It seemed intolerable to Sophy that Lady Wychcote should have taken such
a view of her friendship with Amaldi and ventured to speak with her
about it. Not that for a moment she felt any anxiety in regard to what
"people" might think and say. It was only by chance that Amaldi had come
twice to see her within so short a time. Usually there was at least a
fortnight's lapse between his visits--sometimes more. But Lady
Wychcote's view of the whole matter had left a smirch on what was so
clean and fine. The bright mirror of friendship had been breathed upon.
The image in it was blurred by this evil breath. And though she gave no
hint of what had passed, or what she was feeling, Amaldi knew quite well
that something had disturbed her. He kept this knowledge to himself,
however. What she did not give him freely he did not want. And alas! he
wanted so much that she did not give him in any wise. His first delight
in feeling that she was wholly her own again had died down. This masque
of friendship, in which she was whole-souled and he half-hearted, became
an anguish. He doubted his strength to keep it up. Sometimes he thought
that it would be more endurable to blurt out the truth and go into
banishment. He felt often that he would prefer the violent, final wound
of severance to the long, eked out pain of being near her only as a
friend.
Then one day in August he went to Breene, and as soon as he saw Sophy
felt sure that some crisis was upon them both.
In fact she had just received the following letter from Lady Wychcote:
"My dear Sophy, you must pardon me for breaking through my resolve, this
once, and alluding to a matter which I had seriously intended never
mentioning to you again. Clara Knowles came to call on me to-day. As you
probably know she has one of the most venomous tongues in England. She
had barely said 'How d'ye do' before she flooded me with enquiries as to
who was the 'foreigner that was making such running with Sophy Chesney.'
(I quote her own elegant expressions.) She said that 'The
Barton-Savidges' (a family also famed for scandal-mongering) 'vowed that
he was always either turning in at the Breene lodge gates, or coming out
of them.' Olive Arundel they said was 'gooseberry.' She asked if it were
true that he was a bigamist. And whether you really belonged to a 'free
love league' in the States as she had heard. I will not quote more of
her disgusting jargon. I only write this much of it, that you may see my
apprehensions on your behalf were not without reason." The rest of the
letter was confined to inquiries about Bobby, and suggestions as to a
special method of German, which had been recommended to her by an
ex-Secretary of Foreign Affairs, whose grandson was, at sixteen,
proficient in four modern languages, etc., etc.
This letter filled Sophy with rebellious anger, yet at the same time she
realised that it had to be considered seriously. The most painful part
of all was that she felt that she must speak about it to Amaldi. Despite
all her natural independence, she could not defy conventionality to the
extent of allowing their friendship to give rise to such odious gossip.
And she thought how strange and almost tragic it was, that the only
breath of scandal that had ever touched her should be caused by the one
perfectly clear, passionless affection of her life.
She told him of the letter as they walked in the beech wood beyond the
garden.
"It's only what we might have foreseen in this crowded, narrow-minded
place!" she ended bitterly.
Amaldi, who was stripping the fronds of a dead leaf that he had picked
up, kept his eyes on it. He did not say anything for a second or two,
then he observed in that level, withheld voice that she knew meant
intense feeling:
"I'm afraid we might have expected it in any place."
"Oh, Amaldi!--no!" she exclaimed indignantly.
"I'm afraid so," he repeated.
They were seated now on a felled log. Through the incessant quivering of
the nervous leaves they could see the gleam of the pond sunk in wreaths
of loose-strife--the "long purples" of Ophelia's garland. It was all
white and blue with the August sky. Except for the sound of blowing
leaves the wood was very still. This stillness seemed to make it all
more embarrassing and hateful somehow. Sophy sat chin on hand, staring
at the shining pond. Other things that must be put into words were
impossible to utter just then.
Amaldi broke the silence.
"I suppose," he said in that expressionless voice, "that we shall have
to stop seeing each other--for the present at least."
This was just what Sophy had shrunk from saying. She answered very
dejectedly:
"I ... I suppose so. Yes ... it's the only thing to do of course." Then
she broke out in her impetuous way: "Oh, how hateful and unnecessary it
all is!--how humiliating--and how sad.... I _did_ think that friendship
would be left me...."
