John Arundel was quite as "tactful" in speaking to Loring as he had
assured his wife that he would be. He merely took advantage of the
first opening and said in a by-the-way-my-dear-chap tone that a certain
guest then at Everstone was accustomed to a rather exaggerated homage,
and might, he feared, take umbrage if too often jested with. He said
that lions, especially aged lions, were not noted for their sense of
humour. He alluded to the fact that no less an one than Huxley had once
ventured to be playful in replying to the Personage in question, and had
received only a thunderous roar in return. That, in fact, the Personage
had never pardoned the Scientist for venturing to use irony in this
discussion. It was all said in the most casual way, and interspersed
with amusing examples of the Personage's unyielding sense of his own
not-to-be-trifled-with dignity. But Loring was very quick at taking
veiled meanings. He himself had feared that he had gone just a bit too
far on that occasion. Now he was sure of it. He gave no sign, but a
mortified resentment smouldered in him. He detested John Arundel. He
would have liked to blurt some rudeness and leave his house on the
instant. This civil, middle-aged Englishman reading him a lesson on
behaviour in the guise of anecdotes that characterised the peculiarities
of the celebrity whom he, Loring, had made too free with, filled him
with fierce indignation. His helpless wrath was trebled by the fact that
John Arundel was in the right, and managing a difficult thing with
consummate good-breeding. He had not been so angry in just such a way
since, when a boy of ten, his youngest uncle had boxed his ears for
speaking impertinently to his grandmother.
Pride kept him from mentioning the matter to Sophy, however. He only
said the next time that he saw her alone that he "guessed he'd had about
enough of the Lemon-groves of England, and would she please get a move
on for 'Home, sweet home.'"
Sophy knew from this speech that John Arundel had uttered the "word"
suggested by Olive. She also knew, from the harsh slang in which Loring
addressed her, that he was deeply incensed. He always used this sort of
language when irritated. But she gave no more sign of her real feeling
to him than he had given of his to Arundel. What was the use? She was
only too glad, too relieved, to be returning to America at short notice.
England seemed strange and distorted to her, viewed through the mental
atmosphere in which she now moved, like a familiar landscape changed by
the alchemy of an evil dream.
* * * * *
Sophy found a letter from Mrs. Loring awaiting her in New York. The poor
lady was at Nahant suffering from an acute attack of arthritis, with a
trained nurse in attendance.
As always, Loring was very restless and ill-at-ease in the presence of
sickness. He darted gingerly in and out of the sick-room twice a day,
like a nervous terrier investigating a thorny hedge-row. Mrs. Loring was
sweetly grateful for these flitting visits.
"Morry is always so dear and unselfish about telling me good morning and
good night when I am ill!" she said to Sophy. "He has always had a
horror of illness since his earliest childhood."
Sophy looked at her with wonder, and with a pitying regret. She recalled
Spencer's chapter on "Egoism versus Altruism." She thought how well it
would have been for Mrs. Loring and Morris, had his mother marked,
learned, and inwardly digested that chapter.
Mrs. Loring said that her chief regret at being ill just at present,
however, was that Eleanor and Belinda were arriving from France
to-morrow. "You see, this was to be Belinda's 'coming-out' season at
Newport, and I'm afraid Eleanor won't go to open the house without me.
She is very much attached to me," the poor lady ended, with restrained
pride. "I'm afraid she won't consent to leave me until I'm well again."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Sophy warmly. "And I shan't leave you,
either, until you're far better than you are now."
"Thanks, my dear. That is very, very sweet of you. But," she added
anxiously, "don't let Morry get an idea that I think I've any claim on
you. You know what was said: 'Forsaking father and mother'--I wouldn't
have my boy think that I would take his wife away from him, even for a
day, for my selfish pleasure."
"Oh, _dear_ Mrs. Loring!" cried Sophy. Both affection and exasperation
were in her voice. She put her cheek down against the long, feverish
hands. She wanted to shake and to "cuddle" the suffering lady at one and
the same time.
"You're a very sweet woman, my dear," said Grace Loring faintly. "I
assure you, I appreciate it that Morry has such a wife as you. He was
always so difficult. If only Eleanor would be sensible and take Belinda
to Newport. The child will be so disappointed! I confess this worries me
very much."
"But, dear Mrs. Loring, why should you worry? Even if Mrs. Horton won't
be a selfish pig and leave you here to suffer all by yourself? It's so
perfectly simple. Belinda can come to us."
"Would you?... Really?..."
