On Wednesday evening, about eleven o'clock, Gaynor knocked at the door
of Sophy's bedroom. She was sitting before the fire, her dressing-gown
over her night-gown, ready for any emergency. She sent Tilda to bed
early these terrible days--living, as she did, in constant terror lest
the servants should witness some odious scandal.
She opened the door herself, not knowing who it might be. The little man
was very pale, he had the appearance attributed to those who have "just
seen a ghost." In his hand he held a white glass quart bottle. He looked
at Sophy without speaking.
"What is it? What _is_ it?" she urged. Her eyes were fixed on that big,
empty bottle. Why should Gaynor bring an empty bottle to her room at
eleven o'clock at night? Why was he so frightened?
"Mrs. Chesney ..." said the valet. "Pardon me, but you must know. I've
thought different. Now it's plain. This bottle was more than half full
at five this afternoon. Now, you see, madam; you see for yourself...."
Sophy stared bewildered.
"I don't understand," she said, full of vague terror herself now. "What
was in the bottle? Why is it empty?"
"Spirit, madam; ninety-five-proof spirit--for the little spirit lamp I
use for Mr. Chesney, madam. It was two-thirds full six hours ago. Oh,
don't you see, madam? And now the master's door is locked. He won't
answer--I've knocked and knocked. He laughed once--so he's not
unconscious, madam."
Sophy stood staring.
"Do you mean...?" she whispered finally. "You don't mean that he ...
he...?"
"Oh, madam! What else can I think? It began yesterday. I thought one of
the maids had upset it and didn't like to say--they never do, madam.
Full a pint went yesterday. But as there was enough left in the bottle
for the making of his morning coffee, I didn't trouble to fill it till
this afternoon. But now.... And he was so strange an hour ago. So
wild-like ... different...."
"I didn't know...." murmured Sophy, her eyes fixed in horror on the
empty bottle. "I didn't know that ... that.... I thought it was
poisonous...."
"Oh, no, madam! It's methylated spirits you're thinking of. This is
ninety-five-proof--pure alcohol. It's done, madam. I've heard of it's
being done. But I never thought...."
He too stopped, overcome.
Sophy looked at the little servant helplessly.
"I don't know what to do, Gaynor," she said, in the voice of a child.
"What can I do?"
"Would you come speak to him, madam, through the door? He might answer
you."
"Yes, I'll come," she said. She looked at him out of appalled eyes. "But
don't leave me, Gaynor, will you? Come, too."
"No, no, madam. I'll not leave you. Never fear."
Together the little grey figure and the tall white one stole down the
corridor to Chesney's door.
Sophy put her mouth close to the crevice of the door. Her heart was
beating so that it shook her lips against the wood.
"Cecil--Cecil!" she called softly. "It's I--Sophy. I'm so afraid you're
ill. Won't you speak to me, Cecil?"
There was no answer. She tried again and again. Presently she heard that
low, ominous laugh.
"It's no use," she whispered, drawing away in terror. "Have you told
Doctor Bellamy?"
"No, madam. No one but you. I didn't like to."
"I know, Gaynor," she said, still whispering. "It's hard to have to
tell--but I'm afraid we ought."
"Mightn't we wait? Just a bit longer, madam? I'll keep watch...."
Sophy hesitated.
"Well, then," she said reluctantly, "I shall not sleep, either."
She thought a moment; then she said:
"Bring me a few of Mr. Chesney's cigarettes, Gaynor. Mine have given
out. Bring me some of his cigarette-papers, too. I'll roll them smaller,
as he's been doing lately."
"Very well, madam. But there's very few in the last-opened box. Mr.
Chesney won't have me open a new box, madam. He's very particular. He
don't like me to meddle with his cigarettes. If you'll just be so kind,
madam, as to tell him it was your orders. I fear to anger him as he is
now."
"Certainly I will, Gaynor. Gladly. Bring a fresh box here--I will open
it myself and tell him to-morrow that it was I who did it."
