The only regret that Sophy felt for not living part of the time in
London was on account of her friendship with Amaldi. It would have been
so much easier for her to see him constantly had she been in town. But
then Breene was not so far away. He could easily spend a day with her
now and then. Susan's presence would make such visits perfectly proper.
In his last letter he had said that he would be in England about the end
of April. The symphonies that had met with such acclaim in Dresden were
now to be given in London.
Sophy looked forward with more and more of that odd mingling of dread
and pleasure to seeing him again. She had found the attempt to realise
ideals but a tragic business. And the ideal that she had of their
friendship was very high.
But from the first day that Amaldi spent with her at Breene, she knew
that her doubts had all been unfounded. Their friendship when together
again was more perfect than ever, for the slight constraint that she had
so often felt underneath his spoken words seemed quite gone. He talked
with her now almost as freely as he had written in those letters that
she so treasured. And there was something different, also, in his look,
his voice, a naturalness, as it were a relaxing of some inner tension.
She did not realise that never before had Amaldi known her as a free
woman. Always before she had belonged to some one else. Now she was her
own. What she gave him no one else had any right to. The relief and the
joy that he had in this knowledge made him seem another man even to
himself at this time. It was enough for the time being to realise the
inviolateness of all her sanctities. This realisation was so wonderful
that it stayed for a while the sharp urge of love, and filled the
vacancies of absence with a sense of triumph.
As for the little household--Sue Pickett, Bobby, Harold Grey--they all
liked Amaldi heartily. And as other friends, both men and women, often
"spent a day" at Breene with Sophy, Miss Pickett had no cause to worry
over "appearances," as she had frankly feared that she might have to.
Still ... Sue was not _quite_ easy in her heart over the situation. As
she had declared, she did believe in friendship between men and
women--but not so very much in a friendship between a man and woman as
young and attractive as these two.
Then one day something happened to make her really apprehensive. It was
about the end of June. Amaldi and Sophy were in the rose-garden. Through
an archway in the yew hedge Susan could see them as she sat with her
embroidery under one of the big beeches on the lawn. Sophy was cutting
roses. As she cut them she laid them in a basket that Amaldi held for
her. The sunlight on her thin white gown, and the red and pink and
yellow roses that kept tossing into the basket, gave an effect of
light-hearted happiness. Sophy's black sash only heightened this
impression. It was as though grief had shrunk to the size of a narrow
riband.
And as Sue sat there thinking this, she heard the chugging of a motor,
and there was Lady Wychcote sweeping round the lawn, all in black from
top to toe, the reverse, as it were, of that bright, sun-washed picture
framed by the yew hedge.
Susan had not met Lady Wychcote before, but she guessed in an instant
who it was. She went forward, her back pringling with the consciousness
of the sunny tableau upon which it was turned.
Lady Wychcote was inclined to be gracious. She had heard of Miss Pickett
from Sophy of course. So very good of her to take pity on poor Sophy's
solitude. And just as she was saying this, she caught sight of the two
in the rose garden. Susan knew that she had seen them by the sudden
stiffening of her figure, even before she lifted her _face-a-main_ in
that direction.
"Who is that with Sophy?" she asked rather abruptly.
"Oh ... an old friend," replied Susan, and the moment the words were
uttered she wished them back. They sounded excuse-making somehow. She
added quickly: "The Marchese Amaldi."
"Ah?... 'An old friend'?" repeated Lady Wychcote. "I've not met him I
think. What did you say the name was?"
"Amaldi.... The Marchese Marco Amaldi...."
"Wait a bit...." said Lady Wychcote. "Though I don't know him, the name
seems familiar." She repeated it once or twice: "Amaldi ... Amaldi...."
Then she looked quickly at Susan. "Is he by any chance the man whose
music has been so much discussed this season?"
"Yes--the same," said Susan.
"Ah ... now I place him. They were talking of him at dinner last night.
He has an impossible wife, it seems, that he can't get rid of."
"The Marchese is separated from his wife. There's no divorce in Italy, I
believe," said Susan.
"That must seem odd to an American," observed Lady Wychcote in her
dryest tone.
