She knocked at his dressing-room door, and Miss Webb, the trained nurse,
opened it. When she saw Sophy, she stepped aside, smiling, for her to
enter.
"My patient's doing _fine_, to-day," she said. "He's eat half a chicken,
and wants more. So I'm giving him the other half."
Sophy showed her the telegram, and asked if she thought Mr. Loring were
well enough to be consulted about a matter of importance. Something that
might perhaps agitate him. Miss Webb asked _how_ important it was. Sophy
replied that it was of the utmost importance. Miss Webb considered a
moment, then said:
"Well, if he's got to know it, morning's the best time. I guess he's
well enough not to have important things kept from him."
She held open the door and Sophy went through the dressing-room to
Loring's bedroom. Miss Webb opened that door also and called out in the
tone of artificial good cheer with which one addresses convalescents:
"Here's Mrs. Loring come to see you eat that other half, Mr. Loring!"
She withdrew, closing the door, and Sophy went over to where Loring sat
in an armchair with a tray on a little table before him.
He had swallowed a mouthful of broiled fowl with undue haste when he
heard Miss Webb's announcement, and now as Sophy advanced he gulped some
White Rock, partly to clear his throat, partly to cover his
embarrassment.
His face, pale and chastened by his recent attack, went to her heart.
There was in it something so boyish, so irresponsible. That mother-pity
welled in her. What she had determined on was going to hurt more even
than she had dreaded. Yet she knew that she would go through with it to
the end, no matter how it hurt. The pain of freeing herself from this
coil would be as nothing to the pain of remaining stifled and loathing
in it.
She drew up a chair and sat down on the other side of the little table.
"I'm so glad to see you so much better!" she said. "Please don't stop.
You make me feel that I've spoiled your appetite."
"No. I've finished," he said, pushing the plate from him.
He touched a little bell. Miss Webb appeared.
"Please take these things away," he said.
"Oh!..." she exclaimed, disappointed, as she lifted the tray. "You said
you could eat it all, and now you've left a whole drumstick!"
Loring reddened. Fool of a woman! She made him ridiculous with her
nursery expressions and concern as for a sick little boy who wouldn't
eat enough.
"Take it away!" he repeated sharply. "I'll ring again when I need you."
Miss Webb retreated, her eyes fixed regretfully on the neglected
"drumstick." When the door had closed again, he lifted his moody glance
with an effort to Sophy's face.
"It's rather good of you to come, I must say," he observed. "I thought
I'd be taboo for a long while...."
Sophy held out the telegram.
"It's from Charlotte," she said. "I shall have to go to Virginia
to-morrow."
He looked startled--glanced through the telegram. "What's up? What is
it?" he then asked. "It strikes me as rather high-handed to send you a
wire like this--without a word of explanation."
"I asked her to send it," said Sophy.
"You _asked_ her...."
"Yes--so that my going suddenly wouldn't be commented on."
He remained dumfounded, staring at her. Sophy returned his gaze steadily
and very gravely.
"Morris," she said, "has it really not occurred to you that I wouldn't
remain longer in this house than I could help?"
His stare grew quite bewildered, a little frightened.
"In ... _this_ house...?" he stammered.
"In any house of yours, Morris."
Now his lips whitened. Sophy felt sick. But she had to go through with
it--she _had_ to....
"What am I to understand by that?" he asked at last, his voice husky.
"Ah! I'm sorry...." she said, her own voice quivering. "But ... it's the
end.... It's all ... over...."
"What is?" he asked; but he knew already.
"Our life together," she answered.
He said nothing, just sat there looking down at the bit of yellow paper
in his hands, which he folded and refolded with the utmost nicety. Then
he asked:
"Do you suppose that I'll take this seriously?"
"I hope you will."
"Well, I don't, and I won't, by God!" he retorted, in a sort of fierce
whisper, and the violent words sounded strange uttered in that
whispering voice.
Sophy sat still, her eyes on his.
"Morris," she said, "do you think that I will ever be your wife again,
after what you said to me the other day? After what you accused me of?"
The blood rushed into his face, up to the very roots of his hair.
"I was mad.... I didn't know what I was saying----"
"You knew well what you were saying.... You were only mad with rage....
I can never forgive those words--never really forgive them. There's some
part of me that _cannot_ forgive them."
He looked at her doggedly. His face was a mask of obstinacy.
"What did I say?" he demanded. "I've forgotten.... I was beside myself,
I tell you.... What were those unforgivable words?"
