Sophy drew a long breath. She felt herself shivering, then, "Yes," she said almost inaudibly. He continued to look at her—a strange, musing look.
"Thank you," he said blandly. "So I have a disciple at last."
Then that passion of horror and pity broke down all conventional restraint in Sophy.
"But why?" she said, in a passionate whisper. "Why? Why?"
He was silent just for an instant's pressure, then he answered by the most extraordinary and appalling piece of blasphemy.
"Because," he said, "'before Abraham was I am.'"
XI
Sophy sat white and still, her profile towards Amaldi, playing with the spray of orchids at her plate. Then, all at once, she realised that Cecil was speaking louder than he had been. His words reached her distinctly. She glanced towards him in terror. What a horrible evening! What, what was going to happen?
What Chesney said was this:
"Russia is an epileptic, like so many of her people. She has the inspired moment, the convulsion, the apathy. Again inspiration—again convulsions—apathy—e da capo—e da capo."
As he uttered these words, his eyes were fixed insolently on Prince Suberov.
Sophy saw several heads turn hastily in her husband's direction. The faces of those near him wore a scared expression.
Suberov was a tall, impassive man of sixty-five, with a singularly gentle face, and small, deep-set, sad grey eyes.
While every one waited, scarcely daring to glance at him, he replied, tranquilly courteous:
"Yes ... my country is called 'Holy Russia' by us who love her. Her sickness to us is certainly 'the sacred sickness.'"
One felt relief stir like a draught around the table. But Chesney would not let it go at that. His eyes gleamed malevolently. He thrust out his jaw in a way that Sophy knew well.
"Oui," he said, in French, which his execrable English accent rendered more brutal. "Oui—'cette sacrée maladie'!" His accent on the word "sacrée" made it sheer insult.
Suberov looked at him intently.
"I fear monsieur is not feeling well this evening," he said gravely. "I have heard that monsieur has been ill. Of course an invalid's opinions on sickness are always interesting, though not conclusive."
For a second it was as though every one at the table held his breath. A look of fury crossed Chesney's face; then he thrust out his chin with that self-conscious, slightly embarrassed smile so familiar to his wife, and cried: "Touché, monsieur, touché!"
It seemed to Sophy that, at the same moment, a very pandemonium of voices broke out on every side. People seemed saying anything that came uppermost in their minds. Sophy herself found that she was talking feverishly to Amaldi of the little boat that he had just sent Bobby, of how she had wound it up herself and set it going in his bathtub, of how naturally the little men worked their oars. She talked and talked—telling him anecdotes of Bobby's funny ways and speeches. Her deep, sweet laughter rang out clearly. Every one was laughing a little exaggeratedly over just such trivialities.
And Amaldi took the cue from her. He began to talk lightly, in a vein of real humour that she had not divined in him. He told her of the dry drollery of the Milanese. One little story made her laugh out like a child—quite naturally this time. And so grateful was she to Amaldi for helping her to a rational screen for her terrible nervousness, that she began to chatter gaily to him, and kept on and on, not realising that she was giving him an undue amount of her attention, and that, twice at least, Tyne had tried in vain to get her to talk with him.
The bell rang for a division in the House. Several men got up and left the table to vote. Sophy glanced up vaguely a moment as they went out, then returned to her light chatter with Amaldi.
No one seemed to notice this particularly, or, if they did notice it, it was probable that they understood only too well the nervous excitement which led her to keep up this gay rattle as if not daring to pause.
Tyne understood perfectly. If he had twice attempted to break in on her talk with Amaldi it was only because he saw something very dangerous in the glances which her husband was beginning to cast at her.
Suddenly Chesney leaned his arms on the table, pushing the glasses to one side. He thrust forward his face in his wife's direction. It was livid. Moisture stood on his forehead. His eyes burned black. The people near him gazed appalled. It was not so much like a face as like a mask of hatred.
Several times Amaldi, who also had caught glimpses of this face, had tried to let the conversation drop naturally. Sophy had been talking steadily with him for at least fifteen minutes. But it was as if she were afraid to stop for a moment—like a nervous skater who knows that if she pauses she will fall.
And all at once it happened—the monstrous—the incredible thing.
What he had thought that she was saying, Sophy could never divine. Even long afterwards when she could think of it with comparative calmness, she could not imagine what he could have thought—or could she ever remember what it was that she had really been saying. But whatever it was, as the words came from her smiling lips, suddenly, barking it out at her, before that brilliant company, before some of the most famous men and women of the day—her husband called down the long table to her:
"You lie!"