Susan resented this tone and the remark, but made no reply.
Her ladyship was again looking towards the garden through her
_face-a-main_.
"He's a very good-looking young man, is he not?" she said at last.
"Yes," assented Susan.
"He comes quite often I suppose?"
Susan looked straight at her.
"What would you call often?" she asked.
"Ah--you're annoyed," said Lady Wychcote coolly; "but the fact is, that
a young woman in Sophy's position can't be too careful. In England,
among people of our class, there's still a strong feeling against
divorce. As an American you could hardly realise how deep-rooted this
feeling is. I think it right to tell you of it."
"Thanks," said Susan. She turned towards the rose-garden. "If you will
come with me...." she suggested, moving forward as she spoke.
But Lady Wychcote made no move to follow her.
"By the way, do you happen to know where my grandson is?" asked she.
"With his tutor. They've ridden over to Carbeck Castle. A picnic with
Lady Towne's children and Mrs. Arundel's little boy. But if you'll
follow me, Lady Wychcote, I'll go and tell Sophy that you're here...."
"No. Wait, please," said the other quickly. "I'd like to talk a bit more
with you first."
Susan drew forward a wicker chair. Lady Wychcote seated herself, and
Susan, following her example, took up her embroidery again. But her
fingers felt very nervous. It seemed to her that she had never heard
those two in the garden talk and laugh so gaily and incessantly.
"You know Mrs. Arundel, I believe?" now enquired the other, in her
chill, brittle voice.
"Yes. She kindly helped me to get this home ready for Sophy."
"You like her?"
The question was a sneer.
"Very much," said Susan rather sharply. She flushed with vexation as she
spoke.
Lady Wychcote noticed this flush and divined its cause, but continued
with undisturbed composure.
"I'm sorry to seem captious," said she, "but I confess that I'm sorry to
hear you say so. In my opinion, Mrs. Arundel is not at all a fitting
friend for my daughter-in-law, especially in her present position."
Susan remained silent. She felt too irritated to trust herself.
"I see that you resent what I say," Lady Wychcote took it up again. "But
you're probably unaware that Mrs. Arundel's looseness of morals is a
matter of common knowledge."
Susan put down her embroidery.
"I don't know anything about that, Lady Wychcote," said she firmly. "I
only know that she's been very, very kind to Sophy. I think, if you
don't mind, I'll call Sophy now. I'd rather you said these things direct
to her."
She rose as she spoke, and went off to the garden before her ladyship
could protest.
"Hateful, hateful woman!" thought Susan as she went; "... ready to think
evil of every one." But all the same she felt uneasy and perturbed.
Suppose that Lady Wychcote should use that acrid tongue of hers in
starting gossip about Sophy? But then she would hardly care to do such a
thing in regard to the mother of her only grandson! Still--one never
knew how such spiteful natures would act. Susan felt thoroughly upset.
She was somewhat reassured by the calmness with which Sophy took the
news of her mother-in-law's unexpected visit.
"Motored over?" said she. "Then she must be stopping with the Hiltons.
But I thought she wasn't going there until July."
Susan was further relieved to find that Lady Wychcote was very civil
indeed to Amaldi. She seemed to find him interesting. They talked
together quite a while. When she was leaving, she said to Sophy:
"You must let Robert come to me for a day, while I am with Mary Hilton,
Sophy. I shall be there a week longer." Then she turned to Amaldi.
"While you are stopping in the neighbourhood," said she, "it would be
very kind of you to come and let me hear a little of the music that
every one is talking of, Marchese. My mourning keeps me out of town this
year."
Amaldi said that he would be delighted to call on her ladyship, only
that he was not stopping in the neighbourhood, and was returning to town
that afternoon.
"Ah?" she said, with a look of faint surprise. And this "Ah?" renewed
all Susan's uneasiness. To her it seemed so plainly to say: "What! you
come all the way from London to call on my daughter-in-law? Then things
are even more serious than I thought."
That evening, after Amaldi had gone, she told Sophy bluntly of her
misgivings. Sophy was annoyed but not apprehensive.