There were tears in her voice. Amaldi turned suddenly and looked at her.
The moment that she saw his eyes she knew what was coming.
"I've failed you, too," he said. "It isn't friendship that I feel for
you...."
As her eyes fell away from his, he added passionately: "How could it be
otherwise?... How could it be?..."
And all at once it was revealed to Sophy that he was right--that she had
been blind and mistaken once again to an almost incredible degree. She
sat dumb with pain, knowing less than ever what to say. And her pain
told her that he was very, very dear to her, and yet that she recoiled
from the mere idea of love more violently than ever. But there was no
half way here, she must renounce him if she could not return his love.
Amaldi went on:
"It had to come. I meant to tell you. I hoped that I would be strong
enough ... but I'm not. It's beyond me.... I can't endure it--this being
near you ... knowing you are free ... loving you ... loving you ...
having only your friendship. No man could endure it ... no real man...."
He broke off. The next instant he said, "Forgive me. It seems brutal to
speak so ... so bluntly--but at least there must be truth between us."
Sophy said in a choked voice:
"If you think all the suffering is yours ... you ... you are mistaken,
Amaldi."
"Forgive me...." he repeated.
"And ... and...." she stumbled on, "you speak of my being free ... but
even if ... if things were ... different ... you are not free...."
"Do you mean if you ... loved me?" said Amaldi.
"Yes," she murmured, colouring deeply.
He flushed, too, then paled.
"In that case I should soon free myself," he said.
Sophy glanced up at him in amazement, then down again.
"But ... there is no divorce in Italy...." she stammered.
"An Italian can be naturalised in Switzerland and divorced there," he
rejoined, steadying his voice with an effort.
All at once her face quivered, she put up her hands to hide it. Then she
whispered brokenly:
"You would do _that_ for me?"
"It would be nothing ... if you loved me," he answered.
There was silence for a moment or two. Then it broke from him again.
"I couldn't go on acting to you ... lying to you...."
"Oh, I know ... I know...." she answered.
Suddenly he was on his knees beside her. He caught her hands and held
them to his breast.
"Can't it ever be different?" he was stammering. "Can't it ever be
different? Some time ... after years maybe?... Is there no love in you
for me?... None at all?"
But as he knelt there beside her stammering with the ardour of his long
suppressed love, it was Loring that Sophy thought of--Loring who had
also knelt beside her in desperate appeal. She blanched with the
confused, humiliating pain of it.
"Oh, don't you see ... don't you see," she pleaded. "I haven't any love
to give.... How could I have?..." She drew away her hands and pressed
them to her own breast. "I'm like a dead thing...." she said
desperately, "dead ... cold...."
He rose and walked away from her, stood thinking for a little, then came
back. Still standing, he looked down at her bent head.
"Tell me this at least," he said, "if we had met ... at first ... before
things happened in both our lives ... do you think that you might have
... cared for me?"
Sophy did not answer at once. Her past was rushing before her. Then she
sprang impulsively to her feet.
"Yes, Amaldi, yes...." she said. "When we were both young ... if we had
met then.... Oh, how beautiful life could have been for us!"
Amaldi started forward, then drew back. His eyes confused her. She
stood there, rather overwhelmed by her own outburst, looking down again
now at the tip of one shoe which she moved nervously from side to side
among the last year's leaves. He said in a low voice:
"That makes it easier to say 'good-by' ... and harder. I...."
He stopped short. She forced herself to ask for how long he meant to be
gone.
"I think a year ... two years, perhaps, would be best," he answered
heavily. The next instant he put it more lightly: "I've always wanted to
travel for some years in strange lands. I might come back a more
satisfactory 'friend' ... who knows?"
"Don't...." said Sophy, blind with tears now.
She could never remember clearly how they parted. He promised to write
her of his plans as soon as he had decided on them. Walking back through
the garden, they met Sue Pickett and Bobby. They were not alone again
until he left for London.