She was so startled—the thing was so incredible—that, thinking she had not heard aright, she turned towards him and said:
"What, Cecil?"
He called again, distinctly:
"I say you lied. What you said just now was a lie."
Then, his arms still on the table, his shoulders hunched, he began sipping a fresh glass of wine, staring moodily before him, with a sort of vacant, bovine ferocity in his fixed eyes.
Every one has noticed how some trivial fact always imprints itself indelibly on one's mind in such ghastly moments. Opposite Sophy sat the beautiful Duchess of Maidsdowne. As Chesney shouted his insult at his wife, the blood rushed in a scarlet wave to the roots of the Duchess's chestnut hair, and the lovely, violent crimson glowed, painfully over-brilliant, on her cheeks for the rest of the evening. This agonised blush was the one thing that Sophy could ever clearly recall of the moments that followed. All went black about her the next instant; then her will conquered, and she sat still, and conscious, but all that she was conscious of was that the Duchess of Maidsdowne had blushed crimson, and that this crimson still dyed her lovely face. Sophy had heard that she was consumptive and that she rouged to conceal her illness. Now she kept thinking, "No. She does not rouge. I must remember to tell Olive. She does not rouge at all. What a wonderful colour. And how it rushed up to the very edge of her hair."
Next there came over her another strange feeling which also every one is familiar with. She felt that she was in one of those dreams, wherein one finds oneself on the street or in a crowded assembly, insufficiently clad, for every one to stare and wonder at.
Beside her sat Amaldi, no paler than some others at that table, yet realising how much worse than death it is to love a woman whose husband insults her, and yet, for the sake of that very woman, to be unable to avenge the insult.
Before the company could assume more than a strained semblance of naturalness, those guests who had gone out to vote in the division, returned. One of them, a sporting member, a good-natured but typically John Bullish type of M. P. and a country neighbour of John Arundel's, called out as he took his seat:
"Hullo, John! What's gone wrong with your feast? Somebody's been throwing wet blankets over the tablecloth."
He was quickly suppressed. The other men looked curious, but having more "gumption," began talking commonplaces with a commendable show of having noticed nothing unusual. Later on, Oswald Tyne murmured to the Countess Hohenfels:
"I have often thought that the exquisite virtue of Nero's vice is much underestimated. Suppose him as presiding in the present case, for instance. I presume that the brute over there is regarded by many as 'a Christian gentleman.' Think how many 'Christian gentlemen' Nero disposed of by the simple device of wrapping them in pitch and applying fire. Do you not think that this festival would have been much more festive had it been lighted by the Hon. Cecil, as a living torch?"
But the Countess Hohenfels, although she was not noted for sensibility, could not rally, even to the persiflage of Oswald Tyne.
When Arundel was apologising to Prince Suberov after dinner, the impassive Russian said quietly:
"I beg you not to give the matter another thought. The young man is evidently demented. Our sympathy should all be for his wife. What a beautiful, distinguished creature! When all is said, living is a sad métier!"
As soon as the guests rose from table, Chesney left. Sophy's pride would not allow her to go before the usual hour for such things. Every one was charming to her—almost too charming. At moments she felt that she could not bear it—that she must scream frantically, childishly, like Bobby when he had had a bad dream—or throw herself over the parapet into the Thames. But her face, though it had a pinched look, was very quiet.
Olive managed to whisper to her, once as they stood close together:
"He's a cwuel bwute ... we must get you out of his power somehow."
"Don't, Olive ... don't speak of it," Sophy had gasped out.
"Very well. But I'll be with you first thing to-morrow."
"No ... please. I must be alone. I must think."
Olive, whose heart was sound though so elastic, understood perfectly.
"Very well," she said again. "But mind you send for me the first moment you feel you need me."
"Thanks," murmured Sophy. "Thanks—dear Olive."
Amaldi did not try to talk to her. She was very grateful to him for this. He understood too well. These others pitied but did not understand. To have felt the close contact of a compassion that comprehended was more than she could have endured. It would have broken her down utterly. But he watched her from afar with a quiet yet absorbed look, that was not without meaning to Suberov, on whom, also, Sophy had made a deep and poignant impression.
He came near the young man, and said in Italian in his sweet, melancholy voice, after himself regarding Sophy in silence for a moment:
"A strong soul—heroic!"
Amaldi answered dreamily, as though it were quite natural for the old statesman to address him in his native tongue.
"Yes, Excellency, but souls like that are made for sorrow."
"And sorrow for such souls," said Suberov, with his mournful, delicate smile.
