Shadows of Flames: A Novel

LIV

The head porter came shortly. He had just returned from the station. Yes. Lady Wychcote had left that morning on the through train for Paris.

Sophy could not articulate for a moment. Then she said, her lips stiff and dry:

"Was she ... was she ... alone?"

The porter replied that Miladi had been alone when he last saw her, as she had insisted on being taken to the station an hour before the train left. But that the tickets were for herself and her maid. So that he supposed that the maid had joined her later. There happened to be no other guests leaving on the through train for Paris that morning, and as Miladi had insisted that he should not wait, he had returned to the hotel. Miladi was very positive.

"You are sure there was not a ... a little boy with her?" Sophy asked.

Yes—the porter was quite sure that there had been no little boy with Miladi.

Sophy's mind was working in terrible, clear flashes.

She turned to Rosa, who stood a little apart, rather scared, feeling that something puzzling and dreadful was in the air, but only understanding now and then a word of the English in which all were speaking.

"You said that Lady Wychcote took her maid with her this morning, didn't you?" Sophy asked.

Rosa replied that Anna had certainly started for Murano with Lady Wychcote and Bobby.

It seemed to Sophy that she saw it all now. Her mother-in-law, afraid of being traced too easily if she kept the boy with her, had left him somewhere with Anna until a few minutes before the train started. Anna was a clever, middle-aged Yorkshire woman who had been with her ladyship some twenty years. She could be trusted to hold her tongue and act intelligently in such a case. She was, oddly enough, devoted to her mistress, and would never have thought of questioning her commands, no matter how singular they might have appeared to her.

And yet—could Lady Wychcote really have dared to kidnap the boy—for it was nothing less than kidnapping if she had taken him away with her in that determined, secret fashion. But why? What excuse could she give? And had she really done it! And, if not, where was Bobby? Where was her little son at this late hour of the evening? She felt quite crazy and witless for a few moments. What to do? How to act? And time was going. If Bobby had really been stolen from her, then she must follow on the next train, if possible. But where? Where would that relentless old woman take him? If she (Sophy) went to Paris—she would have no further clue on reaching it. Lady Wychcote might go on to England; she might not. And why? Why?

Suddenly she knew. In a searing flash she knew just why it was that Lady Wychcote had taken the boy—and that she had surely taken him. She remembered that strange tone in her voice last night, when she had spoken with her after Amaldi had left. Yes—that was it! She had thought the worst of her late return in company with Amaldi. She would give that as her reason for taking away the boy—his mother's unfitness to be his guardian.

Something wild and potent sprang to life in her. She got to her feet. She looked like another woman. Now she was asking when the next through train left for Paris. At ten o'clock, they told her. It was now twenty-five minutes past nine. She might make it if she went straight to the station in the gown she wore, without stopping to get even a small travelling-bag. But no—she was not sure enough that that was the best thing to do. The through tickets that Lady Wychcote had bought to Paris might be only a blind. She must be very certain when she acted to act in the surest way. A favourite saying of Judge Macon's came into her mind. "Be sure you're right—then go ahead." Besides, Amaldi might be at the Rio San Vio by now. He would be sure to advise her in the sanest, most clear-sighted way. He was the very man to stand firm in a crisis, not to lose his head. Then, with a hot recoil of shame, she thought of what she must tell him. She had not yet taken in what all this might also mean to her and Amaldi. She could think only of Bobby, bewildered, unhappy, rushing away from her on the night express to Paris in company with the bitter old woman who had always hated her. She recalled the feeling of his strong little body as he had snuggled close to her last night. A fury of impotent love and rage shook her. The gondola seemed to crawl over the light-jewelled water of the canal, though Lorenzo and Mario were sending it along at racing speed. A gaily lighted barge filled with singers and musicians passed them.

As they turned into the little Rio, by the Palace of Don Carlos, another barge began burning Bengal lights. The dark, narrow water-way, with its crowding houses and little bridges, flared red before her as in some operatic scene. Why were things always so brutally ironical? Why should there be a festival in Venice on the night that her boy had been stolen from her?

When she reached her flat she found a wire from Amaldi, saying that he would take the train from Cortola to Venice, and be with her by ten o'clock. It was the quickest way that he could reach her. As she put down the telegram she heard his voice on the stair, speaking to Lorenzo. Then he came in alone. He took her in his arms, held her close a moment, then led her to a sofa, and sat down beside her, keeping her hands in his.

"Now tell me," he said.

She told him everything. As she spoke he kept muttering, "What infamy!... What infamy!..." He was as convinced as she was of the truth of her conjectures.

Her dark, tortured eyes made him wince with a double pain. It was only her son that she was thinking of in those moments, not of him, her lover—not of what this parting would mean to him and her. "What must I do?" she kept asking him. "What must I do next? Ought I to have tried to catch that ten o'clock train? Tell me, Marco ... for God's sake, tell me what I'd best do...."

"Wait, dearest...." he said. "Give me time to think...."

He sat frowning down at the floor for a few moments. Then he turned to her. He asked her about the Wychcotes' solicitor.

"Do you think this Mr. Surtees is really your friend?" he said when she had told him all about her relations with the old lawyer.

"Yes. I'm sure he is," she said positively. "Why?"

"Because, in that case, it seems to me that the best thing would be for you to wire him to meet you at Folkestone. You can then give him the true facts and ask his help—before trying to see Lady Wychcote."

"You think she's taken Bobby to England, Marco?— You feel sure of that?"

"I don't think there's a doubt of it. She will go straight to Surtees with her story; of that I feel positive."

Sophy coloured painfully.

