The next two days passed very unhappily for Sophy. She ached with the
ice of her flesh and the wild flame of her spirit. Some part of her
being was knitted so closely with Amaldi's, that this tearing asunder of
their lives caused her anguish.
On the morning of the third day, however, something happened that gave
things a sharp wrench in a new direction. Sophy had always been very
indifferent about reading newspapers. So the morning papers were always
laid at Susan's plate. They chanced to be breakfasting alone, and as Sue
was glancing over the _Times_, she flushed suddenly and an exclamation
broke from her.
"What is it?" asked Sophy, deathly afraid, she knew not of what.
It had to be told. Susan bungled it so, that Sophy caught the paper from
her and read for herself. This was the item:
"A very shocking accident occurred last night in front of White's.
The Marquis Amaldi, a distinguished Italian nobleman, well known
here in both social and musical circles, was struck by a motor car
as he was crossing the street. He was unconscious when he was
taken to his lodgings, which, fortunately, are near by in Clarges
Street. The friend who was with him would not allow him to be
removed to an hospital. Later reports say that the Marquis has
recovered consciousness but that his injuries are serious."
Sophy laid down the paper without a word, and her face terrified Susan.
"My dear ... don't go thinking the worst," she stammered. "You know how
newspapers exaggerate!"
"Not in England...." said Sophy dully.
Then she caught her breath. It was as if she had shot suddenly to the
surface of some black pool, and gasped in air again.
"Will you go with me to London?" she asked in that dead voice, keeping
her eyes on the paper.
Susan went pale.
"Oh, child!... _Think_ a minute...." she protested.
"Well ... if I must go alone...." said Sophy, and as she spoke she got
to her feet.
"No, no!--You shall never go alone, Sophy!"
"Then you'll come?"
"Yes," said Susan despairingly. She felt there was no use in arguing it,
yet as she went upstairs with Sophy to change her gown, she tried once
more. "Sophy, darling-- I know-- I understand how you feel," she said.
"But think, dear--think what it would be if some one saw you ...
there.... If it got to Lady Wychcote's ears.... Oh, child!... I'm so
mortally afraid of some dreadful tragedy coming out of all this for
you...."
"Don't you think the tragedy's dreadful enough as it is?" asked Sophy
rather wildly. She looked for a moment as if she were about to break
into crazy laughter. Then she held her face tight in both hands.
"Go and dress...." she muttered thickly after a second. "Go and order
the carriage.... There's a train in twenty minutes.... It will take us
more than ten minutes to drive to the station...."
The two women reached Amaldi's lodgings about eleven o'clock. His
Milanese servant, Piero, opened the door. He looked grave and rather
worried, but for the first time hope glimmered in Sophy when she saw his
face.
"The Marchese...?" she managed to ask.
Her voice was like the shadow of a voice. Piero said that Don Giovanni
was asleep under an opiate. The doctors had just gone. They did not
think the injuries as serious as they had thought last night.... But
Sophy was scarcely listening.
"'Don Giovanni'?" she repeated haltingly.
"_Si, Signora_ ... the brother of the Marchese. He arrived in England
for a short visit only yesterday morning. Eh, Santa Maria! ... a sad
visit it has proved...."
He begged the ladies to be seated while he went to tell his master of
their coming.
As he left the room, Sophy turned to Susan. "Sue...." she said. "Forgive
me ... but I must see him alone ... just for a few minutes. I won't be
long."
"But, Sophy...."
"I won't be long, dear, I promise ... only a few minutes ... but I
must.... I must see him alone ... just at first...."
She was so determined that poor Susan felt she had no choice. She went
out into the hall, misery and dread in her heart--not for anything that
she feared between Sophy and Amaldi--she knew them both too well for
that--but lest some malevolent eyes might have seen Sophy go in ...
might watch for her coming out.
Sophy had not mentioned their names, or given any cards to Piero, and he
was too discreet a person to ask questions. When, therefore, he
announced to Amaldi that there were visitors for him, he said merely,
"_due signore_" (two ladies).
Amaldi came in to find Sophy standing alone in the middle of the room,
her hands locked tight together, and her eyes fixed on the door by which
he entered. The next instant he was close to her, and she was faltering
out:
"I thought you were ... dead.... Then I knew...."