XII
Sophy found herself in the grey, rainy dawn, still walking to and fro in her bedroom. She had always thought that it was only in books and plays that people wrung their hands, but now she was twisting her fingers so hard together that the rings bit cruelly. She stripped them off—then stood gazing curiously at the finger where her wedding ring had been. She felt that there should be a little, blistered band where the poisoned ring had rested.
Yes—it was all over. There could be no compromise—no atonement this time. It was over—over. She would take her son and go back to her own country, to her own people. Nothing, no one could move her. And she heard again in imagination that brutal voice, shouting: "You lie!"
She went to a little cupboard and poured out a dose of sal volatile. This she drank, then leaned back for a few moments on the couch at the foot of her bed.
A knock at the door roused her. She sat up, gazing about her, at a loss for a few seconds. Then she realised. She must have slept.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It's me, m'm. Tilda," came the voice of her little maid.
"Wait a moment, Tilda."
She sprang to the glass, smoothed her hair—flung a dressing-gown about her shoulders.
Tilda stared when she saw that white face, with the great dusky circles round the eyes.
"O dear, m'm, how you do look!" she faltered. "Are you ill?"
"No. I felt rather nervous. It's nothing," Sophy said hurriedly. "What o'clock is it?"
"Just seven, m'm. Mr. Gaynor sent me to you. I was against it, knowing that you'd been out last night—but now I'm sure I'm thankful I did come. It's about the Master, m'm. He's very bad, Mr. Gaynor says. He'd like to speak with you, m'm, Mr. Gaynor would. But let me bring you a cup of tea first, m'm—please."
"Yes, bring me some tea. Tell Gaynor I will see him after I have had some tea."
Sophy lay back on the couch. Could it be that Cecil was going to die? She thought: "I am quite honest with myself. I don't try to deceive myself. I hope that he will die. Yes—quickly. But what is curious is that this wish doesn't shock me—that other part of me, that doesn't exactly wish it. I can see that it would be right not to wish it, but I do wish it."
Tilda came back with the tea in a few moments. The strong stimulant brought some colour to Sophy's lips—steadied her. When she had drunk it, she said:
"Now send Gaynor to me."
Gaynor was at the door within two moments. Tilda held it open for him rather grudgingly. She thought that her lady's indisposition was of far graver import than that of Gaynor's master.
"Shut the door, Tilda—and don't come back until I ring," said Sophy. "I wish to speak to Gaynor alone."
The man stood near the door, waiting.
"Is Mr. Chesney ill again?" asked Sophy.
"Very ill, indeed, madam—in my opinion."
"Dangerously?"
"I can't say, madam. I think it will be dangerous if it's allowed to go on."
"How do you mean 'allowed to go on'?"
"If a doctor isn't consulted, madam."
"But you know Mr. Chesney's dislike of doctors."
"Yes, madam; but in this instance it seemed to me that it would be better not to regard it."
"Does Mr. Chesney himself wish it?"
"Mr. Chesney is unconscious, madam."
Sophy sat up, supporting herself by one arm along the back of the couch. Her great, dark, passionately tired eyes, and the small, composed, neutral-tinted eyes of the valet met in a look of questioning on her part, of quiet but noncommittal decision on his.
"Unconscious? How? A heavy sleep?"
"No, madam; more a state of syncope, I should say."
"Since when?"
"He sank into it about six o'clock this morning. He was very bad last night, madam—delirious. I had some difficulty in quieting him."
Sophy looked at him steadily, in silence. Then she said:
"Did you give him some of that strong medicine you use—that Indian medicine?"
"Yes, madam."
"Don't you think that might have thrown him into this state?"
"I think not, madam."
Sophy was silent for another moment, looking down at her ringless hands which she had clasped tightly together again. Then she looked up at Gaynor. His face was as noncommittal as that of a diplomatist negotiating a difficult matter. Yet she saw knowledge in that face, a possession of facts that was hidden from her.
"What sort of doctor do you think should be called in? A specialist?"
"That would seem best, madam."
"What kind of specialist?"
"A nerve-specialist, I should think, madam."
Sophy continued to look at him curiously. At last she said:
"You know, Gaynor, if Mr. Chesney were to find out that you had proposed this it would probably cost you your place!"
"That must be as it may be, madam."
"You are greatly attached to Mr. Chesney, are you not?"
"I have served Mr. Chesney for ten years, madam."
Gaynor's face was as impassive as ever. He was evidently not an emotional character. Sophy looked down again at her knitted fingers; then she said:
"Have you thought of any especial doctor?"
