When Sophy had realised the full meaning of Loring's confused, frenzied
words, she had felt in addition to her unspeakable indignation and
disgust, a strange sensation as of something withering and falling away
from her. At the same time, in the depths of her, there was a quick
clench like the snap of a vise. And she knew that this gin had set upon
the past--upon her long forbearance; that inevitably, implacably her
whole being had revolted, had set itself in that vise-like lock against
all future temporising. It was over--done with. Her life with Morris
Loring was as past as though they had lived it in another age, on
another planet. She knew that she would be inflexible. Her mood might
soften, pity might rise murmuring. She, herself--her very self of
self--would never change--could not change indeed. It was her inmost
being--her realest self--that had locked thus vise-like.
Had she desired to with all her might she could not have dragged it
open. One may not love, or hate, or even be wroth at will. Here her will
was powerless, or rather, this _was_ her will, the irresistible law of
her nature acting with a sort of divine mechanism--as undefiable as the
law of gravitation.
Under this revelation of personality acting in utter disregard of the
person--of any wish or will of the ratiocinating individual--she rested
breathless. Quite independently of her reason or her conscious will,
this inmost, vital nature had solved all, come to an immutable
resolution. "I will be free. I _am_ free," it had announced. "I have a
supreme right to be myself. I refuse further humiliation. I repudiate
further self-sacrifice."
In the vigorous reaction of her whole being, she wondered at her past
meekness, as at the unworthy subservience of another. How had she borne
it all so long? _Why_ had she borne it? She had behaved towards Morris
just as his parents and relatives had behaved from his childhood. She
had criticised them unsparingly in her thought, and all the time, she,
too, had been victimising herself that he might be content, untroubled,
indulged, easy in his boundless egotism.
When she thought of her long patience in certain matters, she shrivelled
with shame. Reaction is a terrible exaggerater. Under its influence
Sophy saw herself as a wretched puppet sewn together of rags of
sentiment. If at the first she had been courageous, if she had said to
him fearlessly: "Either things must be different or we must part," how
much better it would have been than this long-suffering condonement of
what she despised!
What was it in her nature, what hidden spring that had led her to act
Griselda to two such men as Chesney and Loring? She knew herself
fundamentally imperious, impulsive, not to be commandeered. Why, then,
had she coerced herself to sit meekly in two houses of bondage, and for
long, long years?
She wondered and wondered over it. Yet the answer was very simple. She
was tender-hearted, and she was one of the women who watch long by the
sepulchre of Love, lest perchance he may be not dead but sleeping, and
she not there to roll away the stone.
She gave up trying to solve the riddle of her own state at last, and set
to work to put her thoughts in order.
First of all, then, she must be free again.
To be free she must be true--quite truthful. This made her shrink. But
the pain would be only temporary. His nature could not long sustain any
emotion. Besides, such pain as he would feel would come from wounded
pride and jealousy, not from love.
She must go away. She would write Charlotte a letter asking her to send
a telegram requiring her (Sophy) to come at once to Sweet-Waters, "on a
matter of importance." Harold Grey, Bobby, and Rosa should go with her.
Then her mind checked again. She must have an interview with Belinda.
This was an odious necessity, but unescapable. Sophy had certain things
to say to Belinda. That done, she would leave at once for Virginia.
Suddenly a new thought halted her. She remembered Amaldi. She could not
leave like this, without even a good-by. Should she write? But what then
could she write? Perhaps it would be best to see him for a few moments.
Yes. That would be best. And yet her heart swelled painfully at the
thought. Amaldi was too near her with his idealising friendship for her
to treat him with absolute convention. And she could not speak out to
him.... Or, _could_ she? No, that was impossible. Still, it would be
better to see him. She owed him and herself that much.
It was the day after Loring's outbreak. His fever was high. Sophy had
sent for James Griffeth, the family physician of the Lorings. He had
been quite frank. "A collapse from alcohol and over-excitement," he
pronounced it.
She shivered uncontrollably. Griffeth begged her to go and rest. She
said that she would, and when he had left went thoughtfully upstairs.
She had to pass Loring's door on the way to her own room. She paused,
startled, just before reaching it. Belinda was standing close to it, the
knob in her hand. The door was open on a crack. Evidently some one also
had hold of the knob on the other side. The door swayed to and fro in
little jerks. Belinda was speaking in a hoarse, passionate whisper.
"I _will_ come in.... Let me in this minute--you impertinent woman!" she
was saying.
Sophy came forward. She could now see the white cap and flushed face of
the trained nurse. She heard her answer:
"You can't come in.... It's the doctor's orders.... Nobody but Mrs.
Loring can come in.... Please let go the door...."
"Belinda...." said Sophy, now close to her.
She wheeled like an angry cat.
"Come with me, please, for a moment," said Sophy.
The nurse had shut the door. Belinda, after a side-glance at it, jerked
up her chin and followed Sophy, defiance in every vigorous line of her.
Sophy led the way into her writing-room and closed the door. She stood,
and Belinda stood facing her. The girl was scarlet and Sophy very pale.
"Belinda...." she began.
Words leaped like flames from Belinda.
"Oh, I know you saw us!" she said. "He loves me.... What are you going
to do about it?"
Sophy's eyes were so almost smilingly scornful that the girl's bravado
failed her. She began changing colour. Her black brows scowled, but she
held her tongue.
"I wished to speak to you about ... your mother," said Sophy quietly.
Belinda scowled on without a word.
"I think, that for ... every one concerned ... it will be better for
your mother to know nothing of all this ... at present."
Belinda kept silence.
"So I am going to ask you to go back to Nahant to-morrow. As soon as
Morris is better, I shall have to go to Virginia on an important matter.
You cannot remain here alone. If you go quietly, there will not be any
need of my speaking to your mother. Tell her that your visit has been
shortened by my leaving for Virginia."
Now Belinda burst forth again:
"Oh, I see!... Morry may be dying and you want him all to yourself!...
You don't want us to be together ... even if he's dying.... You...."
"Not another word...." said Sophy.
Her eyes sobered Belinda. Grey eyes are the most terrible of all when
utter wrath lights them. Belinda glared into those burning eyes and was
silent again. Sophy went to the door and held it open.
"That is all I wished to say. Do as you choose. If you do not go, I
shall send for your mother."
Belinda gave her one look of wild hatred, and went out. The next day she
left for Nahant. She was quite desperate with rage and grief, but she
dared not do otherwise. She dared not risk being separated from Morris
by some distance far greater than that between Nahant and Newport. If
her mother knew what had happened, she might whisk her off to the ends
of the earth. Rage, pain, doubt, fear, jealousy--all these swarmed
stinging in her heart.
The next day Morris was much better, but still too weak to talk. Sophy
went in and out of the room at stated intervals. He always closed his
eyes and feigned sleep when she was there. He could not face her or
himself. He tried not to think. But thoughts, sharp and burning, clotted
in his mind like sparks against the dark side of a chimney.
On the fourth day came the telegram from Charlotte. Loring was now
sitting up in his bedroom. Griffeth said that on the morrow he could go
out. Sophy gave orders to have some necessary things packed. She had
decided to leave the next night by boat. How was she to see Amaldi? More
and more she felt that she must say farewell to him. People had been
coming to inquire about Loring. She had not seen any callers since his
illness, but to-day she decided to receive them--and in the morning she
sent a note to Amaldi. She told him that she had to leave suddenly for
an indefinite period. "I am seeing my friends to-day," she wrote. "If
you will come about half-past six this afternoon we can have a quiet
talk."
Then she took Charlotte's telegram in her hand and went to Loring's
rooms.