"What?... You knew ... what?" he said dazedly.
She kept her eyes on his--they looked scared and brave and piteous at
the same time.
"That I ... cared for you ... more than I knew...."
Things went black before Amaldi for a second. He had been through a
hideous night with poor Nano. He had seen him lying on the pavement
drenched with blood--dead to all appearance. Then had come the long
hours of waiting for the doctors' verdict. Then the shock of hope after
the long vigil. Now this....
He mastered himself, thinking that he could not have taken her meaning
rightly.
"It was ... like you ... to come...." he said almost stupidly. He felt
stupefied, not equal to grasping the situation fitly.
But now Sophy held out her locked hands to him. Her white face flushed
and quivered.
"Marco ... don't you understand?" she whispered. "I ... I want you to
know ... that I...." She caught her breath. ".... It's ... it's ...
love, Marco...."
A profound instinct told him not to touch her. The black mist closed
down again for an instant. His bewildered, haggard face went to her
heart. Close to him, trembling, her eyes still courageous and timid at
the same time, she laid one hand upon his breast.
"Dearest," she said, "don't look like that ... as if you couldn't
believe me ... you'll have to be very patient with me...."
She put down her forehead suddenly on the hand that still rested against
his breast, and began to cry softly and restrainedly, like an overtaxed
child. Then his arms went round her, but very lightly, as if she were
indeed a wounded child that he was afraid of hurting.
"Forgive me.... I can't help it...." she kept murmuring. "To find you
alive ... alive...."
The words choked into sobs. He stood holding her in that light, gentle
embrace silently. He could not have spoken though both their lives
depended on it. Presently she lifted her head from his breast and
glanced up at him. His face awed her. There was a look on it that made
it quite beautiful and rather strange. The look of one who sees with
other than bodily vision.
When she said timidly a moment later that she must be going now, he did
not try to detain her, only lifted the hand that had lain upon his
breast, and held it to his lips, then to his eyes a moment.
* * * * *
In some natures tenderness springs from passion; in others passion can
only flower from tenderness. Sophy was of the latter type. With all her
capacity for suffering, she could never have felt the excoriating pain
of the being bound by sensual fascination to another whom it knows to
be despicable. This quality in the very essence of her nature was the
secret of her ardent ventures in love and her equally ardent recoils
from it.
But though her present love for Amaldi was all tenderness there was in
it also such anguish as passion sometimes brings. Pure as it was, almost
mystic in its exaltation, it yet shamed her to herself. Was she then the
sort of woman who loves, and loves and loves indefinitely? She fought
her way out of this doubt, only to stand confounded and miserable before
the bald fact that she had had two husbands, one of whom was still
living, and yet, that in a future no matter how vague and distant, she
contemplated taking another. "It must be a long, long time...." she had
written Amaldi after those moments in Clarges Street. "Years and years,
perhaps. It isn't that I shrink from you, my dear one--oh, you know
that!--but from the thought of marriage with any one. I can't help it,
dearest. I told you that you would need all your patience with me----
Yes-- I shall try you sorely I'm afraid. I wonder--but no--when I think
of your love for me, I feel that I have never before known real love.
And see how selfish I am with you! This is your reward--a cruel egoist,
who can't give you up--who can't give you herself. That is the truth,
Marco. It isn't that I will not-- I _cannot_. Besides----"
Here she had laid aside her pen in despair. It was the thought of Bobby
that had come to her. How tragic and ridiculous to think of giving her
son two fathers besides the real father who had died when he was a baby!
Yes, this thought was nothing less than hideous. The absurdity in it was
grim as the _risus sardonicus_. And yet--and yet---- Like poor Desdemona
she perceived here a divided duty. This duty to her son was
tremendous--yet was there not also a duty towards the man who had loved
her for long years, whom she had told that she loved in return? Perhaps,
when Bobby had grown up---- Yes, that would make things different. But
could any man be constant for all those added years--had she a right to
ask such constancy? And even then--to take a third husband! The words of
Christ to the woman of Samaria came back to her: ".... _Thou hast well
said, I have no husband. For thou hast had five husbands; and he whom
thou now hast, is not thy husband._"... Five husbands or three ... what
real difference was there? She felt stunned with self-abasement and
misery. A voice within her kept crying: "Too late! too late!" But when
she thought of her life without him it seemed vain and empty. Even the
thought of her son could not fill that void.
