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 gla.s.s, 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 ident.i.ty to one also without ident.i.ty--that must be a marvellous solace. To believers it must be almost like having G.o.d 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 Compa.s.sion. 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 Misericordiae, with her hands extended in compa.s.sion. A nosegay of white geraniums in a thick gla.s.s 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 compa.s.sion 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: