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.