Sophy did not reply at once; then she said softly, on a deep breath:
"Oh ... _Morris!_..."
He flared red again, set his jaw. All at once he relaxed. There came a
kind of hopeful bravado into his voice.
"It's no use," he said. "You can't get me to believe any such thing as
this. But you've given me a bad jolt--if that's any satisfaction. I
suppose what you're after is to discipline me a bit. That's why you've
rounded on me like this.... Well, I'll admit I've deserved it. But if
you only knew how that little demon worked on me ... damn her!"
He brought his fist down on the arm of his chair several times.
"Damn her! Damn her!" he kept repeating back of his locked teeth.
Now Sophy reddened.
"Don't...." she exclaimed, in revolt. "Don't lay the blame on a woman
... a girl...."
"Why shouldn't I lay it where it belongs?"
"Then lay it on yourself," she retorted, with passion. "Take the blame
like a man ... let me remember you as acting like a man ... not like a
spoiled child...."
"A 'spoiled child,' am I?"
"Yes, Morris, yes.... And that makes me patient with you. You haven't
had half a chance--no, not from boyhood. And I ... I've helped.... Oh,
do you think ... do you _dream_ ... that if it hadn't been for that, I'd
have stayed one moment under your roof after you said those vile,
unspeakable things to me? Don't you understand?... It is over.... I am
going back to my own home. I will never live with you again....
Never.... Never!"
Still he did not believe her--he could not. He said sullenly at last:
"Well--go to your precious Virginia. I'll come there later when you've
simmered down a bit. Then we can talk of things rationally." He stopped,
and added with surly but genuine feeling: "I suppose you know I'm
damnably sorry and all that.... I apologise ... humbly. I ... I ...
acted like a cad to you, and that's a fact...."
He paused, as if waiting for her to say something. She said nothing. He
blustered on:
".... But when you mentioned divorce to me in that cool way.... By
God!... I _did_ go crazy.... I'll swear I did.... And that little fiend
had...."
"Don't, Morris...." she said again.
"But I tell you I was a lunatic for the moment...."
"No, Morris ... it's no use ... it's no use...."
"And that cursed Italian chap!..."
Sophy's eyes grew hard.
"The Marchese Amaldi is an old and dear friend of mine," she said;
"please don't vilify him to me."
Loring had a flash of rage; then controlled himself.
"Well--I guess that subject _had_ better be dropped between us," he
admitted shamefacedly.
Sophy, looking at him quietly, said:
"Another thing that I have to tell you is that Amaldi is coming here
this afternoon. He will come about half-past six. I wish to see him
before I go to Virginia. I asked him to come."
"Oh, all right ... all right ... of course," Loring replied, in a rather
foolish voice.
"I shall take Bobby and Rosa with me to Sweet-Waters," Sophy continued.
"Mr. Grey will follow in a day or two after he has seen that the
household and accounts are all in order. We went over the accounts
together this morning. I am also leaving directions with him about a few
other things. He will hand you certain keys. You had better have the
jewels taken to the bank at once."
Loring looked rather staggered. He forced a smile.
"I say...." he protested. "You _are_ laying it on a bit thick, you
know...."
He had again that boyish look which so hurt her--there was in his
forced smile the sort of timid, ingratiating air that a dog has when it
knows that it is muddy and yet wishes to jump up on the most cherished
chair.
She said hurriedly:
"I shall have to dress now. I've told Simms that I'm at home this
afternoon...."
She went out.
Loring stood a moment, looking at the telegram which he still pinched
and twisted in his cold fingers. All at once he sank down, laying his
face on his arm and his arm on the little table. His hands were
tight-clenched.
"Oh, Lord, what a fool I've been!..." he groaned. "What a double-damned
fool!..."
But he did not believe for one instant that Sophy's words were final. He
did not for the most fleeting atom of time give credence to the idea
that she meant to break with him entirely and for good.
* * * * *
Sophy waited for Amaldi in the "little music-room." It was nearly
September. In the last two days the mornings and evenings had grown
chilly, so she had had a log fire kindled in the big chimney-place. The
shadows leaped elfishly upon the bare, clear walls, as though shaken
with silent laughter. The fire-gleams flickered over the glossy case of
the piano until it glowed like a black opal. White chrysanthemums thrust
their pretty dishevelled heads into the dance of gloom and shine. The
room was fresh with their bitter-sweet, autumn scent.