"Doctor Algernon Carfew is considered an excellent nerve-specialist, madam. I believe he studied in the States with Doctor Weir Mitchell."
So Gaynor had thought very carefully and seriously on this subject, long before the present moment!
Sophy gazed at him keenly again. What important knowledge lay locked in that narrow chest, of which the key would not be given her, she felt sure! And an unwilling conviction seized her: there must be something fundamentally fine in Cecil to make a servant so loyal to him.
She leaned back wearily again on the cushions.
"I must think this over very carefully, Gaynor. It will be a very serious matter to violate Mr. Chesney's wishes in this way."
"Yes, madam."
"How long do you think that we can safely wait before calling in a physician?"
She coupled herself and Gaynor together unconsciously in this "we," because there was no one else in all England that she felt she could consult with on this subject.
"There is no immediate danger, madam. I have given Mr. Chesney a hypodermic of nitro-glycerine. Within the next two or three hours will be time enough, I should say."
Somehow this word "hypodermic" frightened Sophy. She started erect again, her hand grasping the back of the couch as before.
"Is that the strong medicine that you always give him? Why did you give it to him that way? Can't he swallow?"
"He is quite unconscious, madam. Nitro-glycerine is a powerful heart-tonic. The heart action was very bad. But it is better now, madam."
These "madams" of the valet were beginning to fret Sophy cruelly. They were like the toc-toc of a sort of irregular metronome, beating out of time to the jangled clamour of her thoughts. They seemed almost like a respectful mockery of her hesitation. But she only hesitated because of the violent hatred with which Chesney always mentioned physicians of any kind. He had said not once, but on many different occasions, words of this description:
"By God! The unpardonable sin against me would be the foisting on me one of those damned fakirs when I was helpless and couldn't throttle him. The mother that bore me couldn't hand me over to a medical ghoul with impunity. So remember—no doctors! I die or I live—but no doctors!"
Then all at once her mind seemed to open like a book that has been closed, and opens of itself at a certain page. On this page of her suddenly opened mind Sophy read as in a neat, short sentence: "This man thinks it very peculiar that you do not ask to see your husband."
She got to her feet, drawing the folds of her dressing-gown about her.
"I wish to see Mr. Chesney," she said, in measured, stilted tones.
He held the door open for her to pass through, then closed it noiselessly, and followed her with soundless footsteps along the corridor.
The shutters of Chesney's room were closed, but the curtains were not drawn. A night-light burnt behind a screen. Sophy went to the foot of the bed and stood looking down on her husband. In the moderate light she saw his face, bluish and dusky against the white pillow. He was breathing harshly but regularly. His lips—those lips which she had last seen framing a deadly insult—were parted, and seemed as though pasted against his teeth.
She commanded herself, and moving round to the side of the bed, leaned over and put her hand on his forehead. It was dry, like rough paper, and very hot.
What she felt as she bent over him she could not tell. Perhaps more than anything that though he was so huge and fierce a man, he had now only herself and a valet to help him in his helplessness.
She stood thus a moment, then left the room, beckoning Gaynor to follow her. When they were outside, she said:
"What is this Doctor Carfew's address?"
He gave it to her.
She pondered a moment.
"Very well," she then said. "I shall dress and go to see him. Would you like me to get a nurse to assist you?"
"If I might venture, madam," said the man discreetly, "it would be better perhaps to hear first what Doctor Carfew says. He may wish a nurse of his own."
"Yes. That is true. Tell Parkson to call me a cab in half an hour."
She put on a dark-blue linen frock and a little toque of black straw.
"Give me my long grey veil, Tilda," she said. As the girl was winding it about her hat, she asked:
"Haven't you a friend who's a Catholic, Tilda?"
"Yes, m'm—Maria Tonks. A very good girl, though a Papist, m'm."
"And what did you say was the name of the priest who converted her?"
"Father Raphael of the Poor, m'm. But he didn't convert her exactly, m'm, if I may say so. She just took such a fancy to 'im, his bein' so kind to her w'en in distress, m'm—as she went and became a Catholic."
"I see. He is very good to the poor, isn't he?"
"So they say, m'm. He gets his name from that. Anybody 'as only to be unfortunate to find welcome with him—so Maria says."
"Yes.... Yes...." said Sophy absently. Then added: "Where does he live?"
Tilda mentioned the address.
Sophy thanked her mechanically and went out.
