When they turned into the Rio San Vio, it was nearly one o'clock.
Glancing up at the windows of her flat, Sophy saw that the little
drawing-room was lighted. Some one came to one of the windows and looked
out between the slats of the blinds as the gondola stopped before the
house--Rosa, probably--poor soul, sick with anxiety!
Amaldi stepped ashore and held out his hand. They went together into the
small court and began to mount the stairs leading to her flat. The
stairway was enclosed and very dark. On the first landing was a window
through which shone a faint gleam of starlight. He stopped and took her
in his arms, but very tenderly. He felt her weariness and apprehension.
His passion curbed itself to her need.
"When shall I see you again?" he whispered.
She whispered back:
"I will let you know.... I will write."
Suddenly she started. Amaldi, too, looked up at the dark stairway.
"I heard a door open.... We must go...." she murmured.
"Wait. Let me go first," he said, taking out a box of matches. "These
will be better than nothing...."
He mounted slowly before her, lighting the little wax-matches as he
went. It seemed to her that the stairway was endless--she was so tired!
She dragged herself up, watching his face and figure spring out in the
orange wax-light against the darkness, then fade again as the light died
down. Now she could not see him. Then again came the spurt of bluish
flame deepening to orange, and again she would see his slight, strong
figure and the clear-cut mask of his face.
As they turned the last landing, and went up the flight leading direct
to her apartment, they saw that the door was open and Rosa standing with
a candle at the top of the stairs. She gave a cry of joy as she caught
sight of Sophy--and came rushing down to meet her. Oh, the Madonna and
San Guiseppe be praised! Oh, what had happened? She and Miladi had been
_so_ afraid--so terribly afraid!...
As she was speaking, a tall figure appeared in the open doorway. Sophy's
heart seemed to lose a beat. Lady Wychcote acknowledged Amaldi's
greeting, then called to Sophy:
"Are you really unhurt?... I fancied all sorts of horrid accidents...."
Sophy answered in the natural voice that astonishes one's self at such
moments:
"Yes. I'm quite all right, thanks. But there _has_ been an accident...."
"Ah.... I felt sure of it!" said Lady Wychcote.
All three entered the drawing-room. Rosa had rushed off again to tell
the other servants of the Signora's safe return. Amaldi felt that he
must not leave too abruptly. Lady Wychcote's unexpected presence at the
flat struck him as not only unfortunate but very singular, even ominous.
Why had she come, then, a day before she was expected by Sophy? One who
wished to surprise another in some overt act would follow just such a
course. And as he looked at the cold, composed face that now wore an
expression of polite interest he felt a stir of fear. What was the real
woman cogitating under that civil mask? What was her real feeling
towards Sophy? Whether grief had sharpened his perceptions to an unusual
acuteness, or whether to-night some unusual force went out from Lady
Wychcote, it would be difficult to say--but a conviction as strong as
the conviction of his own existence seized him--the conviction that this
woman was Sophy's enemy--implacable, ruthless, willed to it with all her
being. And as he thought of what a clever, unscrupulous tongue might
make of Sophy's being with him at such an hour of night, he felt cold
with dread and anger. It seemed too horrible that the cruel past should
reach out to her even from the shadow of death. First the brutal
son--then his mother. It was as if Cecil Chesney grasped at the issues
of her life, even from the grave, through the cold will of his mother.
In the meantime, Sophy was describing the Marchesa's fall to Lady
Wychcote, who listened with that expression of civil interest, and now
and then an interjection of conventional regret.
The more Amaldi reflected, the more sinister the whole situation seemed
to him. But he was quite powerless. He excused himself in a few moments,
saying that he must get back to the villa as soon as possible. Lady
Wychcote murmured some expressions of formal sympathy. Sophy gave him a
cold, rather rigid, hand. Her eyes looked blank, like the eyes of a
puppet.
He went out sick at heart with impotent love and wrath.
When he had gone, Lady Wychcote said to Sophy:
"You look rather ill. Don't you think you'd better have something to eat
... some wine, perhaps?"
"Thanks, no. I'll just go to bed. Sleep will be the best thing for me."
"But you don't look as if you would sleep much," returned Lady Wychcote.
"You seem terribly overstrung...."
"Yes. It was a horrid thing to see!" Sophy answered. In her mind the
senseless, chaunting voice had begun again: "_It never rains but it
pours.... It never rains but it pours._"
Rosa came running back. She, too, pressed her mistress to eat and drink.
"No. I only want to lie down ... to be quiet, Rosa."
The kind soul, full of affectionate concern, threw an arm about her in
order to sustain her better.
"Good night," Sophy then said. "I'm sorry to have to leave you at once,
like this.... But I'm really worn out...."
"Just one thing before you go," returned Lady Wychcote, following as
they went towards the door. "I'd like to explain my unceremonious
descent on you.... James and Mildred decided to leave Venice this
afternoon instead of to-morrow. So, as I knew you were expecting me
to-morrow, I thought it couldn't really make any difference to you if I
came a day sooner. I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you in any way...?"
"Not in the least. How could it?"
"Thanks very much. I hope you will feel rested in the morning."
"Thanks. I'm sure I shall."
Sophy moved on again. She felt that if she did not soon reach her
bedroom she would drop to the floor in spite of Rosa's supporting arm.
But now Lady Wychcote was speaking again. She had followed them out into
the corridor.
"Oh ... by the way ... I'm sorry to detain you, but I want to mention
something about Robert...."
The spent life in Sophy leaped like flame in the draught of a suddenly
opened door.
"Yes?" she said.
"The poor boy was so upset by your being so late that I promised him a
trip to the glass-works to divert him."
"That was very kind of you," murmured Sophy.
Lady Wychcote continued:
"So, if you've no objection, we are to go to Murano rather early
to-morrow morning.... A sort of all-day affair. We'll lunch there...."
"No, of course I don't object. I think it's very kind of you," said
Sophy.
"Then ... good night," said Lady Wychcote.
Through the haze of fatigue and misery that clouded her, Sophy felt
something peculiar in the tone of this "Good night." But then her
ladyship's voice often took a peculiar tone in speaking to her. She was
too tired to analyse this special shade of expression.
A great sigh of relief escaped her as she found herself in her own room.
"_Chut!_" whispered Rosa, smiling wisely, her finger at her lips. Then
she lowered it and pointed to the bed under its tent of white mosquito
netting. "_Guarda!... povero angelotto!_" (Look! ... poor little
angel!), she murmured. "He wouldn't sleep till I let him come into his
dear mamma's bed...."
As Sophy saw through the mist of the white curtains, the little sturdy
form and dark-red curls of her son, all her being rose in a great wave
of love and anguish. And borne forward as by this wave, she went and
looked down on him. He lay prone, hugging his pillow to him with both
arms, as if in her absence he would at least make sure of something that
had been close to her. And not even on the day when he had been born to
her with anguish had she felt such a throe of tenderness.
She turned away after a moment and let Rosa help her to undress; then as
soon as she was alone blew out the shaded candle and stole again towards
the bed.
A clear September moon had risen. It shone in upon the veiled bed and
made it gleam mysteriously--made it look like a shrine. The curtains had
a holy whiteness in the moonlight.
Sophy went and knelt down beside it, and as she knelt there Bobby
stirred, lifted himself on his elbow.
"Mother...?" he said.
"Yes, darling. I'm here ... just saying my prayers."
He gave a little smothered whoop of joy, and scrambled to the edge of
the bed, dragging up the netting that divided them. He shook the loose
folds down behind her, and threw both arms around her neck, hugging her
head tight against him. The warm, lovely perfume of a sleepy child
enfolded her. It was like the very essence of love enfolding her.
She had to explain everything to him before he would let her go. Then he
began pleading: "Don't send me back to my room _right_ away, mother....
I know it was rather girly of me to come and get in your bed like
this.... But Rosa's a good old sort. She won't peach on me.... And I
think it's rather natural, a chap being a bit girly about his mother
when he thinks things might have happened to her, don't you?"
Sophy said that indeed she did, and that he should stay with her till
morning--that it made her feel ever so much happier and safer to have
him near her. Bobby snuggled down blissfully, keeping her hand in both
his.
"After all," he said, "though I'm not grown, I'm the only _man_ you've
got.... It's nice to have a man awfully anxious about you, ain't it,
mother?"
"Ah, yes, indeed it is!" she murmured.
He was silent for a few seconds; then he said:
"I _am_ the only man you've got ... really, ain't I, mother?"
Sophy's heart stabbed. She put her other arm about him.
"Yes, Bobby--yes, darling," she said, holding him to her.
"I like awfully being your only man," he murmured. "I ... I like the
'sponsibility."
"Dear heart!..." she murmured back, her lips on his curls.
He gave another of his snuggling wriggles of content, and was silent
again. She thought he was dozing off, when he said suddenly in a
by-the-way tone:
"I say, mother--is Marchese Amaldi married?"
Sophy's heart stabbed again. Why did the boy ask this?
"Yes, dear. Why?" she said.
"Oh ... nothing in particlar," replied Bobby, his voice more off-hand
than ever. "I just wondered...." Then he remarked, still in that casual
way:
"You haven't told me yet what kept you so late, mother."
Sophy told him, and as she spoke she kept thinking: "He has been
worrying about Amaldi. He has been thinking of me and him together." And
this idea was full of bitter pain to her--the idea that her little son
might have been troubling over the possibility of her marriage with yet
another man!
And, in fact, this thought had harassed Bobby for the last two days. It
had embittered even the joy of his first lesson in rowing a gondola that
afternoon. When Sophy had not returned by six o'clock, as she had said
that she would, dreadful surmises had taken hold of him. Perhaps she was
so late because she had decided suddenly to be married to the Marchese.
Perhaps she would come back with him and say: "Bobby, this is your new
father." The mere idea had filled him with a blackness of resentment and
jealousy. Not until Sophy had replied that Amaldi was already married
had this feeling subsided, though his joy in having his mother again
with him, safe and sound, all his own for the time being, had made him
put it aside for the first few moments. But boyhood is terribly reserved
in some things. The rack could scarcely have brought Bobby to confess
his apprehensions to his mother.
Too excited to sleep, and wishing to get away from the subject of
Amaldi, he began to tell her all about the projected trip to Murano.
"Do you think you'll feel well enough to come, too, mother?" he wound
up.
"I'm afraid I'll be too tired, dear. But well see...."
"Of course, I wouldn't _have_ you come if you felt tired; but it won't
be half so jolly without you."
"We'll see, sweetheart," Sophy repeated. "I'll surely come with you if
I'm able to...."
He rushed off into an eager description of Venetian glass-blowing.
"And they make _every_ sort of thing, mother.... They even make stuff
for dresses.... Oh, mother.... I'd love to buy you a spun-glass gown!
'Twould be like a sort of foggy rainbow--don't you s'pose so? I wonder
if I could get glass slippers to go with it?... Wouldn't you like a
glass gown, mother? You'd look just like a princess in the Arabian
nights! You _must_ have one!..."
He chattered like this for some time. Then just as she thought he was
falling asleep, he roused.
"I say, mother dear.... Don't let Harold Grey know I got in your bed to
wait for you.... He's an awfully set chap ... he'd think me so beastly
soft. You see, _his_ mother's always had his father to look after
her.... So he couldn't understand how I feel about you ... being your
only male relative, and all that...."
Sophy promised, kissing the red curls again for good night.
He was quiet for about five minutes; then once more he roused.
"I've just had such a stunning idea, mother," he announced. "I want us
to write a book together ... when I know a bit more rhetoric, of course.
But we might both be thinking up a subject. Wouldn't it be jolly to have
our names printed together like that on the first page?...
'What-you-may-call-it ... by Sophy Chesney and her son Robert Cecil
Chesney....'"
"That's a beautiful idea, darling; but I'm afraid your name would have
to be signed Wychcote...."
"No.... I _choose_ to have it Chesney for our book. I am a Chesney, too,
ain't I?"
"Yes, dear; but...."
"Just for our book, mother," he pleaded. "There they'd be--our two
names--close together--long after we'd gone.... Isn't life a rummy
thing, when you come to think of it, mother?"
"Yes, dear. But try to go to sleep now...."
"All right-o...."
He snuggled closer, settling himself with a deep breath of
determination. But suddenly he exclaimed:
"Just _one_ thing more.... What do you think of 'Spun Glass' for the
title of our book, mother?"
"Well, darling--that would depend on what the book is to be about...."
"Oh ... about life in general!..." said Bobby largely. Then with the
quick drowsiness of healthy childhood he fell fast asleep before she
could answer.
But Sophy lay long awake. It seemed to her that life clung about her
like a strong, dark web, meshing every natural movement of her heart.
The idea of thrusting another man into her son's life--another
"father"--became more and more painful to her. The idea of giving up
Amaldi was unendurable. The idea of his giving up his country for her
sake revealed itself suddenly as a sacrifice too terrible for her to
accept.
The more she struggled for some egress from the clogging meshes, the
tighter they closed about her. At dawn she was still wide awake, but
when Bobby and his grandmother set out for Murano at eight o'clock she
was sleeping like one drugged.