The more Sophy thought of this visit to England, the more she shrank
from it and the more obligatory she felt it to be. She dreaded it for
many reasons. The meeting with Lady Wychcote would be painful in the
extreme. She could imagine those hard eyes as though they were already
fastened on her. And then Morris--how would Lady Wychcote behave to
Morris, should they be thrown together? How, indeed, would Morris behave
to Lady Wychcote? Sophy hoped ardently that he would not go with her.
She hoped it, not only on this account, but because it seemed dreadful
to her that she should appear in London again, after five years of
absence, as the wife of another man. She had left England in the dignity
of a great tragedy; she would return to it as the wife of an American
millionaire, "ages younger than she is, my dear." And Morris--how would
Morris seem, thus transplanted? He had been to England before, of
course; but he knew few of the people among whom her lot there had been
cast. His English acquaintances were all of the ultra sporting sort.
She tried to fancy him at lunch or dinner with the Arundels. What would
he make of that political and literary atmosphere?
But what filled her with the keenest dread of all, when facing the
possibility of Morris's going with her, was the fact of his constant
drinking. Here in America it was the custom of his class and set. But
there--no. Some Englishmen were "hard drinkers," certainly--but it was
the exception and not the rule.
But then again--perhaps all this anxiety on her part was quite useless.
Most probably Morris would dislike the idea of spending a month in
England, just when polo on Long Island was at its best. She determined
to put it to him that evening. She did so as they drove home from the
opera.
He lowered at first, then suddenly became amiable. Sophy's heart sank.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Now that I think of it, I rather
like the idea. It will be bully fun showing you off to those highbrow
Britishers as Mrs. Morris Loring of New York!-- I've had it rubbed in on
the raw often enough, that you were formerly 'the Honourable Mrs. Cecil
Chesney.'"
* * * * *
They sailed for England on the last day of April. Loring was in his best
mood. Sophy felt as if in a queer spiritual catalepsy. It was as if
Destiny had clutched her in a numbing grasp and bundled her hither and
thither against her will.
Lady Wychcote was settled in her house in Carlton Gardens for the
Season, and the morning after Sophy's arrival she took Bobby to see his
grandmother. Her ladyship's face had aged somewhat, but her figure was
as young as ever. She came forward with hand extended, and said "How
d'ye do?" as though she and Sophy had parted only yesterday. Then she
sat down and drew Bobby to her knees.
"So you are Robert Chesney, eh?" she asked.
The boy looked up into her face.
"Yes, grandmother," he said gravely.
"And of what are you thinking when you stare at me with such solemn
eyes?" she went on, trying to smile and speak naturally. There was
something in the boy's whole air and appearance so like his father that
she was much shaken by it.
Bobby had one of those direct impulses of childhood that resemble
inspiration.
"I was thinking that you're a quite young lady to be a grandmother," he
replied politely.
This was the beginning of a real friendship between the two, for Lady
Wychcote also had an inspiration. She rose abruptly, went to her
escritoire, and unlocking a little drawer, took out a small parcel
wrapped in silver paper.
"Robert," she said, "I think that what I'm going to give you will please
you very much." And now a very human, kindly smile flickered over her
thin lips as she added: "At least, it would please me if I were a
little boy. It's dangerous, it's real, and it's something a real man has
used."
Bobby took it from her. His face went pale with excitement. His fingers
fumbled over the wrapping in his eagerness.
"Is it ... is it ... a spear?" he managed.
"A good guess," said his grandmother; "but not _quite_ right...."
Then the last layer of paper came away, and in his hands was a little
Arab dagger, in a sheath crusted with coral and turquoise. He went red
now--and when he drew out the blade, and saw that it was indeed real and
dangerous, he had a breathless moment of utter stillness, then turned
and threw himself into Lady Wychcote's arms.
"Oh, thank you ... _thank_ you!" he cried. "I think you must be the most
splendid grandmother in the world!"
"It was your father's, when he was a lad ... like you," she murmured
rather indistinctly. As so often happens in life, the recrudescence of
maternal feeling for this grandson was stronger than what she had
originally felt for her own sons.
Sophy was relieved and glad over the turn that things had taken. She had
feared that the two strong wills might clash in some unfortunate way,
even at first.
When, later, Lady Wychcote suggested that the boy had "_rather_ an
American accent," and that an English tutor would, in her opinion, be
"advisable," Sophy acquiesced at once and said that she intended going
to Oxford to consult Cecil's old tutor, Mr. Greyson, on the subject.
* * * * *
That same afternoon, Gerald called at Claridge's to see Sophy and his
nephew. Bobby approved of his Uncle Gerald. Not so Loring, who came in
a few minutes before Lord Wychcote left.
"Great Scott! _What_ a 'lemon'!" he exclaimed, as the door closed. "I
guess Bobby will be a lord some day all right-o."
"Ah, please don't, Morris!" Sophy said. "Gerald is one of the best
friends I've ever had."
"'Friend'!" cried Loring, going into peals of laughter. "'Friend' is
good. Why, he's so gone on you that a blind man could see it.
Lemon-Squash--that's what he is. He's so sweet on you he isn't just
plain lemon."
And from that hour, Loring never alluded to Gerald Wychcote as anything
but "Lemon-Squash."
As soon as she knew that Sophy was in England, Olive Arundel rushed to
see her. She was really fond of Sophy. It made not the slightest
difference that they had exchanged only four or five letters in six
years. The old friendship was taken up exactly where it had been dropped
through force of circumstance. So it was with all of Sophy's other
friendships. English people are like this. It is one of their most
delightful traits.
But Olive was frankly curious about Loring. She was dying to see him,
she said. She was _so_ keen to see the man that had made Sophy forget
her "twagic life with poor, dear Cecil."
Sophy flushed and laughed a little too. And she felt also like weeping.
Olive brought the past to her more vividly than anything had done as
yet--even her meeting with Lady Wychcote. She had changed very little.
Her figure and face were both fuller, but still very lovely. She used as
many gestures, as much perfume, as ever--yet she was every inch a
lady--even a great lady.