Sophy loved this room. She looked around it with regret, as she stood
waiting for Amaldi. Bit by bit she had thought it out. She had spent
many hours alone in it. Here Amaldi had made that wonderful music for
her. She tried to recall it as she waited for him. Phrases came ...
melted away. It was like trying to hold snow-crystals in one's hands.
Then his words came back to her:
".... By the window of a Castle on the North Sea, sits a beautiful, ill
woman.... Love brought her to the Castle ... then Love died ... but
Love's ghost wanders through the empty halls...."
Had Amaldi really guessed?... Did he know?... Had he known when he said
those words--when he played that music to her? She stood gazing into the
spark-broidered violet of the flames from the driftwood fire. How much
had he divined? Somehow, she felt that he knew.
And she did not mind his knowing. It would make him understand all that
was to follow.... How strange that, after all her passionate, wild
dreams, friendship and not love should be what life had to give her!
As Amaldi came towards her through the firelight, she thought that his
face looked set and rather strange. She said as she gave him her hand:
"I sent for you because I didn't want to write 'good-by.' It may be a
long time before we see each other again."
"May I know how long?" he asked, in a low voice.
"I don't know that myself," she answered. "Perhaps a year ... perhaps
longer. It ... it depends. But ... afterwards, I shall be in England
with Bobby."
"Ah!" said Amaldi.
They stood silent, looking into the fire. Then he said abruptly:
"May I write to you?"
"Of course, Amaldi." Her lip quivered suddenly. She added in a rather
uncertain voice:
"I haven't so many real friends that I could be indifferent about
hearing from one of them."
Amaldi said slowly without looking at her:
"I shall try to be your friend.... I shall try not to fail you."
"As if you could fail any one!"
Now he looked at her with a very curious expression--as he had looked at
her the evening he played for her. He hesitated a moment; then the words
rushed:
"Forgive me ... but it's not an easy thing to be the friend of the woman
one has loved.... Are you very angry with me?"
It came like a real shock to Sophy. Her absorption in her own troubles
had blinded her to this possibility. She could not think of the right
word to say--murmured nervously: "No ... no. I'm not angry ... only...."
"'Only'?" he took it up.
With tears in her eyes, she said:
"Oh, Amaldi ... your friendship meant so much to me!... It meant so
much!..."
This cut him cruelly. He exclaimed with passion:
"How can you speak as if it were past ... over?... I'm honest with you.
I confess that it is a struggle for me ... to feel ... to act only as
your friend. But I tell you that I shall try ... and you turn from
me...."
"No, Amaldi.... No.... That isn't just ... it isn't fair...."
"You said 'meant' ... that my friendship meant much to you ... as if it
were over...."
"No, no. But I...."
She broke off, and they stood in unhappy silence. Then all at once she
turned to him.
"Listen, Amaldi," she said impetuously. "I can't tell you ... but if you
knew...."
"I do know," he said.
They stood silent again. At last she said, under her breath:
"Then ... if you know ... you must feel that everything is over for me
... but friendship.... You must feel that.... The mere idea of ...
'love'...."
She broke off again, shivering.
Amaldi said in a constrained voice:
"I was not speaking of you, but of myself. I don't think that you can
imagine how intensely I want to be a real friend to you. As I said, not
to fail you...."
"And you think," she returned, her lips again quivering, "that I would
take your friendship at such cost to you? You think I'm as selfish ...
as unfeeling as that?"
Amaldi looked at her almost indignantly. "You know I think nothing but
the highest of you," he said. Then his voice shook, the look in his eyes
changed. "Forgive me...." he said. "It's I who am selfish."
But Sophy couldn't speak. She put up one hand to shield her face from
him, and he saw that her wedding ring was gone. He flushed, struggled
with himself; then, going close to her, he said in a vehement whisper:
"I will be what you want ... only what you want. And if the time comes
when ... when I find I can't hold out ... I will tell you, and go away."
Still she could not speak. She held out her other hand to him in
silence. The tears were running over down her face.
He took her hand, hesitated a moment; then lifted it to his lips.
"I swear that I will be your true friend," he said.
She put up the hand that he had kissed with the other, over her face.
"Go now...." she managed to whisper.
"But you believe me? You will still call me your friend?"
"Yes ... my dear, dear friend."
He went quickly from the room. He vowed to himself that he would be her
true friend at no matter what cost to his own feelings. But he had never
loved her as he loved her in that hour. And underneath it all there was
hope, hope, hope---- He could wait. Yes, he could wait long years more,
if need be.