall be forced to ring and
give orders that no one is to be admitted to my husband's room."
"You would dare do that?"
"I would do it. You are in my house, Lady Wychcote."
"My son's house...."
"I am his wife. I must do what I know that he would wish."
Just here Gaynor knocked at the door.
"Mr. Chesney is asking for you, madam," he said to Sophy.
"Does he know that I am here?" put in Lady Wychcote quickly.
"No, your ladyship. He is hardly himself yet. I have told him nothing."
"Are you going to see him?" asked she, in a hard, angry voice, turning
to Sophy.
"Yes."
"I suppose at least that you will have the--the...." She choked on the
word. She longed to say "decency," but the servant's presence forbade.
"... The civility to tell him that his mother is here and wishes to see
him," she wound up sullenly.
"Yes, I will tell him," said Sophy.
She went up to Cecil's room and approached the bed. He recognised her
step instantly, and said in a weak voice:
"Sophy?"
"Yes, Cecil--it's Sophy."
"Nearer...." he murmured. "Come nearer...."
She bent down to him. The close, stale after-smell of fever reeked up to
her from his unshaven face. She felt very pitiful towards him. All the
hatred had ebbed from her heart. Yet she shrank from him; he was
repellent to her. The conflict between repulsion and pity sent an inward
tremor like sickness through her.
"Sophy ... what ... what did I do ... that night?" came the dragging
voice.
Her hand clenched in the folds of her gown. He had taken the other and
was fumbling it in his nerveless fingers.
"You were very excited. We'll talk of that later--when you're stronger."
"No ... now ... now. It hurts my head ... trying to work the damned
thing out! Was I ... did I...?"
"You were angry. You said unkind things to me. But that's over. Don't
torment yourself."
He was silent. He seemed dozing. Then he roused again.
"It's a hellish ... shame!..." he murmured, in that spent voice. The
violent words contrasted painfully with the weak tones.
"What is?" she said, humouring him.
"Your having ... a chap like me ... for a husband."
"You're ill, Cecil. Don't worry. Try to sleep again. But wait a
minute--your mother is here. Would you like to see her?"
"Damnation--no!" he said. Then he seemed to think better of it.
"Well--since the old lady's lowered her crest enough to come--send her
up," he muttered. "Don't let her talk, though--will you?"
"I'll tell her that you can't bear any talking."
She moved towards the door.
"Sophy...."
"Yes?"
"Could you kiss a chap?"
She went back and kissed his forehead.
"Sophy...." he said again weakly. Then he turned his face into the
pillow. She heard smothered sobs. This was dreadful. She knelt down by
him and put her arm across his heaving shoulders.
"Don't ... don't...!" she pleaded. "Oh, Cecil ... don't! It will all
come right. I'm here. I'll stand by you."
His weak fingers fumbled again and found her own.
"I'm all right," he muttered. "Just a bit weak. Go send the mater up....
Don't let her jaw, though."
Lady Wychcote came down from her son's room looking encouraged and
triumphant.
"He seems perfectly rational," she said, speaking pointedly to Hopkins.
"I really think you must have exaggerated the seriousness of the case."
"Let us hope so," he said cautiously. "But I fear not."
"Will you undertake the case?" she then asked.
Hopkins glanced uncomfortably in Sophy's direction. He faltered out:
"I--er--have not much experience in these--er--cases."
Sophy did not interfere. As soon as Cecil was well enough, she intended
to tell him everything and see if she could not engage his higher self
to fight with her against his lower. She listened in calm silence,
therefore, to the dialogue between Lady Wychcote and the man who had for
years been the family doctor.
"Nonsense!" Lady Wychcote exclaimed sharply, in reply to Hopkins's
faltering objection. "It is simply a matter of nurses and regime. You
have nurses that you can rely on, I suppose!"
"I can certainly procure suitable nurses, your ladyship. But I believe
that in these--er--cases the patient's co-operation is most important.
And the--er--conditions should be favourable."
"Good heavens! _You_ don't mean to suggest a sanatorium, I hope?"
"No. Not a sanatorium exactly; but--er--in town--in a town like
London--there are--the drug is too easily obtained."
"My good man," she cried impatiently, "all this is beside the mark. What
better place can you want than Dynehurst? We will take him to
Dynehurst!"
"Perhaps that would be a good idea," said Hopkins, looking greatly
relieved. "I could attend him here until his system had somewhat
recovered tone, and then with--er--a proper nurse, or nurses, in
attendance, he could be removed to your country seat. I believe you have
an excellent physician there, have you not?"
"Yes. A very able man, indeed."
Hopkins turned nervously to Sophy.
"How does the idea of such an arrangement strike you, Mrs. Chesney?"
"I think that everything will depend on what my husband himself wishes,
when he is stronger, Doctor Hopkins."
"Quite so. Quite so. The patient's co-operation is most important."
Lady Wychcote again addressed him abruptly:
"What is your opinion of this man Gaynor--my son's valet!"
"Why, he seems a very intelligent, worthy person, indeed!"
"You think he may be safely left in his present position?"
"Oh, certainly, certainly, your ladyship!"
The little doctor, whom Lady Wychcote had elected years ago to his
present position as her medical adviser, chiefly because he was like wax
in her firm hands, then made his escape. He left instructions and
prescriptions galore. Sophy suffered this with perfect tranquillity,
because she knew that Gaynor had already had other instructions and
would follow only those of the physician in whose authority he believed.
When her mother-in-law also took her departure, Sophy turned to Gaynor,
who had been summoned again to convey Lady Wychcote's parting messages
to her son.
She smiled a very weary, kind smile at the little grey servitor, and
said:
"I'm afraid we shall have to fight it out pretty much alone together,
Gaynor."
Then Gaynor emerged from his shell of reserve for an instant, and
startled himself.
"The Almighty is very powerful, madam," is what he said.