XIII
Dr. Carfew lived in Hanover Square. It seemed a cruelly short way there to Sophy, for the motion of the cab, the rolling forward into the fine, calm rain soothed her. The cabby wanted to lower the glass, but she would not have it. The rain was only a thick drizzle. She put up her veil, and let the beaded moisture beat in upon her face. How lovely were the London plane trees against the varied grey ... and how she hated them, and all that was England—England from whence had come her unspeakable humiliation and misery!
But the next moment, with the soft homeliness of the air upon her cheek, came the realisation that she could not hate the land over which it breathed. It was in her blood as a Virginian to love England. It was only disfigured for her as a friend may be disfigured by a cruel accident, yet remain dear as ever. But though she loved England—she was homesick—homesick. She yearned for the foothills of the Blue Ridge as Pilgrim yearned for the Delectable Mountains. During the short drive to Hanover Square, she was conscious only of this gnawing nostalgia and the undercurrent of determination to return to her own land as soon as possible. The old place, Sweet-Waters, had been left equally to her and Charlotte. Now, Charlotte and her husband, Judge Macon, lived there, at her request, but the house was large and rambling—there would be room for her and Bobby—her thousand dollars a year would keep her from being an expense to them. Joe was fond of her—he would not mind having her live with them....
The cab stopped. She got out and stood face to face with the house of the great specialist. It seemed to regard her superciliously, with a look of hard, callous reticence. Architecture has its misanthropes as well as humanity. This was a forbidding house; it seemed built to hold impartial dooms and the gloomy prosperity that gains by the pain of others. She could not think of healing as going forth of that house. Yet Dr. Carfew had saved many. It was only Sophy's dark mood that thus interpreted to her the expression of the great physician's house.
She went quietly up the steps, after her short pause, and rang the bell.
Dr. Carfew was out of town—would not be back until noon. Sophy thought a moment.
"I will come in and write a note," she said.
The man led her into a gloomy room, and set writing materials to her hand.
"Give this to Doctor Carfew the instant that he returns," she said to the man, handing him the sealed envelope. "It is a matter of life and death."
The sound of her own voice saying this struck her strangely. The "life and death" that she had spoken of meant the life and death of Cecil. She still hoped that he would die. She did not exactly hate him—but she hoped that he would die.
She gave the cabman the address of Father Raphael of the Poor. As they trotted on, she began to wonder what Father Raphael of the Poor would be like. Was he old—young? She stiffened suddenly, as she sat there all alone in the musty cab. No—she could not talk of such matters with a young man. She could not risk so much as that—the ordeal of finding that the priest was young. But then—she must speak out to some one—some one who did not know her—some one quite removed from such a life as hers. Yes—now she understood the power of the Confessional in the Romish church. To kneel before a little grating and, unseen, whisper out one's agonies and perplexities to another, also invisible.... To speak without identity to one also without identity—that must be a marvellous solace. To believers it must be almost like having God answer them, thus to receive advice and consolation, as it were, out of the void.
They crossed the river, and after twenty minutes entered the street where was the Chapel of Mary of Compassion. Sophy felt herself advancing into the perspective of this hideous street with a shudder. It was as if she were being willingly driven into a wedge of gloomy brick from which somehow she would not be able to withdraw. On each side squatted the low houses, odiously alike. The toy-bricks of a gaoler's child must be fashioned like these houses. A smell of hot tallow and refuse was in the air, mingled with that omnipresent scent of malt that was here stronger and more sweetish acrid than ever.
The chapel itself was not very different from the other houses. It seemed like one of a large family that has been better nourished and dedicated to religion. The shape of its roof and doorway was the equivalent of a priestly habit.
Sophy's heart failed within her. Somehow this street, this chapel, seemed reality—all else illusion.
Then she entered. The little chapel was empty and very still. There was a smell of stale incense in the air. She could see the high altar, very simple. A man was kneeling before it. He rose as Sophy entered, and came towards her. He was a tall man, clad in a plain black soutane. He came and stood near, looking at her gravely.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I would like...." faltered Sophy. "... If I might speak with Father Raphael of the Poor...?" she ended.
"I am Father Raphael," he said. He had a beautiful, deep, tranquil voice. Sophy's mind was beginning to be confused. All sorts of fantasies whirled through it. She imagined that this voice indicated a tragedy far back in the priest's life. That he had suffered in some deeply human way. The church was dim. She could not see his face clearly, but his hair shone out almost white from the shadows. His eyebrows were thick and black.
"I am Father Raphael," he said again. "Will you come this way with me, my daughter?"
