III

It was again June in Virginia--the third summer since Sophy's return.

Her new volume of poems, _Risorgimento_, had come out that April. It was

being widely reviewed. The "people who mattered" had given it praise.

This made her very happy. She had a fortunate nature. Things did not

grow stale for her. The powers of wonder and of joy were very strong in

her. The lines of George Herbert sang in her heart:

"And now in age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;

I once more smell the dew and rain,

And relish versing: O my only light,

It cannot be,

That I am he,

On whom thy tempests fell all night."

But apart from the resurgence of her poetic gift, her whole life seemed

also quickening. As the spring burgeoned and flowered into summer, she

herself seemed burgeoning and flowering. A great restlessness came over

her. She felt impelled to rush out with the tide of spring into the

glittering, newly wakened world.

One afternoon there was a big storm brewing at Sweet-Waters. The

sunlight was dulled--the leaves hung listless. Over the mountain just

behind the house a huge cloud of thunderous blue-black was swelling

slowly. Now and then came a flitter of lightning--a muffled detonation

far away. Bobby was very much afraid of thunderstorms. But he was now

five years old. Sophy could not bear it that her boy should be afraid of

anything. She took him in her arms and went out to watch the coming

tempest.

"See, Bobby man," she said. "The world's asleep. Now the Storm is coming

to wake her up."

"I 'spec she'd wavver sleep," said Bobby doubtfully.

He gazed in awe at the great cedars, so black and sullen blocked out

against the tremendous cloud. The intense stillness scared him almost as

much as the approaching hurly-burly.

Suddenly there came a violet flash, followed by a bellowing blare of

thunder. At the same time a sibilation of leaves ran through the sultry

air.

"Le's we _go_, muvvah! Le's we _go_!" urged Bobby in a small voice.

"Not yet, sweetheart. It's so splendid out here. See that big cloud come

flying! It's like Sinbad's roc in the fairy tale. Don't you remember?"

"I don't like wocs," said Bobby falteringly.

Now the wind fell on them with a shout. The trees tossed. They bowed

wildly, almost to the sunburnt earth. Twigs and leaves spun through the

air. White fringes streamed from the inky cloud; then lightning--the sky

blazed with a gigantic frond of fire. A pulse stroke--then a shattering,

re-echoing roar.

Bobby pressed hard against his mother's breast. He was too much a man to

howl, but his heart was as water within him.

"Le's go _now_, muvvah," he whispered.

"Just a minute more, darling. Don't you want to see the rain come over

the mountain? Hark! You can hear it--hundreds of little glass-slippered

feet, like Cinderella's--running--running----"

This idea fascinated Bobby for a second, but another blast of thunder

was too much for him. He began to tremble.

"Darling," coaxed Sophy, "surely you aren't afraid of God's own

thunder?"

"Don't like Dod," said Bobby.

"You mustn't say that, sweetheart. God made the thunder, but he made you

and mother, too. He loves you."

"_El pias minga a mi_" (He doesn't please me), said Bobby firmly.

Now the rain swirled over the mountain. In grey-white, hissing clouds it

came, as though the earth were red-hot, and the cold drops burst into

steam as they smote it. Sophy ran into the house with Bobby. She took

him to the upper hall, and knelt down before a door that opened upon the

railed roof of the front portico.

"Ah, be a man, Bobby," she pleaded. "You're the only man mother's got in

all the world."

He stood with both arms about her neck. The bright, buff freckles showed

up clearly on his pale little face. But with underlip thrust out and

brows drawn down, his eyelids winking with every flash of lightning, he

looked the storm firmly in the face, because "Muvvah" had begged him to

be a man.

Charlotte, coming upstairs to see that all window-shutters were properly

closed, found them kneeling there together. She had hardly appeared

before there came a flash and crash in one, so appalling that Bobby

could resist no longer. He flattened himself against his mother's breast

and shouted clamorously to be removed.

Then Sophy turned and slipped his hand into Charlotte's. An inspiration

had come to her.