* * * * *
Nano Amaldi's injuries proved far less serious than was at first
believed. Within ten days after his accident he was able to travel, and
he and Marco went together to stop with their mother on the Brenta, near
Venice--where she had taken a friend's villa for the months of September
and October.
From this place Amaldi wrote to Sophy, asking her if it would not be
possible for her to come to Venice during the autumn. His mother longed
to see her, and people could hardly talk if they met occasionally under
such circumstances. He also told her in this letter that Barti, the
family lawyer, had gone to Switzerland to inquire about the formalities
necessary for the divorce.
Sophy had intended going to Italy in September. Now it seemed to her
that there could be no objection to her choosing Venice as a stopping
place. She longed to talk with the old Marchesa almost as much as she
longed to see Amaldi. To talk with his mother would lift some of the
load of doubt and pain from her heart, she thought.
But when she mentioned this plan to her cousin, Sue looked anxious. She
was thinking of Lady Wychcote--of what she might think and say when she
heard that Sophy was going to Italy. Her native shrewdness would lead
her to surmise something very like the truth, Sue felt sure, while her
dislike for Sophy would cause her to put the worst construction on it.
However, to her great relief, Lady Wychcote took the news of the
projected trip to Venice with composure. She was even affable about it
and said in a letter on the subject that she envied Sophy the pleasure
of seeing Venice for the first time, and of being out of England during
September. But as Susan pondered this letter afterwards, something in
its very affability made her nervous. It struck her as odd that Lady
Wychcote, after having called Sophy's attention so insistently to the
danger of possible gossip about her and Amaldi, and now knowing that
there actually had been gossip on the subject, should suddenly hear
without protest of any kind that Sophy intended going to Italy. If Susan
had been aware of the fact that Lady Wychcote also knew of Sophy's visit
to Amaldi's lodgings, she would have returned to America rather than
have gone with her to Venice.
Lady Wychcote did know of it, however, and from a sure source--from her
own brother, Colonel Bollingham, a retired and grouchy old Anglo-Indian,
who had always taken Sophy at his sister's valuation and had no more
love for her than had her ladyship.
He had chanced to be passing on the other side of the street when Sophy
and Susan got out of their cab before Amaldi's lodgings. His sister had
talked with him about her fears in that regard. The accident, of which
he had read that morning, caused him to put two and two together--making
a round dozen, after the custom of his type of arithmetician.
"The little hussy...." he muttered, as the two figures disappeared
within a house opposite. "'Clarges Street'.... So it was, b'gad!"
He posted forthwith to Dynehurst with this news. After the first start
of surprise at his disclosure, her ladyship showed a calmness that quite
outraged him.
"Gad!... Cissy!... You take it damn coolly, 'pon my word!" said he.
"I am thinking," replied Lady Wychcote quietly. "It requires a great
deal of thought ... such a thing as you have just told me, James."
"The devil it does!" exclaimed the irascible Colonel. ".... Bundle her
out on the double-quick, say I! What the deuce!... Is a woman like that
to have the upbringing of your only grandson?"
His sister regarded his inflamed countenance with lenient sarcasm.
"'Bundling out' is doubtless a simple matter in the army, James," said
she. "But you wouldn't find it quite so simple in this case. The Court
would hardly deprive a woman of the guardianship of her child because
she'd been seen to go ... _with another woman_ ... to inquire after an
injured man ... ostensibly a friend ... who may or may not be her
lover...."
The Colonel bumbled like an angry hornet. "Who's this other woman,
anyhow?" demanded he. Then answered himself as crusty old gentlemen so
often do. "In my opinion she's only a common...." The Colonel's language
became very Anglo-Indian indeed.
But Lady Wychcote succeeded in calming him down and finally persuading
him that her method would be the wisest and surest.
* * * * *
It was on a day all magical with shine and storm that Sophy journeyed to
Venice across the Lombard plain. As they neared the sea one-half the sky
was thunderous blue, one-half like golden crystal. Green marsh lands
spread in gentle melancholy beneath. Suddenly two orange sails in
sunlight unfurled their burning petals against the green. And these
great, burning sail-petals, drifting slowly along hidden waterways
across the sad, green reaches, lent a thrill as of the passionate
mystery of the sea to the tranquil inland.