"She dislikes me, Sue, and she has a bitter tongue--but somehow I don't
think she'd go as far as _that_...."
"Why not?" asked Sue, who was beginning more and more to think that in
any matter Lady Wychcote would go just as far as she chose.
"Well ... after all I'm Bobby's mother.... Why should she slander her
only grandson's mother? What possible good could it do her?"
"I don't know," Susan said uncertainly. "But somehow I feel afraid of
her ... for you...."
"Oh, I've taken care of myself with her ladyship before now!" retorted
Sophy lightly.
Susan still brooded.
"I'd be awfully careful, Sophy, child, if I were you."
"How 'careful'--old Mother Misery?" smiled Sophy, slipping an arm about
her shoulders.
Susan looked straight at her as she had looked at Lady Wychcote that
morning.
"I'd be careful about ... Amaldi," said she bluntly.
Sophy's arm dropped. Rather coldly she said:
"In what way?"
"I think ... perhaps ... yes-- I think you'd better not let him come
here so often, honey."
Her tone pleaded for indulgence, but was also firm with conviction.
Sophy was still rather cold in manner.
"You mean you think I'd better sacrifice a beautiful, harmless
friendship to the whim of a sour old woman?" asked she.
Sue didn't retreat.
"I think you'd better not give that 'sour old woman' the least
scrimption of cause to gossip about you," she replied.
"You'd have me mould my life on Lady Wychcote's ideas?"
Susan put her hand very lovingly on the dark head.
"Now, lamb ... don't be huffy with your old Sue," she said. "I only want
you to be very, very careful how you cross that old tyrant's
prejudices.... I've one of the strongest feelings I ever had in my life
that you'd regret it."
Sophy looked at her with grey eyes dark and defiant.
"Sue...." she said, "I'll never, never, never give up one atom of my
friendship with Marco Amaldi for anybody or anything."
What more could Susan say--at least just then. She went to bed a very
disturbed, unhappy woman.
Towards the end of the week Sophy sent Bobby over to the Hiltons' for a
day, as she had promised. He returned that evening in quite an agitated
state of mind. He rather enjoyed being with his grandmother
occasionally. As he told Sophy: "I don't like Granny much--but I almost
love her sometimes--when she's telling me 'bout father, and what a great
man he would have been if he'd lived--and what jolly things all my
grandfathers did for England. I think Granny's something like machinery.
You're awful interested in it ... but you don't want to get too near to
it."
This evening the cause of his excitement was shown plainly by his
remarks to his mother when she went in to "tuck him up."
"I tell you what it is, mother," said he. "It's a awful responsibility
for a chap having not to disappoint his mother or his only gran'mother,
either of 'em. Now I was just thinkin'--Granny's so set on my bein' a
statesman--and you'd like me to be a great writer. Well-- _I might be
both!_ Dizzy was, you know. Don't you think if I was a great novelist
and Prime Minister, both at once, that would be a solution?"
Sophy hugged him and replied with perfect gravity that she thought it
would certainly be "a solution."
"Well, I'm glad," sighed Bobby, settling back upon his pillow. "'Cause
if you _hadn't_ thought so, I don't think I'd have slept a wink
to-night. I'll write Granny first thing to-morrow. She's leaving after
lunch. She told me to be sure to tell you so you'd send your letters to
her at Dynehurst when you wrote."
But three days later, about six o'clock in the afternoon, a motor from
the Hiltons' swept again round the lawn at Breene, and in this motor was
Lady Wychcote.
This time, it happened to be Sophy and Amaldi who were sitting out under
the big beech. Bobby was there, too. He was leaning with both arms on
Amaldi's knee, and looking up eagerly into the young man's face. Amaldi
had been telling him some of the adventures of Orlando Furioso.
This time Amaldi had not come down from London for the day, but had also
motored over with Olive Arundel from her country place some fifteen
miles distant. Susan and Olive were in the house, superintending the
hanging of an old print that the latter had brought over for Sophy's
writing-room.
Sophy was frankly surprised to see her mother-in-law.
"Why, I thought you were at Dynehurst!" she exclaimed. "Bobby sent you a
letter there yesterday."