"You mean that ... that she would want him to speak to ... the trustees?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he assented. What he really thought was that Lady Wychcote would want to have the matter taken at once before the Court. But he could not bring himself to tell her this. Her shamed flush had hurt him horribly. It was intolerable that this revengeful old woman should have the power to sully and cloud their relations. Then fear seized him. What if Sophy were mistaken about the solicitor? What if he were a tool of Lady Wychcote? The possibilities that this idea disclosed appalled him. He went as white as Sophy had gone red.

"What is it? What are you thinking of now, Marco?" she urged anxiously, scared by his expression.

"I was thinking how you could get to England in the shortest time," he answered. "It's very vital that you should get there as soon as possible."

"Yes, yes. By that first through train to Paris to-morrow morning."

"No. You needn't go to Paris," said Amaldi. "It will be more direct for you to go from Venice straight to Boulogne via Laon. You'll save several hours by taking that route."

"Oh—thank God!" she stammered. Then she caught up his hand to her heart. "How good you are to me! Don't think I don't realise it—your unselfishness.... You think only of me—and I can't think of anything but my boy ... of how frightened and wretched he must be.... It's not that my love for you is any less than my love for him ... but he's so little ... he's my only son ... he needs me so...."

Amaldi felt like crying out, "And do I not need you?" but he choked down this cry. What meaning had the love of lovers for Rachel mourning her children? He drew her to him and kissed her loosened hair very gently.

"This is Bobby's hour," he said. "I can wait for my hour."

He left not long after, so that the servants might have no cause to gossip. It had been decided between them that he would attend to everything for her and that she and Rosa would be ready to leave by the morning train.

"I will send men to fetch your boxes at nine," he said. "Your maid can go with them. I will take you to the station myself."

"Thank you ... thank you, dearest...." she said.

Suddenly he caught her in his arms as on the day before in the Villa garden.

"Don't forget that you are the blood of my soul...." he said in a strangled voice.

She sobbed out his name—put up her arms about his neck. He kissed her rather wildly and went without another word.

That strange phrase of his rang in her mind all night, mingled with her frantic, confused thoughts of Bobby—and anguish of dread about what Lady Wychcote might say and do before Mr. Surtees could hear the true facts.

Amaldi had spoken in Italian as he nearly always did in moments of great feeling. She could hear his choked voice saying those strange, intense words ... "sei il sangue del anima mia"—the blood of his soul ... she was that to him. And yet, as she lay on the bed that Bobby had shared with her only last night, she felt as if her son were the true blood of her own soul ... that if she lost him by any dreadful, unspeakable chance—her soul would bleed away ... there would be no love left in her for any one.... And she began to reproach herself bitterly through the endless, sleepless night. She had been wrapped up in her own life ... she had not thought as she should of the precious little life derived from hers.... She should have foreseen. Knowing Lady Wychcote as she knew her, she ought to have had such a possibility as this that had happened always before her.

Then again she would think of Amaldi with a throb of pain and yearning. How pale he had looked ... how worn. She could not sleep. Her head and heart both were burning. Now Loring's face came before her. It blended with Amaldi's, blurring it, blotting it out. Now it was Cecil who looked straight at her with hard, angry eyes. "Where is my son, eh?... What have you done with my son?" he seemed to say.

She rose from the bed finally, lighted a candle and began to pack her travelling bags. As soon as daylight came, she asked Rosa to make her some coffee. Then, in spite of the woman's protests, helped her with the other packing. Once when they were folding Bobby's little garments, she put down her head on Rosa's shoulder and began to sob. Then she controlled herself again. She would need all her strength for the hours and days that lay before her.

LV

"When you see the solicitor, things will clear, I feel certain.... You'll write me as soon as you've seen him?"

"Yes ... yes," she answered eagerly. "And you ... you'll write to me ... every day, won't you?... That will be my only comfort ... my only...."

She choked and could not go on.

He asked her where he should address his letters, and she answered "to Breene."

"They will be forwarded to me wherever I am ... you see.... I don't know yet where I shall be ... just at first...."

Again she broke off.

They had reached the station. It was now a quarter to ten. Only fifteen minutes more and they would be parted—for how long?

But even for these fifteen minutes they could not be together. Amaldi had still to see to things—to find out whether her luggage was all on board. She watched him as he went to and fro with his light, nervous step. It was all so unreal. Even he looked unreal. She could not see his face plainly at this distance. She tried to recall it, and it frightened her when she found that she could not imagine it clearly though she had looked at it so often and so earnestly during the past hour. Would she be unable to see his face in her thought when they were really parted? Then she began to watch the station clock. Only ten minutes more now—only nine ... eight——

He came back with a fachino, who gathered up her bags, and went off towards the train with them. Seven minutes now....

She sprang to her feet.

"Let us walk together...." she said, "somewhere away from all these people...."

They went slowly down the long station, beside the rails over which her train would soon be rolling. Their white, drawn faces would have attracted more attention were not such faces often seen at railway stations. One or two people gave them a passing glance of curiosity. About them sounded voices and footsteps, trundling wheels, sharp whistlings, the clang of testing hammers, the stridor of escaping steam, all made harsher and more echoing by the vaulted roof and stone walls of the station.

He offered her his arm, and she clung to it faint with pain. The clattering, grinding, sibilant din added to her misery. The acrid smell of coal-smoke recalled hateful memories. She had so many things she wished to say. They jostled in her mind. She could not choose which one to say first. And with him it was much the same. Then he murmured something that she could not catch. She clutched his arm, saying, "What is it?... Tell me again.... I didn't hear."

The scream of an engine drowned her voice. They heard the guard's whistle. People were scrambling into the carriages. A fat man in plaid trousers was running ridiculously, his bag banging against his legs. People laughed. Amaldi was helping her into a carriage. The guard slammed the door. She stood at the window and reached out her hand to him. He grasped it, looking up at her in silence. Then the train began to move. He walked beside it for a little way. The rhythm of the wheels quickened. The trucks began their clangorous, jerky sing-song. The closely clasped hands were drawn apart. She felt the rushing air chill on her hand that was still warm from his. She sank back, pulling down the brown travelling veil that she had thrown back for her last look at him. With closed eyes she tried to recall his face, and, as before, in the station, it refused to come clearly to her. Mile after mile she sat there without stirring, and it seemed to her that she must have cried out with the sharp misery of it all, but for the motion of the train which seemed in some inexplicable way to dull the edge of her suffering. When the train stopped at some station she could scarcely endure the sudden stillness. Then when it rushed on again, again in that odd way, her pain became once more soothed.

But after half an hour or so this haze of stupefaction lifted, leaving her face to face with clear agony once more. It was the thought of her son that racked her now ... her little son, flesh of her flesh, heart of her heart. What must he, too, be enduring?—he who had once begged her never to leave him again, "for Jesus' sake, Amen." She could see his little, pale face upturned to the car windows at Sweet-Waters station and hear the tremble in his voice. She felt as though a knife were being turned round and round in her breast. Then black fear seized her again ... fear of what it might be in Lady Wychcote's power to do against her—what she might have done already. Would Mr. Surtees really be her friend? Would he believe her? Would all those strange men believe her story? Would she have to tell it to them face to face?— Perhaps go into Court?

She clenched her hands in her helpless anguish until they ached and burnt.... O God!... God! Suppose that some ill had come to him. Suppose she were never to hear that eager, strong little voice again.... She stood up suddenly to her full height. People in the carriage stared at her. She dropped back again wondering if she had cried out....

About sunset the train began to mount the Gothard. Now she was in the grip of a new horror—the memory of the last time that she had taken this journey. She could see, as if it had been yesterday, Gerald Wychcote's thin, frail figure looking so much frailer than usual in its unaccustomed black—that awful, oblong black box guarded by Gaynor in the luggage van—the box in which Cecil travelled like goods on a goods train.... Now it was for Cecil's son that she was taking the dreadful journey.... Again it seemed to her that she saw his angry, hard blue eyes staring at her and heard him saying, "Where is my son, eh? What have you done with my son between you—you and your latest lover?"

She grasped her head in both hands, wondering if the wild pain in it meant brain fever....

It was drizzling next morning when they reached Boulogne, but the sea was calm. She looked hungrily at the grey curtain of mist that shut out England.

The crossing was short. And yet it seemed to her an eternity before the steamer docked at Folkestone. Had Mr. Surtees received the telegram that Amaldi had sent for her night before last? Would he be there to meet her? Her heart beat to suffocation, as she leaned over the taffrail staring down at the crowd below. Then it gave a sudden leap—— Yes—there he was. His prim, kindly old face was anxiously upturned. He was looking for her just as she was looking for him. She waved to him ... called his name. A few moments more and she was beside him. She tried to speak, but no sound came from her white lips. He hurried to tell her what he knew that she was trying to ask.

"Your son is with Lady Wychcote at Dynehurst, Mrs. Chesney," he said. "I saw her ladyship yesterday."

Sophy staggered. The old lawyer offered his arm. He looked almost as pale as she did. He wanted to fetch her a glass of brandy, but she would not have it.

"I shall be quite right ... quite right in a moment," she kept gasping. She bent her head as she walked beside him, struggling with a desire to burst into inane laughter. Hateful throes of hysteria convulsed her throat. She overcame them by a violent effort of will that left her feeling weaker than ever. She clung blindly to Mr. Surtees' arm, stumbling now and then.

"I reserved a compartment in the London train," he told her. "Do you wish your maid to go with us, or in the next compartment?"

"Not with us," murmured Sophy. "I wish to talk with you quite alone."

She regained her composure little by little, and as soon as the train was under way turned to him and said in a firm voice:

"Mr. Surtees—what did Lady Wychcote say to you about me?— What reason did she give for abducting my son?"

The solicitor flushed and his eyes fell away from hers.

"If you will excuse me a moment, Mrs. Chesney," he answered, "there is a paper in my bag that I would like to show you. I ... a ... have embodied in writing the gist of her ladyship's ... a ... remarks."

He opened a small black bag as he spoke and took out a legal looking paper. He half unfolded it, glanced nervously at its contents, then hesitated.

"It is most painful to me to have to submit this document to you, Mrs. Chesney," he said, distress in his voice. "I beg you to believe that I have never had a more painful duty to perform."

"Thank you, Mr. Surtees," said Sophy. She changed colour cruelly, but her tone was still firm and quiet. "Let me see it, please...."

He gave her the paper, and looked away from her while she read it.

It stated that the Viscountess Wychcote alleged that her daughter-in-law, the Hon. Mrs. Cecil Chesney, widow of the late Hon. Cecil Chesney, etc., etc., was an improper person to have the care of the young peer, her son, Viscount Wychcote, as she, Viscountess Wychcote, believed that Mrs. Chesney had committed adultery with the Marchese Marco Amaldi. Then followed Lady Wychcote's reasons for so believing, and for the first time Sophy learned that Colonel Bollingham had seen her enter Amaldi's lodgings in Clarges Street the day after his supposed accident.

She sat motionless for some time after reading this accusation, then she spoke to the solicitor:

"Mr. Surtees...." she said.

He turned unhappily.

"Mr. Surtees," she repeated, looking straight into his eyes with her own so passionately intent and still, "I am going to tell you the whole truth—so help me God."

