She did not wake until eleven, and by the time that she was dressed it
was after twelve. Recalling what Lady Wychcote had said about lunching
with Bobby at Murano, she thought for a moment of going there and trying
to find them in time for luncheon. Then she recoiled from the idea of
being with her mother-in-law for several hours. But she was too restless
to read or go out in the gondola. Rosa told her that Lady Wychcote had
gone to Murano by steamer.
She decided finally that she would take a long walk among the little
by-streets of Venice and have luncheon at some small _ristorante_, all
alone. She went out into the soft brilliance of the September day, and
the very radiance of the sunshine had a curious melancholy for her mood.
It was a relief to her, after crossing the ugly iron bridge over the
Grand Canal, to find herself in the shadowed by-ways. Now and then,
through a gate in some wall, a plot of flowers laughed out at her, or
she saw the flicker of sunlit green high above. But the shadowed water
ran darkly, and the smell of the cool, dank streets was like the breath
of sleeping centuries. She came to the portico of an old church, and
went in. The fumes of incense brought back that day in London, so many
years ago, when she had gone to see Father Raphael of the Poor. She bent
her head, standing all alone in the dark, quiet church, and her heart
hung leaden in her breast. Even Father Raphael could not have helped her
now, she thought ... for there seemed to her no clear way of right and
wrong here. All was subtle, inextricably tangled--a maze of
approximations, instincts, conflicting duties, inclinations.
She roused, glanced listlessly at the paintings over the High Altar,
then went out again. She stood a moment in the street before the church,
considering her next move. She was now not far from the Piazza San
Marco. She recalled a little place in the next Rio where she could get a
simple meal, and had taken a step forward when a burst of laughter made
her look round. Her heart was jumping fast--that laughter was so
painfully familiar--like the whinny of a young mare in springtime. Then
she saw. Three people--a man and two women--had just turned the corner,
about twenty yards away, and were coming towards her. The girl who
walked a yard or so in advance had burnished, ruddy hair. She swung her
white _beret_ in her hand as she walked, and her blowing white serge
gown moulded her handsome legs and vigorous young bust. The man's gait
was rather sullen, the elder woman's frankly protesting.
"For goodness' sake, have some consideration for _me_, at least,
Belinda!" she called fretfully. But in reply the girl only laughed her
careless, whinnying laugh again.
Sophy had just time to spring back behind the dark columns of the porch
before they could recognise her. She had been as if paralysed just at
first. She squeezed in among the columns, with a feeling of sick
faintness. Now they were at the church door ... they paused.
"Now here's where I balk!" rang out Belinda's voice. "No more rotten old
churches in mine to-day, thank you. Come along, Morry."
"But, Belinda-- I really need to rest a moment!" protested Mrs. Horton.
"You can rest all the time you're eating your luncheon," replied her
step-daughter. "Come along, Morry!"
Sophy thanked Heaven that she was not called upon to hear Morris's
voice. He was evidently sulky about something. He made no reply. Mrs.
Horton grumbled a little, calling Belinda "selfish." Again Belinda
laughed. Then the three went on up the narrow, twisting Rio.
Sophy, trembling all through, leaned there against the columns, with
eyes closed. Round and round in her mind the old adage went humming:
"_It never rains but it pours.... It never rains but it pours_...."
She remembered that Loring and Belinda had been married last May. She
felt ashamed and sick for herself, for them, for life, for human nature,
for the whole social scheme, for civilisation.... Everything seemed to
her like a sickness in that moment. This life that the world crawled
with was like the swarming of maggots in a cheese.... She hated
herself--she hated the existing order of things. She understood the
darkest throes of pessimists and cynics in that moment. And under it all
her heart burnt fiercely with the supreme pang of the proud, chaste
being, who has yielded to lesser loves before the one, great, real love
has been revealed.
* * * * *
Sophy went back into the church and stayed there a long time. She felt
faint and ill. She was grateful for the quiet darkness in which she
could sit still without attracting attention. At last she went out into
the street again. When she reached the Piazza, she took a gondola and
returned to the Rio San Vio. She had forgotten that she had not lunched.
She looked so pale and strange that Rosa exclaimed when she saw her. She
lay down on a sofa in the little sitting-room and let the kind soul
bring her a cup of hot tea. This revived her a little, and by and by as
she lay there she fell asleep. It was nearly six o'clock when she waked.
Her eyes and the back of her head ached dully; but she felt that she
must refresh herself and change her morning gown before Lady Wychcote
came back with Bobby. She bathed her face and eyes, put on a tea-gown,
and returned to the drawing-room to wait for them. Taking up a book, she
tried to read, but found that she could not command her attention. It
occurred to her that she ought to write to Amaldi, but this also she
found impossible. She could not write to him on the same day that she
had seen Loring for the first time since her divorce. Then suddenly
memories of Cecil began to haunt her. Incidents of their early love-days
together came back to her with words and looks distinct as reality
itself.
She went and leaned on the little balcony. The sun had just gone down.
Air and water were suffused with the afterglow. High overhead, the
Venice swifts flew shrilling as with ecstasy. Their musical arabesques
of flight patterned the upper blue like joy made visible. Some dementia
of supernal bliss seemed to impel them. The fine, exultant, piercing
notes were like showers of tiny, crystal arrows shot earthward from the
heights of heaven.
Sophy stood gazing up at them, and the mystery of their joy, and of her
pain, filled her with a new aching.
She leaned there until the afterglow had died away; but it was not until
seven o'clock that she began to feel anxious. By the time that it was
nearly eight and Lady Wychcote and Bobby had not come, she was greatly
alarmed, and this alarm swept away all lesser considerations. She sent a
wire to Amaldi, saying: "_Bobby and his grandmother went to Murano this
morning. Expected to return at six. Not here yet. Fear some accident.
Will you come and advise me._" Then she had a consultation with Lorenzo,
the first gondoliere, a quiet, capable man of about forty. She thought
of going herself to Murano to make inquiries, but it would take a long
time by gondola. Could Lorenzo think of any way of getting there more
quickly. Lorenzo said that his cousin Ippolito had a steam-launch in
which he took out pleasure-parties. He might try to get that; but then
he must remind the Signora that the glass-works at Murano would be
closed at this hour. It would be very difficult to make inquiries. Why
did not the Signora go to the Questura for aid? The police might be able
to think of some way in which to get at the people of the glass-works.
An idea came to her suddenly. She wondered at herself for not thinking
of it before. She would go to the hotel at which Lady Wychcote had been
stopping. It was quite possible that they might know something at the
office. She might even find Lady Wychcote herself. Yes--she was quite
capable of doing an inconsiderate thing like this for her own
convenience. She might have stopped there for tea on the way back, and,
feeling tired, might have lingered to rest a while, not troubling to
send Sophy word. Yes, yes. It might very well be like that. Sophy had
ordered dinner for half-past eight that evening out of consideration for
her mother-in-law's habits. It was now only ten minutes past eight. Lady
Wychcote might consider it quite sufficient if she arrived in time for
dinner.