Shadows of Flames Part 15

"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 gla.s.s, 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, pa.s.sionately 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?"