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."