She lifted her right hand slightly as she spoke, her eyes fixed on his. He bent his head mechanically as if acknowledging her oath. Then clearly, slowly, pausing now and then to command herself, Sophy told him the whole story of Amaldi's love for her and hers for him. The old lawyer sat listening intently. After the first few moments he forgot his distressing embarrassment in the deep human interest of the story that was being unfolded before him. As Sophy drew near the end and told of the bad news that Barti had brought from Switzerland, and of how the accident to Amaldi's mother had made her so late in returning to Venice, of how she had found Lady Wychcote there a day before her intended visit, and of all that she had endured next day when she feared at first that some dreadful accident had happened to her son—as she told all this very simply, very movingly in plain, quiet words, the sedate face of Mr. Surtees grew first discomposed then rather grim.

Sophy ceased. The whispering roar of the heavy English train filled the silence for a little. Then she said:

"Do you believe me, Mr. Surtees?"

He answered gravely, even solemnly.

"I do believe you, Mrs. Chesney."

At this Sophy broke down, and hiding her face from him cried bitterly.

LVI

It was most distressing to Mr. Surtees to see this tall, dignified woman collapse into such a bitter abandonment of weeping. He had even a secret affection for Sophy after his prim fashion. As poor Bobby would have said, it made him feel "rather sick" to sit there helplessly watching her. He had an almost irresistible impulse to put his hand on her shaking shoulder and pat it gently. Only the habit of a decorous legal lifetime restrained him. He fidgeted nervously with his glasses and the paper that she had handed back to him, began to mutter such words of consolation as he could think of.

"My dear lady ... my dear lady.... Compose yourself.... We shall find a way out.... I have suggestions ... yes, suggestions...."

Sophy reached out one hand to him blindly, her face still hidden. He took it gingerly but tenderly in both his own. Nature overcame decorum.

"My poor, poor child...." he said shakily.

As a staunch Conservative and member of the church of England, he had not approved of Sophy's divorce. In theory he was much shocked by the fact that she should have contemplated a third marriage. Yet, as she herself told it, her story took quite another aspect in the old lawyer's mind—seemed, in fact, the most natural and inevitable outcome of circumstances. The circumstances he still disapproved of, while sympathising, against his judgment and much to his own astonishment, with the romance that had resulted from them. And he felt highly indignant at the course pursued by Lady Wychcote.

When Sophy was calm again, he asked leave to tell her some of the "suggestions" to which he had referred.

"Tell me first of all how to get my son again," she urged. "What must I do to get him back at once, Mr. Surtees? I will not stop at anything ... no! not at anything!" Now she was all fierce and strong with maternity again. Her eyes blazed from her swollen lids, giving her ravaged face a wild, piteous look.

"If you should insist upon regaining possession of your son by legal proceedings," answered Mr. Surtees, "you would have to apply to a Judge at Chambers for a writ of habeas corpus, demanding his production before the Judge and an order that he be released to you his mother and guardian. But if you will allow me, I think I can suggest a better way than taking this distressing matter before the law.... I would suggest...."

Sophy interrupted him breathlessly.

"But that paper ... the paper you showed me just now. Isn't that to be shown in Court—to a Judge!"

Mr. Surtees hastened to reassure her.

"That is not a legal document strictly speaking," he said quickly. "It is merely my memorandum of the affidavit that Lady Wychcote wishes to present—to the Court. I have taken no steps whatever as yet. I felt it necessary to delay this deplorable matter as much as possible—certainly until I had seen you, Mrs. Chesney. Now if you will allow me ... I really think that you will find my suggestions of value...."

Sophy listened in silence while he told her of the solution that had occurred to him. In the first place, that the matter should be kept out of Court, he considered vitally important, for although the application would be heard in Chambers at the first instance, either party dissatisfied with the Judge's decision might appeal and then the matter would become public. Now what he suggested was that he should accompany Mrs. Chesney to Dynehurst, and that she should demand a private interview with Lady Wychcote in his presence. After what Mrs. Chesney had confided to him, he thought there could be no doubt of a private settlement of the matter. That the mother of the Marquis Amaldi would be willing to witness in Mrs. Chesney's defence was a most important fact; also the circumstance of her having been accompanied by Miss Pickett when she went to inquire for the Marquis after his supposed accident. Then, too, the stainlessness of her reputation in the past would undoubtedly weigh considerably with the Judge in his estimate of the case. Altogether, everything pointed to the likelihood of a decision in favour of Mrs. Chesney against her ladyship, should the matter be brought to law. So that when Lady Wychcote had been made to understand this, he thought that she could scarcely refuse to deliver up Mrs. Chesney's son to her.

"You don't know her, Mr. Surtees," here broke in Sophy, white and hard. "You don't know to what lengths that woman is capable of going...."

"I am not entirely ignorant of her ladyship's ... a ... characteristics," replied her solicitor somewhat tartly. "But in this instance I think that I could present the case to her so that she would a ... see its a ... rationality."

Sophy brooded a moment. Then she said:

"And if she would not listen ... if she insisted on proceeding against me!"

"Then," replied Mr. Surtees, "she would have to state formally in her affidavit the sources of her information. An affidavit would also be forthcoming from the person or persons who could prove the alleged ... a ... misconduct, or the circumstances from which the misconduct could be proved. If the Judge believed her ladyship's story he would order your son to be handed over to her. If he disbelieved it he would order him to be delivered up to you. I think there is little doubt which story he would believe, Mrs. Chesney. Besides, the abduction of a child is an utterly illegal and reprehensible act—no matter what the motive. A court of morals would look at the motive of course, and so Lady Wychcote's abduction of your son being prompted by her affection for him, would be judged differently from a like case in which base or sordid motives were the cause. But I do not think that her ladyship's act would be regarded by any Judge as other than highly reprehensible. This fact, taken with the rest, may well cause her ladyship to reconsider."

Sophy still brooded, her eyes on the streaking fields. The stilted legal phraseology seemed part of the grim unnaturalness of everything. Suddenly she flashed round on him.

"Which way can I get my boy the sooner?" she said.

"By allowing me to go with you to Dynehurst; I am convinced of it," he replied without an instant's hesitation. "Days might elapse if you took the other course."

"Very well," she said, "I will go with you—by the first train that we can take."

It was about nine o'clock when they reached Dynehurst station. They had to wait there half an hour for a fly. It seemed to Sophy as if this half-hour of waiting would never end. Then when they were once more on the way again, the lean hacks plodded at a snail's pace over the sodden roads. For the last twenty-four hours it had been raining heavily, now the air was moistened by a Scotch mist. Sophy sat forward on the musty seat, her hands gripped together, thinking of those other times she had driven to Dynehurst through the night—first as a bride—then as a widow, with her husband's body following in that huge, oblong black box, that now lay in the crypt of the little chapel.... When they drove past the chapel a fit of shivering seized her. She set her teeth to keep them from chattering. Now the cliff-like house loomed. She saw the files of lighted windows, but the nursery was at the back, she could not see if there were still lights in his window. Her heart began a sick throbbing. Was he asleep, her Bobby, her little son? Or did he lie awake, wretched, unhappy, wondering about it all—longing for her so that he could not sleep? She wanted to cry out to him that she was coming. She could scarcely wait for the fly to draw up at the front door. Before Mr. Surtees could assist her, she was out and up the steps. She rang twice. Rage woke in her as she stood waiting for admittance into the house where her son was shut from her as in a prison. She trembled with her pent anger more than she had trembled in passing Cecil's tomb. Then a footman opened the door. She stepped past him without a word, and ran towards the stairway.

Mr. Surtees hurried after her.

"Wait ... wait, Mrs. Chesney ... be advised ... I implore you...." he panted.

But Sophy did not even hear him. Her son ... she was going to her son ... that was all that she knew or felt in that moment.

She had not mounted five steps before she saw Lady Wychcote and Bellamy coming down.

She stopped and threw back her head with a fierce gesture.

"I've come for my son," she said, her eyes on Lady Wychcote's. "Where is my son?"

Both Lady Wychcote and Bellamy stood staring down at her without a word, and something in their faces made her suddenly shrivel with fear. She reached them in a bound or two, seized Lady Wychcote's arm, holding her as in a vice. Her wild look went from one pale face to the other.

"What's the matter? What have you done to him?" she gasped. "Where is he?"

She loosed Lady Wychcote as suddenly as she had seized her. Now her frantic, asking fingers grasped Bellamy.

"Is he ill? Is he ... dead?" she stammered.

Then with the same violent quickness she released Bellamy also before he could reply. Leaping past them, she ran towards the nursery.

Bellamy caught her up.

"Wait, Mrs. Chesney ... wait...." he implored as the old solicitor had done. "He's not in the nursery.... He is in ... in his father's room.... Wait a moment.... Let me explain ... for the boy's sake."

He had ventured to take her arm, and held her back somewhat as he hurried beside her.

"Bobby is not well...."

She stopped short—spun round in his hold.

"Is he dead? Is he dead? Is he dead?" she kept muttering like an automaton.

"No ... no. Only a bad cold ... from exposure.... Rather feverish.... You mustn't excite him, though.... Mustn't rush in on him like this.... Sit here a moment, Mrs. Chesney.... Recover yourself.... Let me explain."

Like an automaton she sat down in the hall chair that he pushed forward. He could see the beading of sweat about her eyes and lips as she looked up at him.

He galloped his explanation, bending over her, speaking in a low voice, and glancing now and then at the door of Cecil's old bedroom near which they were.

"The little chap got lost in the Park last night ... was some hours in a pelting rain ... d'you see? He's in no immediate danger ... but he has pneumonia ... is feverish. We mustn't startle or excite him—d'you see?"

She sat staring up at him out of a dead face in which the eyes looked startlingly alive. Then she rose, said in a flat, quiet voice:

"Yes ... I see. Now take me to him."

LVII

Bellamy went ahead and opened the door carefully so as to make no sound. She stood a moment on the threshold looking in. Cecil's bed faced her, and in it lay his son, propped on pillows to help his difficult breathing. His grey eyes were wide and bright and unfocused—his cheeks scarlet. On the sheet before him lay some bits of silver money and a few bank notes. He fumbled with them incessantly. He was saying in a thick quick, little voice:

"A first-class ticket.... A ticket to London.... A first-class ticket to London, please.... I have the money ... here's the money.... I have the money.... A ticket to London...."

Sophy clung to the jamb of the door. She could not move. Bellamy put his arm round her. The nurse, who had been sitting by the bed, rose and came forward.

Suddenly the boy cried out piteously: "Oh! it's getting wet ... it's melting ... my money's melting...."

The nurse flew back to him.

"No, dear, no," she reassured him. "Here's your money all nice and dry. Here's your ticket to London. You're going to London...."

"No, no! ... It's all melted ... it won't buy a ticket.... I can't find her.... I can't get to her...."

Sophy sank down by the bed, and took the hot little hand in both her own.

"I'm here, my darling.... I'm here...." she said in a voice of wonderful quiet. "You won't need to go to London to find me, dearest.... See, I'm here...."

The brilliant eyes fixed on her anxiously. ".... Mother?" ventured the perplexed voice, faintly hopeful. Then again that piteous wail broke from him. The little hand jerked in hers trying to release itself. "You're not my mother ... my mother's in Venice.... I'm going to her.... Where's my money? Where's my money?"