"There!" she said. "Stay safe with Aunt Chartie and watch mother!

Mother's not afraid!"

The next moment she was out in the scented downpour. To and fro she ran,

laughing. Her sleeveless wrapper of white muslin was soon soaked

through. The wind beat it close to her in fine, rippled lines. She

looked like a living figure from Tanagra. And she had never felt

anything more exquisite than this cool, pelting of summer rain against

her whole body.

Now and then flares of lightning would illumine her, throwing her light,

drenched figure into relief against the wind-blown leaves. She seemed

dancing to great tambourines of thunder. Bobby, quite made over by his

mother's bravery, gazed on enraptured. She called to him as she whirled:

"Look, Bobby! See how mother loves God's splendid storm!"

Suddenly the boy broke from Charlotte's grasp. He sprang out into the

tempest towards his mother.

"Me, too!" he shouted. "_Viva Dio!_" (Long live God!)

* * * * *

Sophy was still smiling to herself over this "_Viva Dio!_" as she

braided her damp hair into a loose plait before going down to supper.

The placid life at Sweet-Waters was very old-fashioned. During the hot

weather there was no dinner served, only this light, simple meal at

seven o'clock.

"How like me Bobby is," she thought. "I'm always rebelling against the

Deity, and then crying '_Viva Dio!_' in the end."

The storm had passed. She went and stood at her window, drawing in deep

breaths of rain-freshened air, dense with sweet-shrub and honeysuckle. A

serene level light lay upon the glistening grass--the "clear shining

after rain." Now and then a shower of heavy drops loosened by the breeze

pattered through the magnolia tree near by. The great tree, splendid

with creamy blossoms, looked as though covered by a flight of doves. The

birds were at their evening gossip as though no storm had ever been. One

alighted on a branch close to her window, beside one of the white,

chalice-like flowers, and fluffing up its feathers in a sort of musical

frenzy, began its joyous song.

Sophy's heart swelled. It seemed to her that she and the bird and the

white, impassioned flower, and the spent storm, and repentant Bobby

crying "_Viva Dio!_" were all one. The whole, glad, drenched, shining

earth and all that clung to it seemed shouting "_Viva Dio!_"

And she stretched out her arms as though to embrace this thrilling

wonder called life, so that the bird broke off its song, and flew away

with a loud _frrrrt!_ of startled wings, leaving the great white flower

trembling as with ecstasy....

* * * * *

She put on an old, corn-coloured muslin frock for supper, made

cottage-fashion with a soft kerchief. It was one of her girlhood's

dresses. She was proud to find how easily it hooked about her slim

waist. She was still as slender as she had been at twenty. As she ran

lightly downstairs she sang to a tune of her own improvisation: "For the

rain is over and gone ... the time of the singing of birds has come...."

Her song stopped suddenly. The last turn of the staircase had brought

her face to face with a little group in the lower hall--Judge Macon,

Charlotte, and two men. One was her cousin Aleck Macfarlane, one was a

stranger--a young fellow of about twenty-six. Sophy was struck by the

pure Greek type of his head, silhouetted against the outer green of the

wet lawn. It looked like some classic bas-relief, seen so in shadow

against the light, gleaming grass--bronze on a background of verdigris.

He was introduced by Macfarlane.

"My friend, Morris Loring----"

Sophy learned that they had been caught by the storm when they were

about a mile from Sweet-Waters. They had taken refuge in a farm-house,

and then ridden on.

"We got horribly muddy," said Loring, glancing down at his riding

breeches and puttees which were plastered with red clay. He had a fresh,

clear voice. Sophy guessed that he was a New Yorker. Now that she saw

his face in the light, she thought it manly in spite of being beautiful.