He thought her a Catholic, of course; but at the words, "my daughter," spoken in that lovely voice, it seemed to Sophy that a band snapped about her heart, releasing it. It was as if some benign, paternal angel had troubled the pool of tears, far down among the very roots of her being.
She followed him silently, and from her eyes there welled great, slow drops—hot and heavy, like drops of blood from the inmost core of her heart.
XIV
The room into which Father Raphael led her was very bare. There was a clock on the deal mantelpiece, some plain rush-seated deal chairs stained brown, a deal table covered with a cheap cloth stamped in red and black. On a little shrine in one corner stood a plaster statue of the Virgin as the Mater Misericordiæ, with her hands extended in compassion. A nosegay of white geraniums in a thick glass was placed before it.
The priest sat down on one side of the table, and motioned Sophy to a chair opposite. He waited, looking away from her out of the small window that framed a hideous "back yard," until she had somewhat mastered herself. Then he said in his tranquil, tender voice:
"Do not be afraid to speak, my daughter. This place is sacred to The Mother who suffered most. Where there has been most suffering, there is most understanding."
Sophy lifted her eyes to his.
"I ought to tell you, Father, that I am not a Roman Catholic," she said, under her breath. The grave cordiality of his look did not abate.
"All who are in trouble are welcome here," he said gently. But she noticed that after that he said "My child," when speaking to her, instead of "My daughter."
Then, little by little, she told him everything. When she had ended, he sat for some moments, musing. He had a plain, rugged face, but the eyes, clear and brown, held an expression of the most exquisite comprehension and love—that love which is so wholly of the spirit yet so warm towards the sorrows and needs of humanity that, feeling its power, one can realise how, after looking into eyes like these yet far more wonderful, the great golden Harlot of Magdala cast away her lovers and her jewels, and spread her beautiful hair as a serving-cloth about the sacred feet her tears had washed.
"It is true, my child," said Father Raphael at last, and he smiled tenderly upon her, "that the human heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked—and sometimes it deceives even in regard to its own wickedness. Your heart has deceived you, my child."
"How?" asked Sophy, in a low voice. An inward tremor had seized her. Her voice shook.
"It has deceived you into thinking that you wish your husband's death. You do not wish that. Look deeper into this deceitful heart of yours, and you will see that you do not. Why did you go to that doctor? Why have you come here to me?"
"I ... I needed ... help, Father."
"Just so, my child. You needed help to see the true inwardness of your spirit. You mistook natural indignation and the recoil of pain for the sin of actual desire. You wished to escape—to be free—and so you thought that you wished your husband's death. But you do not wish it."
"I ... I think ... I am afraid I do, Father."
Her voice was touchingly humble, like a child's voice confessing what it deems a terrible crime with courageous obstinacy.
"No, my child. Think. Could you now—here—by sending forth a sharp thought like a dagger—kill your husband—would you send forth that thought?"
Her brow knitted painfully. She went white as death. Then the blood surged over her face.
"No, Father," she whispered.
"You see, my child? What you craved when you sought me was for another voice, the voice of a human being like yourself, to echo the small, still voice down in the centre of your own spirit. The voice that says we must have the courage to live life as we have made it for ourselves—honestly, righteously, unflinchingly. You must not be too severe with yourself, my child. To deny the hidden good in ourselves is the subtlest form of spiritual pride. It gives death, not life. There was a great Pagan who once uttered a profoundly Christian truth. Wolfgang von Goethe said: 'Life teaches us to be less hard with others and—ourselves.' Do you see what I mean, my child?"
"Yes," said Sophy, in that smothered voice.
"Then what you must do is very simple. First, you must forgive your husband—then you must forgive yourself. After what you have told me, I can see no salvation for him from this sad vice but in your affection and your strong will to help him. Consult with this wise doctor—follow his instructions as best you may. Take your life, your heart, in both hands and lift them up unto the Lord."
"You don't know, Father ... you can't know...." She shuddered violently. Her grey eyes were fixed on his in desperate appeal.
"Yes, my child— I do know," he said tenderly. "I led the life of an ordinary man before I became a priest. I know well what you are suffering—what lies before you—for you have courage—you will not—desert." He said it firmly, but his kind eyes held her, full of the comprehending compassion that does not wound.
Then Sophy gave a cry—the cry of a child who says: "I wish I were dead!" She put up her hands to her face and sobbed out:
"Oh, I wish I could be a nun ... a nun!"
Very tenderly Father Raphael sat smiling down at her bowed head. Often had he listened to this cry—the cry of those who in a moment of extremity long for a cool refuge from the hot brawls of life. Then he said softly:
"You would make a most unhappy nun, my child."