Sophy dropped her face upon the bedclothes. The nurse and doctor stood by in silence. Bobby fumbled with the money. He began again: "A first-class ticket, please.... A ticket to London.... A ticket to London.... I've got the money ... here's the money...."

The anguish of remorse and love were rending her, but outwardly she was as calm as the two professionals who stood and pitied her.

She looked up at last. She said to Bellamy:

"You can trust me. I am quite controlled. But...." She gasped in spite of her furious will. ".... don't let her come into this room."

"No, she shall not. Don't be afraid," Bellamy said soothingly as to a child. "I will go and see to it. Nurse Fleming here will aid you in every way. Bobby likes her...." he added, then left the room.

Now the boy was turning his head from side to side on the pillow.

"It's jolly hot in here ... it's too hot ... it's too hot...." he kept muttering. Then he called out fretfully: "I'm thirsty!... I want some water!"

Nurse Fleming gave him some chilled water in a spoon. He was quiet for a second or two. Then he began again in that thick, quick little voice:

"A ticket to London, please.... A ticket to London.... I'm her only man.... She said I was.... He ain't her man ... he's married.... I'm glad.... I don't want a new father.... I hate new fathers.... Mother dear, I'm your man.... Don't marry anybody.... I'm your man...."

Sophy began whispering softly, her face close to his:

"No, sweetheart. You're my only, only man.... I'm not going to marry anybody, my darling. Bobby.... Bobbikins ... it's mother talking to you ... mother.... My little man ... my only little man...."

He seemed to recognise her for an instant. "Mother!... Let's begin our book.... Once upon a time.... No, that's silly.... It was glass ... glass ... a glass book.... Put our names together ... print them.... No.... I want a ticket to London, please.... A ticket to London...."

In the meantime, Mr. Surtees and Bellamy were talking very seriously to Lady Wychcote. Her ladyship was badly frightened. It did not take them long to bring her to a reasonable view of the question at issue. If her grandson should die, she could not but realise that his death would be laid to her account by others, though her own angry thought insisted that his mother would be really the one to blame. Then, too, she loved the boy, as has been said, far more than she had ever loved her own sons. She quailed inwardly with pain when she thought of the shriek of terror with which Bobby had greeted her a little while ago when she had entered the room with Bellamy. "Don't let her get me!... Don't let her take away my ticket!" he had screamed. For with the strange inconsistency of delirium he had recognised his enemy at once, though his mother's presence had been unable to soothe him. Lady Wychcote had been compelled to withdraw, lest the child should go into convulsions from his frenzied fear of her.

She sat subdued though haughty while Mr. Surtees pressed home the facts that he considered would militate against her should she persist in her struggle for the sole guardianship of her grandson. Bellamy, in whom she had confided when he was called to Bobby's bedside, was strongly of the solicitor's opinion.

They both agreed in thinking that Lady Wychcote's case would be as good as lost before being presented. Besides, after laying before her every other circumstance in Sophy's favour. Mr. Surtees assured her that the Judge would be certain to demand a private interview with the boy. In that case Bobby's absolute devotion to his mother would have the greatest weight with the Court. And—her ladyship must pardon him—but after the events of the last two days, she could hardly expect that her grandson would reply as ... a ... favourably when questioned about his feeling for her.

They expatiated on the way that the boy had come to be in his present serious condition. The proud old woman sat listening with a face as grey as flint and as hard. But she was suffering as she had not suffered before in all her imperious life. Bellamy wound up by saying: "I regret having to distress you, Lady Wychcote; but the boy's condition is much more serious than I would admit to his mother. In fact he is very dangerously ill.... But even if he recovers, you would scarcely like, I presume, to have your part in the matter brought up in Court."

Lady Wychcote swayed on her chair.

"'If he recovers'...." she repeated thickly. "Is there danger ... of ... his ... dying?"

"Grave danger," said Bellamy.

Lady Wychcote fainted for the first time in her life.

When Bellamy thought of how poor Bobby had come to have pneumonia, he did not wonder that his grandmother should faint on hearing that he might die. It had happened in this way:

To all the boy's frantic inquiries when he found that he was on the way to England without his mother, Lady Wychcote had always answered in some such words as these: "You must trust me, my dear. You will understand some day, but now you must submit to my judgment without questioning. It is best for you and for your mother that you should come with me. I cannot tell you anything more at present. Be a good boy. After a while you will be very happy I am sure."

She told him frankly, however, that they were going to England.

When he asked if his mother knew, if she would come, too, very soon, Lady Wychcote had replied: "She will know shortly. I do not know what her plans are."

Then Bobby gave way to such rage as his grandmother had not witnessed since his father's childhood. He was like a demon. He tried to jump from the window of the carriage—fought with her and the maid till their gowns were torn and he was in a state of collapse. When he recovered from this he took refuge in utter silence. He would not eat or drink—would not move—crouched white and stony with closed eyes. When they reached Boulogne they had to get a man to carry him. But now his eyes were open. They looked fierce and animal-like. He himself looked like some savage, trapped little animal with a red mane. As he caught sight of the channel steamer and realised that he was to be carried aboard of it, he began to fight again. The man had difficulty in mastering him without hurting him. Lady Wychcote explained that the boy was temporarily insane and that she was taking him to England for treatment. Bobby shrieked: "You lie! You lie! You've stolen me! She's stolen me from my mother!"

It was the first time that the determined old lady had ever felt really afraid. She almost lost her head for a moment; but, fortunately for her, it was at this moment that Bobby collapsed again, as he had done in the railway carriage.