There was more pain than joy for Sophy in this beauty. One should first
see Venice with first love in one's heart, not third love, she told
herself bitterly. And she was glad that she had written Amaldi not to
meet her. As much as she longed to see him, she was relieved to think
that she would have some hours in which to adjust her mood to this
rather overwhelming loveliness before seeing him again. As they went up
the Grand Canal towards the Rio San Vio, where she had taken a flat, the
Vesper bells began to ring. A feeling of sadness, almost of
apprehension, stole over her. The clear, liquid voices of the bells
seemed warning her of something. She began to wonder if she had been
right to come to Venice....
But the next day when she saw Amaldi she was glad again. This love that
he gave her was very wonderful. She remembered, wincing, how she had
once longed for Loring to give her a love like that of the old Romaunts.
Now this love was really hers. Yet she felt that she was cruel to accept
it--taking so much yet willing to give so little; for when she saw
Amaldi this first time after telling him that she cared "more than she
knew"--she realised that what she offered him was indeed the shadow of a
flame. And yet ... she could not give him up. This shadow was, after
all, cast by a flame. But she shivered, thinking of the dreary service
of patience that she demanded of him.
Amaldi on his side, however, was quite content for the present with the
fact that she loved him--that this love had been strong enough to cause
her to tell him of it. He had that genius of passion which knows how to
wait. When the right hour struck he would wait no longer, he told
himself. He did not believe for a moment that years would have to pass
before Sophy would come to him as his wife. He did not wish things
different. It would have repelled him if Sophy could have shown
passionate feeling for him so soon after her second unhappy marriage.
But some day----
Barti was still in Switzerland. There were some points that needed
clearing up, he wrote, but he and the Swiss lawyer Beylan, thought that
all could be arranged. He expected to come to Venice very shortly.
After she had been three days in Venice, Sophy went by gondola up the
Brenta with Amaldi to see his mother, who had been confined to the house
for some time by an attack of rheumatism. Sue and Bobby were with them.
The boy seemed as fond of Amaldi as ever, yet every now and then when he
thought that others were not noticing, he looked at the young man with a
grave, pondering look. He was not jealous of him, yet as much as he
liked him, he was hoping that "Mother wouldn't have him round too much."
It was so jolly when he and mother went for larks quite alone.
From the moment that the Marchesa took her in her arms and kissed her as
a mother kisses her daughter, a weight seemed to fall from Sophy's
heart. There was something in the kiss so natural, so warm, so
consoling. It said better than words could have done, "I understand. I
approve. Be happy, my dear--be happy."
She held the Marchesa very tight--his mother who might some day be her
mother. Tears sprang in spite of her. The Marchesa kissed away these
tears.
"It will all come right, dear--_Speriamo bene_!" she murmured, smiling.
But the next day something occurred that cast a shadow over all. Susan
received a cable from America telling her that her only sister had died
suddenly. As this sister was a widow and left three little children
Susan felt that she must go to America at once.
When Sophy returned from seeing her cousin off for Genoa, a profound,
desolate sadness overcame her--a sense of apprehension. The old adage
kept going through her mind: "It never rains but it pours." She could
not get away from the idea that other painful things were going to
happen. Besides, she loved Sue dearly, and missed her, and would miss
her more and more. The thought of a paid "companion" filled her with
distaste. Yet she couldn't now stay on in Venice for some weeks, as she
had meant to, with only Bobby and Rosa. Harold Grey had been ill with
influenza and would not join them until October; and all the more when
he came would she need some woman to play propriety.
Intolerant and careless of the world's opinion as she was too apt to be,
she felt that it would not do for her to remain all alone in Venice with
Amaldi as her only acquaintance there. But then she felt that she _must_
stay till Barti came. She couldn't leave Marco anxious and harassed with
doubt, for during the last few days she had come to the conclusion that
he was far more anxious about the divorce than he would admit to her.