She had never before seen a man's face that she thought beautiful. It

struck her as very singular. But even in England, where the Anglo-Saxon

race so often produces perfect Greek types, she had never seen anything

so Hellenic as young Loring. In figure he was tall but slight; the

regular horseman's figure--flat-thighed and slim of leg. His

riding-clothes were almost _too_ well cut, Sophy thought. Loring

appeared to her a little too much like the smart tailor's advertisements

of sportsmen attired for riding. But she enjoyed looking at him. She

wondered, amused, if he didn't enjoy looking at himself. He, on his

side, was thinking: "Lord! What a dazzler! She wins, hands down, over

anything I've ever seen!"

Sophy suddenly remembered the loose plait that hung below her waist. She

laughed, colouring a little. Loring couldn't get his eyes away from her.

"You must excuse my appearing as Gretchen...." she said. "I got caught

in the rain, too. I left my hair down because it wasn't quite dry."

"You really needn't excuse yourself for the way you look, Sophy," said

Macfarlane dryly.

Sophy slipped her arm through his.

"Old humbug!" she said affectionately. She was very fond of Aleck. He

was about ten years older than she was and had taught her how to ride.

Judge Macon took the two men off to tidy up a bit before supper. As soon

as they had disappeared, Charlotte darted to Sophy. She began speaking

rapidly in a nervous whisper.

"Sophy!... I'm dreadfully worried--Machunk Creek is 'up' and those two

boys (all men under fifty had been 'boys' to Charlotte ever since the

birth of her first-born), they'll have to stay all night with us. And

they haven't a _thing_ to sleep in...."

"Well, but Joe will lend them things of course," said Sophy.

Charlotte's anxiety did not abate.

"That's just it!" she whispered hoarsely. "This Mr. Loring looks so

_very_ fashionable. And Joe never _will_ wear anything but those long,

old-fashioned night-shirts! I don't see how I _can_ put one of Joe's

night-shirts on the Blue-room bed for Mr. Loring, Sophy! Aleck's

different-- I don't mind Aleck."

Sophy stared at her for a second, then she sat down on the lowest step

of the stairs and rocked to and fro, hiding her face.

"Sophy! _Sophy!_" said Charlotte, still in that raucous whisper, and

shaking her vexedly by the shoulder. "Stop! Get up and help me! You're

_too_ trying sometimes!"

Sophy tried earnestly to speak, but laughter kept stopping her.

Charlotte shook her again.

"How selfish of you, Sophy! I can't see where the fun comes in. I tell

you I don't _want_ to lay out one of poor, dear Joe's night-shirts for

that young man to snigger over."

"I ... I don't believe he's the ... the 'sniggering' sort...." murmured

Sophy, wiping her eyes.

"Well, to sneer at, then. You've _got_ to help me. Can't you think of

anything?"

Sophy considered. Suddenly her face became convulsed again.

"I ... I might lend him ... a pair of B-Bobby's pyjamas...." she

faltered.

Charlotte turned on her heel.

"Very well," she said haughtily. But Sophy ran after her, repentant. She

hooked a cajoling arm in Charlotte's stiffened elbow.

"Don't get huffy, dear," she coaxed. "I'm sure one of Joe's night-shirts

will do _perfectly_ ... really I do...."

They finally went to the Blue-room together--Charlotte with a white

object folded very small over one arm. She laid it on the foot of the

bed, outside the old brocade quilt. Then she stood looking

discontentedly down on it.

"I'm sure it looks _very_ nice," said Sophy.

But Charlotte stood absorbed. Presently she said:

"I really think I'd better unfold it. He might think it was an extra

pillow-case."

And she displayed the quaint garment at greater length.

"Thank heaven I marked these myself with white embroidery cotton," she

then murmured. "Joe _will_ mark them with that horrid, indelible ink if

I don't watch him like a hawk. Do you think it looks better so?"

"I think it looks perfectly charming," said Sophy gravely. Then she went

off again into uncontrollable fits of laughter. "I ... I even think...."

she stammered, "that it will be becoming...."

Charlotte turned her back and left the room, perfectly outdone with her.

But all during supper Sophy kept smiling now and then, as she pictured

Morris Loring's classic head emerging from the Judge's ample night-robe.