But when the valet brought her the box of cigarettes, and she had taken
out a handful, all desire to smoke left her. She had not the habit--only
did so now and then, when she felt very nervous and restless, as
to-night. Now as she looked at these huge cigarettes so intimately
associated with her husband, she felt averse from touching them. She
shut them away in a drawer of her writing-table, and began to walk to
and fro, her arms pressed tightly against her heart which was so full of
fear and apprehension, which beat so heavily as though tired with its
ceaseless task of life.
She went to a window and, drawing the curtains aside, looked out. The
night was soft and black, with hurrying clouds. Two greenish stars
gleamed at her from a rent in the ragged drapery of vapour. They looked
like the phosphorescent eyes of some wild creature glaring from the
jungle of the night. She shrank, letting the curtain fall into place
again.
Again some one knocked. She went quickly, her heart pounding. It was
only Gaynor. His face wore a relieved look.
"Mr. Chesney has opened his door. He's reading. He seems quiet. I hope
that you'll try to sleep now, madam."
"But you will call me if you need me, Gaynor."
"Yes, madam--surely."
"Very well. I will lie down, then. I am very tired. But I doubt if I can
sleep. Don't hesitate to call me."
"No. I will not, madam."
Sophy got into bed, and turned out her lamp. But she thought that she
would never go to sleep. She thought of herself as a girl. How
confident of life--her life--she had been then! The world was very
surely her oyster. Within lay that pearl of great price--her happiness.
How simple it had seemed! Where was that confident girl now--the girl
who had been so sweetly "spoiled" by father and mother and sister, and
adoring friends? That girl had gone the way of all the other Sophies.
The baby-Sophy, and Sophy the four-year-old imp, and the grave,
independently religious Sophy of nine. Was she religious now? Why
couldn't she pray, then--really pray? Was that constant, dull cry of her
heart, "God help ... help ... help!"--was that a prayer? Yes, that must
be prayer.
A dulness came over her. Her mind refused to reason.
"At least I am really living," she thought. "This pain is living---- Oh,
mould me!" her heart called suddenly into the Void. "Mould me into
something higher!"
She seemed aware, in the pause of thought that followed, of an immense
Presence. Personal, yet Impersonal--one with her--with some part of her.
She seemed cherished and approved. A little after, she fell asleep.
She knew that she had been asleep, for she waked to that sense of
interval, of break in one's continuous life that follows on profound
sleep. At the same time there crept over her a chill sense of
uneasiness--the sense of a presence. It was not like that vast, lulling
sense that had come to her just before she fell asleep. No--this was
different, sinister. Something--some one--was in that dark room--with
her--near her--very near her. She held her breath. A wild leap of fear,
like a pang of bodily anguish, blazed suddenly through her. She was
sure--oh, horribly, dissolvingly sure!--that in the thick darkness a
face--a face that could not see her--was looking down on her. For a
second she lost consciousness. Then again came the blaze of fear, like a
bolt through her paralysed body. She must move--she must _know_--or die
of terror. She put up her hand. It touched a face--the dry teeth in an
open mouth--a grinning mouth. She felt sure afterwards that, had she
screamed then, she would have lost her reason with her self-control. She
fought with herself as with giants. One part of her said: "Shriek and
die." The other part said: "Don't give way--don't give way!"
"Cecil...?" she managed to utter.
"Ha!" said a voice that laughed low. "Plucky lass! Just thought I'd
give you a taste of what it is to be spied on. So-long. Sweet dreams."
She heard him fumbling his way out. The door clicked. For another minute
the terror held her. Then she struck a match--two, three--she could not
hold them steady enough to aid the flame. The floor was strewn with
matches. At last--her candle shone out. She leaped from bed. Her knees
gave way. She fell to them where she stood. A second--then up again. She
reached the door--ran, ran--ran....
She was clinging to Gaynor--holding him fast in both
arms--sobbing--biting off laughter between her teeth--sobbing again.
"Oh, Gaynor, hold me! Don't let him get me! Run to Master Bobby! Run!
Take me with you--I can't move of myself---- Then leave me! Go alone! Go
to Master Bobby!"
But when, blindly obedient, he turned and ran towards the nursery, she
was after him, fleet and strong as Atalanta. The golden apple was her
son--her son!...