.... Rain was falling. With slim, grey-white rods it beat the surface of
the water. She could see it rushing like a host with lances down the
Grand Canal, past the palace of Don Carlos. Her heart grew heavier and
heavier.
Amaldi, who had insisted on accompanying Susan to Genoa, returned two
days later. Something preoccupied and sad in his manner struck Sophy.
"What is it?" she urged. "You are troubled. Tell me."
He confessed at last that he was a little worried at Barti's delay. He
feared that there might be some serious doubt about the final issue of
the question.
"Barti's a good soul," he ended. "Almost too soft-hearted.... I can't
help feeling that he's rather shirked telling me things, perhaps ...
that he's still shirking. I can't explain this delay on his part, in any
other way...."
He broke off and they looked at each other rather blankly. And it was as
they were silently looking at each other in that sorrowful, baffled
fashion that Rosa ushered in Lady Wychcote.
As Sophy went forward to greet her, the old adage again began its
thrumming in her mind: "_It never rains but it pours.... It never rains
but it pours_...."
L
Had Susan been present, she would have felt very apprehensive at the
pleasant, matter-of-fact way in which her ladyship greeted Amaldi. But
Sophy was simple-minded enough to be greatly relieved by it. She
explained about Susan--that Amaldi had just returned from seeing her off
for America. Lady Wychcote seemed really shocked to hear of Miss
Pickett's trouble.
"And what a loss to you, too!" she said. "I can't conceive of anything
more odious than having a hireling for a companion. Of course you will
have a companion...?"
"Of course!" said Sophy.
Then her ladyship explained how she came to be in Venice. Her brother,
Colonel Bollingham, and his wife had persuaded her to join them at a
moment's notice.
Sophy felt that now Susan was gone, she ought to ask her mother-in-law
to stop with her. She did so. Lady Wychcote said thanks--but that it
would hurt poor dear Mildred's feelings to be _plante_ like that.
"However," she added, "if you're going to be here longer than a week, I
might take advantage of your offer. James and Mildred are going to
Bordighera next week ... and I detest Bordighera...."
Sophy replied, with a hesitation in her heart which she did not think
apparent in her voice but which Lady Wychcote discerned there, that she
had intended stopping for at least three weeks longer--but now that Sue
had gone she thought of returning to Breene in a few days.
"If you would stay with me, though," she ended, "then I shouldn't feel
that I had to hurry off."
"Thanks," said Lady Wychcote. "I'll let you know later."
She left a few minutes afterwards. Amaldi left with her. He disliked her
as much as Susan did, and felt that he must be very careful not to give
her a wrong impression of his relations with Sophy.
Later, when Sophy came to reflect, she felt as apprehensive about her
mother-in-law's sudden appearance in Venice as even Susan could have
wished. She knew that unlike so many of her compatriots, Lady Wychcote
did not care a fig about Italy. On the contrary, she was in the habit of
extolling France as a far more delightful place in every way.
During the following week Sophy was very careful not to see Amaldi
often, and went about a good deal with Lady Wychcote. Barti had not
turned up yet.
The days passed in this rather dreary fashion, until the time had come
for the Bollinghams to leave. They were to set off Tuesday and on
Tuesday afternoon Lady Wychcote was to come to the Rio San Vio to stop
with Sophy until they both returned to England.
On Sunday Barti arrived in Venice. He was a short, rotund man of about
sixty, with a grizzled black beard, and the grey-blue eyes under black
lashes that one sees so often in clever Lombards. He loved the
"_ragazzi_ Amaldi," as he called them, as if they had been his own sons.
Marco had confided to him his reasons for wishing to be divorced. He had
spoken in a rather dry, curt fashion, but Barti realised fully what this
passion must mean to him. Marco had always been his favourite of the two
"boys," and men of the type of Marco did not change the views of a
lifetime except for the most vital reasons.
As soon as Amaldi saw Barti, he knew that the lawyer had no very
reassuring news to give him. They met at Barti's hotel in his bedroom so
as to be quite private.
"Well?" said Amaldi.
Barti began skirting the subject from different points of view. It
seemed that in Switzerland, at that date, proceedings for divorce on the
ground of adultery had to be brought within six months of the knowledge
of the fact. So that Amaldi would not be able to obtain divorce in
respect of his wife's original misconduct with her first lover. He
could, however, obtain the divorce in respect of any subsequent
misconduct of hers if proceedings were instituted within six months of
such misconduct becoming known to him.
