When Lady Wychcote received Sophy's letter, she was breakfasting at
Dynehurst, alone with Gerald. She went very red under her light, morning
rouge, then pale. After some bitter remarks, through which her son sat
in silence, she said:
"I shall send for James Surtees." Mr. Surtees was the family solicitor.
"I am sure that as the probable heir we have some legal control over the
boy, in a case like this."
Gerald rose decidedly.
"I shouldn't use it if I had it," he said.
His mother rose, too.
"_I_ should," she said curtly.
They were standing face to face. Gerald's eyes wavered first. He looked
out of window over the rolling green of the Park to where the smoke from
the mining town blurred the pale horizon. Then he looked back at his
mother again. It was a gentle but bold look for him.
"I wouldn't if I were you, mother," he said gravely.
"No. There are many things that you leave undone, which would be done if
_you_ were _I_," she said in a harsh voice, turning away. "I shall write
to Surtees this afternoon."
But Lady Wychcote did not find her interview with Mr. Surtees very
consoling. He replied to her most pressing questions by quoting from
that Guardianship of Infants Act, which seemed to her to have been
passed chiefly for her annoyance. The meticulous legal phraseology of
the quoted sentences so got on her nerves that it was all she could do
to refrain from being rude to the solicitor. Mr. Surtees read from slips
that he had brought with him in reply to her urgent letter, asking
whether in such an instance as this the Court might not be willing to
appoint her as co-guardian with her grandson's mother. ".... When no
guardian has been appointed by the father, or if the guardian or
guardians appointed by the father is or are dead, or refuses or refuse
to act, the Court may, if it shall think fit, from time to time appoint
a guardian or guardians to act jointly with the mother."
"Well ... and in such a case as this?... where my grandson will grow up
with an American step-father?" she had asked eagerly.
"But your ladyship told me that Mrs. Chesney agreed to have her son
educated in England?"
"Yes," she admitted impatiently; "but suppose that she should change her
mind?"
"I think that we should have to await that event."
"But my...." (Lady Wychcote had almost said "my good man" in her extreme
irritation.) "But my dear Mr. Surtees, who can tell _what_ influence
this ... this American step-father may have on the child--even in a
year?"
"I venture to suggest that your ladyship is over-apprehensive," said Mr.
Surtees. "From my personal acquaintance with Mrs. Chesney, I feel
assured that she will allow no one to influence her son in any way that
could be harmful. But," he continued, "if by any unfortunate chance ...
er ... difficulties of ... of this kind should occur--the Court will
generally act in the way that it considers most beneficial for the
interest and welfare of the infant."
"Then, in case the mother's guardianship proved to be unsatisfactory,
the Court _would_ interfere?"
"I think there is no doubt about that."
With this, for the present, Lady Wychcote had to be content.
* * * * *
In the meantime Sophy's second wedding-day was drawing near. Mrs. Loring
was to come to Sweet-Waters for the marriage, but there were to be no
other guests. She arrived two days before. Every one liked her. And
Bobby approved of her. "I like Mr. Loring's _muvvah_...." he told Sophy.
His tone implied deep reticences on the subject of Mrs. Loring's son.
That evening, as Sophy bent over his crib to kiss him good-night, he
held her face down to his and said:
"Muvvah, do you love Mr. Loring more than me?"
Sophy dropped to her knees and caught him in her arms.
"No, darling! No, _no_! I love you both--not one better than the other."
Bobby clung fast to her. Then he whispered:
"S'posin' you had to choose 'right hand--lef' hand'?"
"My precious! People don't choose other people that way. You know, Bobby
darling, it's with hearts like the sky and the stars. There's room for
all the stars in the sky--there's room for all sorts of different loves
in one heart."
Bobby reflected a moment. Then he sighed.
"I reckon my heart ain't very big," he murmured. "It couldn't hold all
that. I reckon my heart's just fulled up with _you_, muvvah. I reckon
it's only got _one_ star in it."
Sophy crushed him to her. She kissed him in a passion of remorse for his
pathetic jealousy. Tears choked her. She held him until she thought that
he had fallen asleep. As she was stealing from the room, a clear little
voice called after her:
"If it _was_ 'right hand--lef' hand' with _any_body an' _you_--I'd
choose _you_, muvvah!"
She rushed back again, and this time she stayed with him long after he
was really asleep.
* * * * *
They were married and gone. Charlotte stood blowing her little nose
fiercely--sustained in her apprehensive grief only by Mammy Nan. The
Judge had driven to the station with Mrs. Loring.
"What do you think _really_, Mammy?" she got out at last. "Do you think
Miss Sophy will be happy?"
Mammy Nan, who was already taking off her gala apron and folding it
neatly for some future occasion, grunted noncommittally. Then she
snuffled sharply. She had been crying, too, but she scorned to blow her
nose openly like "Miss Cha'lt." Finally she said in a colourless voice:
"What Miss _Sophy_ mought call happy, _I_ moughtn't call happy."