Mrs. Loring had ventured to hope for this solution once--but the fear
that "Morry" might find it annoying had made her repress it. She now
added quickly:
"But you would have to find out--tactfully, my dear--indirectly, as it
were--whether Morry would object in any way."
"Why should Morris object, if I don't?" asked Sophy, a little brusquely.
"Ah, my dear ... men are very peculiar!" sighed Mrs. Loring, in reply to
this question. This phrase summed up her entire view of sexual
questions. Men were "very peculiar." All her married life had been spent
in adapting herself to the "peculiarities," first of her husband, then
of her son.
Sophy felt that all argument would be quite useless.
"I don't think Morris will mind at all," she said, in another voice.
"It's always gay and pleasant having a beautiful debutante in one's
house. It will make me really feel the 'young matron' that our journals
call me. Have you any photos of Belinda since last year? She was very
handsome then. She must be still prettier now."
"Eleanor sent me one taken of them together, about two weeks ago. It's
there--in my writing-table. The left-hand upper drawer...."
Sophy found the photograph, and took it to the window. Mrs. Horton was
seated, with Belinda standing just behind her. The photo showed how tall
the girl was--as tall as herself, Sophy thought she must be. And it gave
also the buoyant pose of her head, and fine athletic shoulders. But no
photograph could even indicate Belinda's extraordinary colouring or the
vivid mobility of her expression--and her beauty was largely a matter of
colouring and expression. Still, Sophy thought her very handsome
indeed.
When she told Morris that evening about her idea of having Belinda stop
with them in Newport, he looked startled at first, then glum. The fact
was, the memory of that kiss of two years ago "upset" him (as he would
have expressed it) whenever it was recalled to his mind. He had always
thought Belinda "a bit cracked." One never knew what she was going to
say or do next. The prospect of Belinda established upon his hearthstone
did not at all appeal to him.
"Oh, Lord! Why the devil did my mother have to choose the Newport season
for a spell of rheumatics?" he said crossly.
Sophy looked at him with real curiosity in her eyes. Then a desire which
she had long felt and often repressed got the better of her.
"Morris," she said, "has it ever occurred to you that you are very
selfish to your mother?"
"_I?_.... _Selfish_ ... to my _mother_?"
"Yes."
"'_Selfish_'?"
"Yes, really."
Loring exhaled a long breath.
"Well, I like that!" he remarked at last. "You do have the queerest
notions, Goddess. It seems to me I've done nothing for years but hike
down here to this rotten old place, just when I wanted to be doing
something else ... merely to please my mother--and now you calmly
suggest that I'm selfish to her!"
"And how long do you stay?"
"Why, you know as well as I do. A fortnight. A great deal longer than I
_like_ staying, I can assure you!"
"Two weeks out of every year...." said Sophy musingly. "It is a good
deal of time to spare a mother...."
Her eyes were dancing. She could not help it. He looked such a picture
of injured innocence.
Loring was utterly unabashed.
"It's really rather a shame of you, Sophy, to say I'm selfish to my
mother. You'd better not let _her_ hear you say it-- I'll give you
_that_ tip!"
"Don't worry. She'll never, never hear me say it. She'd be just as
astounded and outraged as you are, I'm sure--even more so."
Loring had to let it go at that. He contented himself with growling
sulkily:
"What all this has got to do with that little half-tamed leopardess
being quartered on us at Newport, I'm blessed if _I_ can see...."
"Only that it would please your mother immensely and take a great load
off her mind."
"Suppose you don't like the girl when you see her? She's as wild as a
hawk--or was two years ago."
"A leopardess and a hawk--that sounds interesting. I don't mind anything
but bad-temper."
"Oh, she's good-tempered enough when she's not riled. But a girl like
Belinda's a devilish responsibility. I don't take kindly to the notion,
I'm free to confess."
"Don't _you_ like her?"
"Ye-es," he admitted grudgingly. "It's only that she's such a handful."
"Well--we can but try it," said Sophy thoughtfully. She gave him one of
her warm, friendly smiles. "There's really nothing else for us to do,
Morris," she said. "Mrs. Horton can always be sent for if we can't
manage her. But perhaps she'll like me. Perhaps she won't be wilful and
wrong-headed at all. You see, eighteen is very different from sixteen."
Morris made a remark that was psychologically profounder than he knew.
"The Belinda sort never get 'different'; they only get more so...." he
said. "But I see your mind's made up.... Go ahead.... I only hope we
shan't both regret it."