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.