In a small, ashamed voice she asked:
"Why do you say so, Father?"
"For many reasons. You have heard the expression, 'vocation,' have you not?"
"Yes, Father."
"You have been given brilliant gifts, great beauty, a little child—— There lies your 'vocation.' To live in the world yet not of it, that is the life to which God has called you."
"Oh, Father! You do not know me. Christ said: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit.' I am very proud, Father—horribly, wrongly proud."
The priest did not answer her directly. He said in a musing tone:
"I have often thought how that saying of Our Lord's has been misinterpreted. By 'poor in spirit' surely He did not mean poverty of spirit, but that to be truly poor—that is, detached from the things of this world—a man must not only give up those things themselves, but give up even the desire for them. That is how I understand the saying, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit.'"
"But, Father—to go back—to be his wife—after—— Oh, it is not only that—but in one of his furies he might kill me—he might kill my little son! You don't know—you can't imagine what he is like then——"
"God does not ask impossibilities from His children," said Father Raphael firmly. "'He is faithful that promised. With the temptation He will also make a way of escape.' Should you fail to save your husband from this fatal habit—should your life, or your son's life, be in danger, then your duty would be to save yourself. The commandment is not 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor better than thyself'—but 'as thyself.'"
"And are people ever really saved from opium or morphine, Father?"
"Yes, my child. One of the best men that I know—a fellow worker with me here—was a morphinomaniac."
"How was he saved, Father?"
"By God's mercy and his own desire to be saved."
"Ah, Father—that is just it! Will he—will my husband desire to be saved? Will he let me help him?"
"The effort must be yours—the result is with God. If, after you have honestly tried by every means in your power—and failed—then—I, a Roman Catholic priest, to whom marriage is a sacrament, say to you: 'Go home to your own land and your own kinsfolk.'"
He spoke solemnly. His face looked stern for the first time.
Sophy rose. Her spirit was stilled, but her body felt as though it had been beaten with staves. Every bone and nerve ached dully. The priest rose too. She looked at him timidly:
"Can you give me your blessing, Father?"
His lovely smile melted the stern look. Instinctively she knelt, and he stretched out his hands, making the sign of the cross in the air above her bent head.
"Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen."
The grave Latin words of benediction rolled solemnly over her. Her spirit felt folded in a soothing peace. She rose, trembling a little.
"I wish I could thank you ... as I want to, Father," she whispered.
"Thank God, my child. He sent you to me."
"Would it help you to come here sometimes, to this simple house dedicated to the Mother of Compassion?"
"Yes, Father; but...."
"Would your husband be displeased if he knew that you came?"
"Yes, Father. He hates the Catholic religion."
"Then do not come, my child. But remember that I am here if you need me. My prayers will follow you. I will have a Novena for you. Be of good courage."
Sophy gazed at him. The tears gathered again. She could not speak. Going out silently, she got into the musty cab.
She remembered nothing of the drive home. Her eyes were turned inward.
XV
Dr. Carfew came at one o'clock. He was a tall, sinewy man, with light blue, prominent eyes very piercing, and thick yellow-grey curls that stuck out below the brim of his hat as though supporting it. He put a few brief yet searching questions to Sophy, then asked to see the patient. He did not wish Sophy to be present at the examination. Gaynor remained with him at his request. After half an hour he came downstairs. Sophy sat waiting for him, her hands wrung together again. She had put back her rings.
She paled when she saw him enter, and her eyes darkened. He drew up a chair without ceremony, and sat down facing her.
"This is a grave case, Mrs. Chesney," he said, in his abrupt "no-nonsense-now" voice. "I gathered from your husband's valet that you have not a clear idea of how matters stand."
"No. I have not," she said.
"There is no doubt about it. Your husband is the victim of a most fatal habit."
She continued looking at him in silence.
"Have you never even suspected the cause of his ailment?" he asked brusquely.
"Yes—but I did not know enough to be certain."
"It is a clear case—a very clear case, and an aggravated one," said Carfew. "Mr. Chesney is a morphinomaniac. He is so addicted to the drug that he varies the effect with cocaine—takes them alternately—both drugs hypodermically."
Sophy sat as before, gazing at him without a word. It was as if it paralysed her to hear these long-surmised horrors put into plain words.
Carfew glanced at her with some irritation.
"I hope you are not going to allow yourself to give way to an attack of nerves because I speak frankly," he said.
She gave a little start, as if waking. "I do not have attacks of nerves," she then said quietly.