"How do you mean, Mammy?"
"Well'um, Miss Chalt," replied the old negress dryly, "I is alluz ben
hev my 'pinion 'bout dat Sary in dee Bible a-honin' a'ter a baby at her
age. Hit sho' wuz a darin' thing tuh do. But hit 'pears like gittin' hit
made _her_ happy. T'ouldn't 'a' made _me_ happy--no, _ma'am_!"
She pinned the folded apron firmly together with her "Sunday" brooch,
taking both it and the unaccustomed collar off at once with a sigh of
relief.
"Now seein' as a young huzbun' is wuss trouble dan a young baby, how I
gwine prophesy 'bout Miss Sophy's happ'ness?" she concluded.
* * * * *
The magic spell held beautifully all through those bridal wanderings.
There was a real awe at the base of Loring's love for Sophy. Her
creative gift and the fact of her initiation into life's darker
mysteries, had a strange and subduing charm for him. His bridegroom mood
was still Endymion's. This reverence, as for a being familiar with
worlds unknown to him, lent his passion for her a certain, subtle
restraint which seemed to reveal Eros as the most exquisitely
considerate of all the gods.
On her return Sophy went to Sweet-Waters instead of going direct to
Newport. She could scarcely sleep that night on the train, for thinking
how soon she would hold her boy in her arms again. But Loring was more
keenly jealous of Bobby than ever. Marriage had brought this feeling to
a head.
The first thing Sophy saw as the train slowed down at Sweet-Waters
station was his little face, very pale, upturned to the car windows.
When she sprang off and caught him in her arms, he trembled so that he
could not speak for some moments.
Then he said earnestly, in a faint, beseeching voice:
"Muvvah--please don't leave me any more, for Jesus' sake. Amen."
Sophy, trembling herself, said:
"Never again, my darling. Never, never, as long as we both live."
Afterwards, when they were alone, Loring said to her:
"Don't you think you were mistaken to make the boy such a promise as
that?"
He did not look at her as he said this, but at his tie which he was
fastening before the glass.
"What promise?" said Sophy, not remembering for a moment.
"That you'd never leave him again. Things might happen to make it
necessary."
"Nothing could happen to make it necessary. I promised truly. I wouldn't
leave him again for anything on earth--not for anything...."
"Not even for me?" asked Loring. He was still looking at his tie, which
refused to slip into the right knot.
"That couldn't happen, dear. We shall always be together I hope."
"You can't tell...." said Loring. His voice was stiff.
Sophy came over beside him. She stood watching the reflection of his
nervous fingers in the glass for some minutes. She loved his hands. They
were long and slight, the fine bone-work showing clearly--sensitive,
self-willed hands. She thought how strange it was, that all the men she
had ever cared for had had fine hands. Even Cecil's, huge as they were,
had been well-moulded. Cecil ... how strange to think of Cecil's hands
while she watched these others.... Life was like that. The tangle of
memory made one thread pull another endlessly. She felt very sad all of
a sudden.
Loring did not say anything more. Presently he jerked the tie from about
his neck and threw it on the floor.
"Hell!" he said heartily.
Sophy laughed, then grew grave. His white face looked so
disproportionately furious to the cause of wrath. He snatched up another
tie and set to work again.
After a while Sophy said in a low voice:
"Morris ... don't you like Bobby?"
"Like him?... Of course I like him.... Damn this tie!"
Sophy waited a moment.
"Morris...."
"Well?"
"What is it, dear? What has vexed you?"
"I should think you could see that for yourself," he said impatiently,
raging with the second tie.
He had never been downright cross with her before. But Sophy understood.
She felt almost as tenderly to him as she had to Bobby on a like
occasion. But the sad feeling grew in her heart. They were jealous of
each other. Jealousy was a hideous guest at life's table. She sighed
unconsciously. He darted a swift glance at her. The droop of her head
touched him suddenly. He turned, catching her to him.
"Oh, Selene!" he groaned. "Don't you see? I'm just a low, mortal wretch
and I'm disgustingly, damnably jealous--that's all. Beautiful-- I swear
it.... I quake in my very vitals when I think that you may love that boy
more than me.... The child of another man--more than me." He held her
fiercely.
She put up her hand to his neck as she leaned against him.
"You needn't be afraid," she said softly. "I couldn't love any one more
than I love you, dear."
He had to be satisfied with this. He was afraid to ask if she loved him
more than she loved her son. But this was what he wanted. This was the
only thing that would satisfy him. And he was not only jealous of Bobby.
As he had said once before, he was jealous of the dead man--of Bobby's
father. This is perhaps the bitterest jealousy of all--the jealousy of
the dead who has once been dearest to what is now our dearest.