"No. Mary persuaded me to stop on another week. I came to bring Robert a
book I promised him."
"Oh, thank you, Granny!" said the boy. He held up his cheek to be
kissed, received the rather forbidding looking volume that she held out,
and retired soberly with it. It was called _Lives of Noted Statesmen,
Condensed_. Bobby could not quite make out whether it meant that the
lives or the statesmen were condensed. In any case it promised to be but
a dull exchange for the adventures of Orlando. And then it was always so
much jollier to be told a thing than to read it.
Lady Wychcote said affably to Amaldi:
"I shall flatter myself that if you'd known I was still here you'd have
come to play for me while you were in the neighbourhood, Marchese."
"I should have been only too happy," replied he. "Perhaps you will allow
me to come to-morrow?"
"What! All the way from London to call on an old woman?-- Ah, that's
very charming and Italian of you, I must say...."
"I'm stopping with the Arundels just now," said Amaldi. "But I should
have been delighted to come from town to play for you." Like Susan, he
found something perturbing in Lady Wychcote's manner. He could not
define it, but he felt uneasy. There was a something underneath that
very affable tone.... He thought her singularly _antipatica_. Perhaps
that was it.... Yes ... it must be that.... She was _antipatica_.
On this occasion her ladyship did not leave before Amaldi as on her last
visit. She remained until he and Olive Arundel had gone. Then she said
to Sophy: "By the way--could I have a few minutes alone with you?"
"Of course," said Sophy.
She thought it was to be the usual thing about Bobby's education, which
Lady Wychcote did not think sufficiently strenuous and political. But
her mother-in-law had quite another matter in mind.
They walked off together down one of the beech avenues, and Lady
Wychcote began without preamble.
"My dear Sophy," said she, "you will probably be very angry, but I feel
that I must speak. Your friendship with Mrs. Arundel doesn't at all do
you justice...."
"Please don't say anything against Olive," put in Sophy quickly.
"Very well. But you know my opinion on that subject already, so after
all it isn't necessary. I was thinking of her chiefly just then in
connection with the Marchese Amaldi."
Sophy merely looked at her with an inquiring expression.
"I mean that it seems to me doubly unfortunate that he should be such a
friend of hers also," continued Lady Wychcote.
"Please explain what you mean by 'doubly unfortunate,'" said Sophy.
"I shall--very frankly. Your position as a _divorcee_ is a very
difficult one, and I think that your rather intimate friendship with the
Marchese will make it still more difficult."
"You are certainly frank," said Sophy, white with anger. "But you must
allow me to be the judge of my own conduct."
"The world constitutes itself judge in such cases," retorted her
mother-in-law. "Now pray try to take my words as I mean them. I haven't
the least desire to pry or meddle. I am merely calling your attention to
what others might think if they chanced to come here twice within a
week, as I've done, and each time found that young Italian with you.
There would be comment--and not kindly comment either, you may be sure
of that."
"Oh," exclaimed Sophy, exasperated, "what a low way of thinking most
people have!"
"Yes--the average mind is not exalted in its views," assented the other
calmly. "That is what I wanted to remind you of."
Sophy stood still and looked into her eyes with a proud look.
"No breath of scandal has ever touched my name," she said.
"I'm quite aware of that, my dear Sophy," replied Lady Wychcote. "My
only object was to help you to prevent such a thing from ever
happening."
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Sophy, speaking with difficulty.
The older woman answered with considerable amiability:
"No. You don't think it kind of me. And I quite understand that you
resent what you think only tiresome meddling on my part. But I meant it
well. Believe me or not, as you choose. Of course, as you said, you must
be the judge of your own conduct. Only"--she gave her a very shrewd look
indeed--"don't forget, pray, in case a ... some ... unpleasantness
should occur, that I tried to forewarn you."
Whiter than ever, Sophy said in a low voice:
"I shan't forget."
"Then that is all. I won't annoy you with the subject again."
"Thanks," said Sophy.
They walked back to the house, and Lady Wychcote commented on the charm
of the old grounds, and the advantage that it was for Bobby to have such
healthful surroundings, but Sophy said nothing whatever.