All the way from Dover to London he crouched again, motionless, with closed eyes. But now he was thinking—wildly yet rationally. He must escape somehow and get back to his mother. To escape he must put his grandmother off her guard. He must pretend to "be good." His pockets were full of money. He had taken from his little "bank" that morning the savings of two months. He had taken out all the money he had, because he wanted to buy his mother a glass gown if possible. There were in his pockets some English shillings and half-crowns, some silver lire, some five lire bank notes. It seemed quite a fortune to him—certainly enough to pay his way back to Venice. But how to get away from his grandmother? The only thing to do was to pretend to "be good" and wait ... and watch his chance. Then, too, he must keep strong. Now he felt very faint and sickish from hunger. He unclosed his eyes, looked at his grandmother, and said slowly:

"I've decided to behave. I'd like something to eat, please."

Lady Wychcote could have shouted with relief and joy. She would have kissed him, but he fended her off.

"Please ... I feel rather un-affectionate," he said. Something in his voice and look put the old lady at her proper distance. She could not meet the boy's eyes comfortably.

She said with great meekness for her: "Very well, Robert. But I am pleased to see you act like a man."

Anna opened the luncheon hamper and he ate a sandwich and drank some coffee and milk. The food sickened him suddenly. He could not eat more though he tried. He then sat quietly looking out of window till they reached London. Mr. Surtees met them at the station. He looked very much surprised when he saw Bobby. Lady Wychcote made him a significant gesture, and he did not express the surprise he felt. Also he thought that the boy looked ill. Bobby walked around and slipped his hand in the old solicitor's. He and Mr. Surtees had not seen each other often but they liked each other. Bobby's brain was racing. "Shall I tell him? Shall I tell him?" he was thinking. Then something in him said, "No." That Mr. Surtees would have to do as his grandmother wished him to—at least now. Perhaps later he could see him alone. They went to Claridge's. His grandmother and Mr. Surtees were alone together for a long time. Bobby was left upstairs in another room with Anna. She tried to coax him to talk with her but he had relapsed again into resolute silence. Then his grandmother came up, and told him that they were going to Dynehurst at once, and that he should have a new pony, and any kind of dog that he liked.

He said, "Thank you," civilly, but nothing more. His face had reddened as his grandmother spoke—with pleasure she thought. Yes ... ponies and dogs were a sure way to a boy's heart. She felt quite complacent and encouraged. The boy would be easier to manage than she had dared hope, after the frightful incidents of the journey.

Bobby had flushed because when she said that they were going to Dynehurst that afternoon, the thought had leaped to him: "I can get out of the house to-night, and buy a ticket to London at the station." Once in London he thought that it would be easy to get back to Venice. Perhaps Mr. Surtees would be his friend. Yes, he had better trust Mr. Surtees. But again, no—he was not sure about that. What he was sure about was that he could get out of the house that night and find his way to the station. It did not occur to him that the station-master might be unwilling to sell him a ticket to London.

That same night—the night that Sophy spent so miserably on the express that was taking her to him—he managed to dress himself and find his way out of the huge house without rousing any one. One of the housemaids had been sent to stay in the dressing-room next his, but she was a sound, healthy sleeper, and did not hear the boy's cautious movements. He crept downstairs in his stocking-feet, boots in hand. His overcoat had been put away. He went out into the dark, chill, misty night, dressed only in thin serge. At first he could see nothing, then bit by bit the shrubbery and trees revealed themselves ink on inky-grey. The crunching of the gravel helped him to find his way. His heart thumped sickeningly but high. He was free, free! On his way back to his mother. When he had groped some fifty yards from the house, he sat down on the ground to put on his boots. As he laced them he looked wrathfully back at the black mass of the grim old house. Two lighted hall windows in the floor above, and the lighted glass above the front door, gave it the appearance of a huge staring face, with luminous mouth and eyes. It seemed glowering at him like an ogre. He scrambled up, feeling rather queer and little in the lap of the dark, empty night, then trudged sturdily on, guided by the crunching of the gravel, as he strayed to right or left.

All at once, the trees began to sigh and creak—big drops struck his face—at first spatteringly, then thicker together. Within half an hour of his leaving the house, a heavy, wind-swept rain was pelting down; ten minutes more and he was soaked to the skin.

Now it was that he began to fear for his money, which was more than half in notes. He clenched his hands tightly over as much of it as he could grasp, and plodded on determinedly. But the steady pelting of the rain bewildered him. He wandered from the driveway—tried to find it again, with hands and feet this time. Blown twigs and leaves began to strike him. He walked against a tree—clung to it a moment, panting. Then groped his way on again. But now he was hopelessly lost in the big Park. A great, soggy mass of bracken stopped him. He skirted it—walked against more trees. He would not admit in his fierce, dogged little heart that he was lost. He kept rehearsing what he would say to the station-master: "A first-class ticket to London, please. Here's the money."

For nearly three hours the boy groped and stumbled in that maze of trees through the driving rain. For some time he had been saying earnest little prayers:

"Our Father who art in heaven ... please help me to get back to my mother. Our Father ... please. Our Father ... please...."

When they found him he was lying unconscious on the sodden grass under an elm—both hands clenched fast upon as much of the notes and silver in his pockets as he could grasp.

When he had been put to bed, and roused at last he was delirious. He began calling frantically, "My money! my money!" They gave it to him. Then had begun that monotonous chant of: "A first-class ticket to London, please.... A ticket to London.... Here's the money.... I've got the money."

This was why Bellamy did not wonder that Lady Wychcote fainted when he told her that Bobby might die.

LVIII

And now Sophy descended into the darkness of darkness where death and remorse sit brooding together—that vasty cavern of uttermost black gloom which underlies the Valley of the Shadow. Faith does not walk there nor hope. There a thousand years seem not as a day, but a day seems as a thousand years.

