As they turned the last landing, and went up the flight leading direct to her apartment, they saw that the door was open and Rosa standing with a candle at the top of the stairs. She gave a cry of joy as she caught sight of Sophy--and came rushing down to meet her. Oh, the Madonna and San Guiseppe be praised! Oh, what had happened? She and Miladi had been _so_ afraid--so terribly afraid!...

As she was speaking, a tall figure appeared in the open doorway. Sophy's heart seemed to lose a beat. Lady Wychcote acknowledged Amaldi's greeting, then called to Sophy:

"Are you really unhurt?... I fancied all sorts of horrid accidents...."

Sophy answered in the natural voice that astonishes one's self at such moments:

"Yes. I'm quite all right, thanks. But there _has_ been an accident...."

"Ah.... I felt sure of it!" said Lady Wychcote.

All three entered the drawing-room. Rosa had rushed off again to tell the other servants of the Signora's safe return. Amaldi felt that he must not leave too abruptly. Lady Wychcote's unexpected presence at the flat struck him as not only unfortunate but very singular, even ominous.

Why had she come, then, a day before she was expected by Sophy? One who wished to surprise another in some overt act would follow just such a course. And as he looked at the cold, composed face that now wore an expression of polite interest he felt a stir of fear. What was the real woman cogitating under that civil mask? What was her real feeling towards Sophy? Whether grief had sharpened his perceptions to an unusual acuteness, or whether to-night some unusual force went out from Lady Wychcote, it would be difficult to say--but a conviction as strong as the conviction of his own existence seized him--the conviction that this woman was Sophy's enemy--implacable, ruthless, willed to it with all her being. And as he thought of what a clever, unscrupulous tongue might make of Sophy's being with him at such an hour of night, he felt cold with dread and anger. It seemed too horrible that the cruel past should reach out to her even from the shadow of death. First the brutal son--then his mother. It was as if Cecil Chesney grasped at the issues of her life, even from the grave, through the cold will of his mother.

In the meantime, Sophy was describing the Marchesa's fall to Lady Wychcote, who listened with that expression of civil interest, and now and then an interjection of conventional regret.

The more Amaldi reflected, the more sinister the whole situation seemed to him. But he was quite powerless. He excused himself in a few moments, saying that he must get back to the villa as soon as possible. Lady Wychcote murmured some expressions of formal sympathy. Sophy gave him a cold, rather rigid, hand. Her eyes looked blank, like the eyes of a puppet.

He went out sick at heart with impotent love and wrath.

When he had gone, Lady Wychcote said to Sophy:

"You look rather ill. Don't you think you'd better have something to eat ... some wine, perhaps?"

"Thanks, no. I'll just go to bed. Sleep will be the best thing for me."

"But you don't look as if you would sleep much," returned Lady Wychcote.

"You seem terribly overstrung...."

"Yes. It was a horrid thing to see!" Sophy answered. In her mind the senseless, chaunting voice had begun again: "_It never rains but it pours.... It never rains but it pours._"

Rosa came running back. She, too, pressed her mistress to eat and drink.

"No. I only want to lie down ... to be quiet, Rosa."

The kind soul, full of affectionate concern, threw an arm about her in order to sustain her better.

"Good night," Sophy then said. "I'm sorry to have to leave you at once, like this.... But I'm really worn out...."

"Just one thing before you go," returned Lady Wychcote, following as they went towards the door. "I'd like to explain my unceremonious descent on you.... James and Mildred decided to leave Venice this afternoon instead of to-morrow. So, as I knew you were expecting me to-morrow, I thought it couldn't really make any difference to you if I came a day sooner. I hope it hasn't inconvenienced you in any way...?"

"Not in the least. How could it?"

"Thanks very much. I hope you will feel rested in the morning."

"Thanks. I'm sure I shall."

Sophy moved on again. She felt that if she did not soon reach her bedroom she would drop to the floor in spite of Rosa's supporting arm.

But now Lady Wychcote was speaking again. She had followed them out into the corridor.

"Oh ... by the way ... I'm sorry to detain you, but I want to mention something about Robert...."

The spent life in Sophy leaped like flame in the draught of a suddenly opened door.

"Yes?" she said.

"The poor boy was so upset by your being so late that I promised him a trip to the gla.s.s-works to divert him."

"That was very kind of you," murmured Sophy.

Lady Wychcote continued:

"So, if you've no objection, we are to go to Murano rather early to-morrow morning.... A sort of all-day affair. We'll lunch there...."

"No, of course I don't object. I think it's very kind of you," said Sophy.

"Then ... good night," said Lady Wychcote.

Through the haze of fatigue and misery that clouded her, Sophy felt something peculiar in the tone of this "Good night." But then her ladyship's voice often took a peculiar tone in speaking to her. She was too tired to a.n.a.lyse this special shade of expression.

A great sigh of relief escaped her as she found herself in her own room.

"_Chut!_" whispered Rosa, smiling wisely, her finger at her lips. Then she lowered it and pointed to the bed under its tent of white mosquito netting. "_Guarda!... povero angelotto!_" (Look! ... poor little angel!), she murmured. "He wouldn't sleep till I let him come into his dear mamma's bed...."

As Sophy saw through the mist of the white curtains, the little st.u.r.dy form and dark-red curls of her son, all her being rose in a great wave of love and anguish. And borne forward as by this wave, she went and looked down on him. He lay p.r.o.ne, hugging his pillow to him with both arms, as if in her absence he would at least make sure of something that had been close to her. And not even on the day when he had been born to her with anguish had she felt such a throe of tenderness.

She turned away after a moment and let Rosa help her to undress; then as soon as she was alone blew out the shaded candle and stole again towards the bed.

A clear September moon had risen. It shone in upon the veiled bed and made it gleam mysteriously--made it look like a shrine. The curtains had a holy whiteness in the moonlight.

Sophy went and knelt down beside it, and as she knelt there Bobby stirred, lifted himself on his elbow.

"Mother...?" he said.

"Yes, darling. I'm here ... just saying my prayers."

He gave a little smothered whoop of joy, and scrambled to the edge of the bed, dragging up the netting that divided them. He shook the loose folds down behind her, and threw both arms around her neck, hugging her head tight against him. The warm, lovely perfume of a sleepy child enfolded her. It was like the very essence of love enfolding her.

She had to explain everything to him before he would let her go. Then he began pleading: "Don't send me back to my room _right_ away, mother....

I know it was rather girly of me to come and get in your bed like this.... But Rosa's a good old sort. She won't peach on me.... And I think it's rather natural, a chap being a bit girly about his mother when he thinks things might have happened to her, don't you?"

Sophy said that indeed she did, and that he should stay with her till morning--that it made her feel ever so much happier and safer to have him near her. Bobby snuggled down blissfully, keeping her hand in both his.

"After all," he said, "though I'm not grown, I'm the only _man_ you've got.... It's nice to have a man awfully anxious about you, ain't it, mother?"

"Ah, yes, indeed it is!" she murmured.