Here, Amaldi, who had been very pale, flushed darkly. He parted his lips
as if to speak, and the old lawyer said nervously:
"Wait ... wait just a moment, _caro mio_ ... there are ... er ... other
difficulties...."
Amaldi kept silence. He sat looking out of the window, and now his face
was quite impassive; but it hurt Barti to see the strained quiet of that
impassive face. These "other difficulties" that he had to tell of were
even more painful. He went on to state them as rapidly and clearly as he
could. In any case, as they knew already, in order to qualify for a
divorce in Switzerland Amaldi would have to become a Swiss citizen. To
do so, he would have to get the consent of the local authority and the
State authority. The first was comparatively easy, the second
exceedingly difficult to obtain. As Marco might remember, a famous
Italian author had attempted to divorce his wife in this way, but the
Swiss Government decided that they would not let their citizenship be
obtained for such an object.
Amaldi here interrupted quietly.
"Then, my dear Barti," he said, "I have only to thank you for all your
trouble. I don't see that we need discuss the matter any further...."
"_Pazienza.... Pazienza!_..." murmured Barti. "On the contrary ... there
are many things to consider...."
"I don't see...." Amaldi began rather vehemently.
"_Prego_ ... but _I_ see.... You must allow me," returned the other.
"This is painful, I know ... for me as well as for you...." he added,
with some feeling.
Amaldi said in a different tone, but without looking at him:
"Yes. I know it is. Forgive me. Go on."
Barti then said that it might be possible for the citizenship to be
obtained without the disclosure of its object, though this would be
extraordinarily difficult.
"In fact," he wound up, "I am afraid that in your case it would be
practically impossible. The head of a noble Italian family does not
apply for Swiss citizenship without some very unusual object, and in my
opinion the authorities would be sure to demand for what object the
Marchese Amaldi wished to become a Swiss."
Amaldi got to his feet this time.
"Then, really...." he began.
"_Caro_ Marco ... I beg of you to let me finish," pleaded Barti.
He, too, was pale by now, and he snatched off his eyeglasses, breathing
nervously upon them, and squinting slightly with his short-sighted eyes,
in the stress of the moment.
"Switzerland is not the only country in the world," he hurried on,
polishing and repolishing the glasses as he spoke, very glad not to be
able to see Amaldi's set, white face more clearly. "I have made
inquiries, and it seems that in Hungary...."
"_'Hungary'!_" echoed Amaldi. He gave a short laugh. "But I beg your
pardon. Go on, please...." he said gravely the next moment.
"And why not Hungary?" Barti demanded, with a show of impatience which
he was far from feeling. "For my part, I think I should prefer a
Hungarian citizenship. It seems that in Hungary there is a process of
adoption...."
Again Amaldi echoed him.
"'Adoption'!" he exclaimed, with even more emphasis than before. "My
dear Barti, excuse me--but I hadn't realised that the thing would be
ridiculous as well as humiliating."
Then he checked himself, walking to and fro in the small room several
times. The other sat watching him in silence.
Presently he stopped in front of Barti and looked down at him with a
rather wry but affectionate smile.
"Forgive me, dear Barti," he said. "You've gone to no end of trouble for
me, and I act like a bad-tempered _tousin_. Will you please go on about
... Hungary?"
Barti rushed into suggestions now. He wished, he said, with Amaldi's
consent, to go forthwith to Hungary and make a thorough investigation of
the legal questions involved.
"_Ma!_... Go if you think best," Amaldi said, when he had ended. Then
added with irrepressible bitterness: "After all, what difference does it
make to what country I sell my birthright?"
"_Caro mio ... caro mio!_..." muttered the old man, much upset.
"You understand, Barti," returned Amaldi quickly, "I am quite determined
to be free if possible. I...." he hesitated, then went on emphatically:
"I count it a small price to pay. What makes me bitter is that an
Italian should not be able to free himself from a worthless woman in
his own country. Yes, Barti, that makes me bitter, I confess."
They spoke together a few moments longer. When Amaldi left, it had been
decided that Barti was to leave for Buda-Pesth that night.