As she watched beside her son, she felt a more rending anguish than when she had given him birth, for now her soul was in travail of him. She who had given him life might now have given him death. If he died it would be she who had killed him. "Happiness hunter ... happiness hunter...." her own phrase rang in her mind.

And this was what her son had come to, while she was absorbed in hunting happiness....

She would not leave him now even long enough to change her clothes. Nurse Fleming brought her some fresh linen and a dressing-gown to the bedside, and put them on her as if she had been a child. She submitted quietly. The nurse unbound her hair, brushed and plaited it, then made her take an easy chair that she rolled up.

When Bellamy entered again Sophy roused from her tranced watching long enough to ask him to get Anne Harding if it were possible. He went at once to do so.

There was no night or day to Sophy now. The grim, candle-lit hours went by monotonous as a linked chain paid out of darkness into darkness by invisible hands.

Then came intervals of horror—struggles for breath. Wild shadows on the ceiling as nurse and doctor fought together with that other Shadow.

Anne Harding came. Sophy stared at her blindly, and said: "I thought you'd come, Cecil...."

Then after many days, each as a thousand years, a voice came through the smothering blackness in her mind. It said:

"He will live.... He's past the crisis...."

The blackness closed in again.

She came to herself on the bed in Cecil's dressing-room. There was an old etching of Magdalene Tower on the wall at the bed's foot.

She thought: "What a pity to call it 'Maudlin' instead of Magdalene...." Then everything weltered in on her at once—waves, wreckage, as of a world after flood. She was on her feet. She was in the other room. Anne Harding and Bellamy had hold of her. Her head felt hollow and very light. Her voice sounded light and piping in her own ears.

"Tell ... tell...." she was saying.

Anne Harding put her finger to her lips—glanced towards a smooth white bed. There was a little round of sunlight dancing on it. "Ssssh...." whispered Anne. "He's asleep.... We mustn't wake him. You've been very ill yourself, but our little man's doing finely."

They helped her to a chair beside the bed—Cecil's old leather armchair. Anne Harding could see his huge form in it as he used to sit glowering at her between the reduced doses of morphia. It gave her an odd feeling to put Sophy in that chair, and tuck a rug about her.

They all three sat in silence watching the sleeping child.

Sophy whispered once, with her avid eyes on the little, sunken face:

"Is he really only ... asleep?"

For answer, Bellamy lifted one of Bobby's hands and laid it in hers.

"He's so sound it won't wake him," he reassured her, smiling.

And for Sophy the warmth of that little hand was as the warmth of her own soul's blood.

For a long, long time she sat there with inner vision fixed on the beautiful and terrible star that had risen in the dark night of her soul—the star of a destiny as stern and far more ancient than that foretold at Bethlehem: the star of primordial and eternally recurrent sacrifice ... of the crucifixion of the mother for the child. And a woman if she be so lifted up shall draw all women to her and to each other—for this is the dark yet shining law, whereby the individual's loss is the gain of the whole race.

When Bobby at last opened his eyes they rested on his mother's face. She hardly dared to breathe, it was so wonderful to see those grey eyes looking into hers with recognition. And the boy, too, was afraid to stir or speak lest his mother's face should vanish or change into some dreadful difference as it had vanished and changed in the dreams of fever. But as she knelt, holding his hand against her breast, gazing at him out of the eyes that meant all love to him—a little stiff, wistful smile parted his lips.

"Mother ... dear...." he whispered.

Then Sophy put her cheek to his. He felt the soft glow of her sheltering breast.

"Hold me fast ... don't leave me...." he murmured.

"Never, my darling ... my only man ... never, never again...."

"Our Father...." stumbled Bobby, ".... thank you ... ever so much...."

Then he drowsed off again.

A week later Sophy was sitting beside him as usual, and again he was sleeping. It was drawing towards sunset. A lovely glow filled the sky and lighted the yellowing trees in the Park.

Bobby waked suddenly and, gazing out of the window near his bed, pleaded:

"Mother ... I do so want to smell the out of doors.... Couldn't you open this window?"

Sophy called Anne Harding, who was in the next room.

"Do you think we might open it?" she asked, after telling her what Bobby wanted. "It's so mild to-day—like St. Martin's summer.... He wants it so much...."

"Of course we can," Anne answered cheerfully. "Dr. Fresh Air's the best doctor of 'em all."

She raised the sash and went back into the other room. Doctors and nurses left those two alone together as much as possible.

The mild air, sweet with fading leaves and bracken, stole softly into the room.

"How jolly...." breathed the boy. "It's like fairies touching me...."

He turned his face towards his mother.

"Come lie by me, mother ... like that night in Venice," he said.

Sophy lay down beside him and took his head upon her arm. Bobby sighed deep in the fulness of his content. "I feel so jolly safe this way," he murmured. They rested quietly in each other's arms, looking up at the soft gold of the September sky. As on that day, nearly eight years ago, when Cecil had been laid in the chapel crypt, the yellow leaves drifted down, gently turning in the delicate air. The fallowed earth gave forth a fresh, pleasant smell. From the pasture lands below came the lowing of the Wychcote herd. Now a flight of homing rooks streamed across the sky.

"Oh, how jolly ... how jolly it all is," breathed the boy. "I'm glad I didn't die.... What a jolly noise the rooks make, don't they, mother?"

"Yes, darling," she answered him.

But what she heard and saw, high, high above their clamorous winging, was the ecstatic shrilling of the Venice swifts, and their impassioned arabesques of flight like joy made visible—like a joy above, beyond—far, far removed....

THE END