The great man looked mollified.
"Pardon my blunt speech," he said; "but I am so used to ladies collapsing into hysterics under such circumstances. That—or not believing a word I say," he added grimly.
"I believe all that you say. What must I do?"
"Ah—there is the difficulty! I must tell you at once that it is out of the question to think of trying to deal with such a case in the patient's own home. He should be sent at once to a sanatorium—where he can be properly treated and restrained."
"He would never consent," said Sophy, in a dull voice.
"Good heavens! my dear lady—are you dreaming of consulting the wishes of a maniac?"
"He is not always like this, Doctor Carfew. At times he is perfectly rational."
"Quite so. When he has had neither too much nor too little of either drug. To be in an apparently normal condition, now that he is saturated with the poison, his system must daily absorb a certain amount of either cocaine or morphia. Too little racks his nerves. Too much turns him into a madman."
Sophy paled even more; then she said apathetically:
"I know positively that he would refuse to go to such a place as that you mentioned."
Carfew rose, and took a few turns about the room. Then he came and stood near, looking down at her keenly.
"Mrs. Chesney," he said, "your husband was within an ace of death, last night. I will not enter into medical detail. Only the prompt intelligence of his servant saved him. Do you propose allowing him to destroy himself rather than face his anger?"
"It isn't the question of his anger alone, Doctor Carfew. It is the question of his family—of his mother. I would not be justified in acting alone. Lady Wychcote must be consulted."
Carfew looked at her intently. His eyebrows were yellow-grey like his hair, and curled also. His eyes seemed buried in them as in hairy nests—like pale, blue eggs, Sophy thought drearily, as she gazed at their hard convex.
"What is Lady Wychcote like? Is she a reasonable woman?" asked Carfew.
Exhausted and wretched as she was, almost Sophy could have smiled. The contrast between the actual Lady Wychcote and the "reasonable woman" surmised by Carfew struck her as so painfully droll.
"Not always, I fear," she said gently.
"Quite so. Just as I thought. A blind alley. Will you tell this ... er ... not always reasonable lady, from me—from Algernon Carfew—that her son is the same as lost to her if she cannot find sufficient reasonableness to have him committed to a sanatorium for his own good?"
"Yes—I will tell her."
"But you think it won't have much effect—eh!"
"I'm afraid she won't believe me."
Carfew glared.
"Then send her to me!" he said. It was the voice of an Imperator of Medicine.
"She might not be willing to see you."
"Mh!... This complicates matters. For the present moment, Mr. Chesney is out of danger. I have given his man—Naylor...!"
"Gaynor."
"I have given Gaynor full instructions. The attack will be over in twenty-four hours. He has taken a most amazing amount of cocaine within the last three days—winding up with a huge dose of morphia. Cocaine excites—morphia soothes—in the end. When was he last violent?"
Sophy felt as though choking.
"Last evening," she managed to articulate.
"Quite so. Very violent, indeed, I presume. Was he abusive?"
"Yes."
"Mh. Well, it rests with you, and—er—Lady Wychfield—Wychcote. Quite so. I will not undertake the case under the present conditions. By the way—make no mistake about this man Naylor. He has been very faithful. If he had not succeeded in persuading his master to moderate the drug at times—well——" He paused; then said abruptly: "Mr. Chesney would probably be dead or a hopeless lunatic."
"Yes," said Sophy.
Carfew looked at her earnestly a few moments. Then his hard, acute visage softened.
"I see you're trying hard to be brave," he said. "You've had a severe shock. Allow me to prescribe for you at least."
"Thank you," she said faintly.
"Then go to bed, and let your maid rub you with alcohol—a soothing friction. Then darken your room and try to sleep."
"Thank you very much," said Sophy again, and this time she smiled faintly.
"Ha!—I know what that smile means. That it's easy for a medical ignoramus to prescribe sleep when there's no dose of that best of physics available. But believe me, my dear lady"—here his voice softened again—"exhaustion is double first-cousin to sleep—you are in a very exhausted condition. Only lie down as I advise you—even without the massage, if you shrink from that—and you will be asleep before you know it."
"I will try," said Sophy patiently.
"Good!" he exclaimed. He went towards the door, then turned again.
"Tell Lady Wych—yes, Wychcote; thanks—tell her if she does not believe what I say, to ask her son to show her his bare arms. Good afternoon."
He was gone.
Before Sophy followed his advice and went to lie down, she sent a telegram to Lady Wychcote, who was on a visit to some friends in Paris. The telegram said: