Van looked at Toby. He was not used to individual children—^was, in fact, much more at home as the trustee of many than the companion of one. But the little creature, with its dogged determination and its odd deep voice, was difficult to resist.
"We'll see what Kellaby says," he compromised, and Gwyneth and Toby took this for permission. She held out her hand, which Toby grasped firmly.
Rather more slowly they made their way towards the house, from which Dr. Kellaby, accompanied by his wife, could now be seen emerging.
"I'm so sorry we weren't here when you arrived, but I hope FothergUl made our excuses." Dr. Kellaby, a pleasant, authoritative man in his early fifties, greeted them both cordially, while Mrs. Kellaby told Gwyneth how very pleased they were that she had come down to see the orphanage so soon after her marriage.
For some reason, no one seemed to notice Toby particularly, and almost immediately Dr. Kellaby suggested that they should begin by inspecting the new Infants' Dormitory. They strolled towards the house. Dr. Kellaby explaining as they went:
"The old one was completely redecorated, of course, and is now given over entirely to the over-sevens. Much more suitable for them. But, so far as the new one is concerned " He plunged into detail, and it was evident
that the whole matter was very dear to his heart. Van commented and asked questions in a way which showed he had followed the progress of the building very closely and interestedly, too.
Gwyneth, meanwhile, made conversation with Mrs. Kel-laby who walked in step with her, but on the side away from Toby. It gave Gwyneth a pleasant feeling of conspiracy when anxious little fingers pressed into hers, to indicate satisfaction that so far they were safe. He took it so completely for granted that she was as eager as he, that he should be included in the party.
Just as they reached the entrance, Dr. Kellaby turned to say something to her, and noticed that Toby was still firmly attached to them.
"Here, young man," he said, just as Van had, "you run along and find the others. You ought to be out playing in the sunshine."
This was the voice of recognized authority, and everyone looked at Toby. He* wilted slightly in the full glare of publicity. Then he looked at Gwyneth, and Gwyneth looked at Van.
"I believe," Van said in that grave, rather stem way of his, "that—er—Toby is helping to conduct this tour of inspection. He was going to explain one or two things to my wife."
"Is that so?" The Superintendent looked amused. "But I think "
"Please, I>r. Kellaby, may he come too? I—^we're getting on so well," Gwyneth said, "and it's nice to hear what one of the children has to say about the place."
He hadn't really had anything to say about the place— or its inmates—of course (apart from the observation that Freddie couldn't stand upon his head) but Dr. Kellaby accepted the suggestion with a smile, and the party, including Toby, moved into the house.
"Actually, Toby is rather a favourite of my husband, too," Mrs. Kellaby explained in a tone inaudible to the little boy. "He is the only one of all our children who
comes from north of the Tweed, and, as I expect you can hear, my husband is Scottish, too." She laughed agreeably, and somehow Gwyneth managed to laugh too.
What did she mean, this pleasant, placid woman, who had no idea she was saying anything significant? That Toby came of Scottish parents? That he had been born in Scotland {the only one) and then brought south?
She must say something and say it quickly or the subject would be changed and the moment lost. Even as Mrs. Kellaby began a comment on the size of the new dormitory, Gwyneth cut across the sentence with an eagerness she could not wholly hide.
"Were his—people Scottish?"
"My husband? Yes. They came from—-— **
"No. The little boy's."
"Oh." Mrs. Kellaby glanced at Toby who was still con« tentedly clinging to Gwyneth's hand, unaware that he was being discussed. "I don't really know, because it's one of the strict rules of the place that only my husband knows the full circumstances of each case—so far as the relations disclose them, of course."
"Yes, of course. But your husband—he did say that the child was Scottish? I mean, what made you think he was?"
Mrs. Kellaby laughed.
"I always remember my husband coming in just after Toby had been brought here, and saying: "Well, we've got a real little Scottie this time. Straight from the Highlands, and no more than a week or two old." He was quite delighted. Toby was the youngest child we ever had, I should think, and even then ho. had been in a Scottish children's hospital first, I believe. Possibly the mother died when he was bom. I don't know."
"You mean she couldn't have been so—so heartless as to—part with him otherwise?"
"Oh, I don't know about that. Cuxumstances can be very cruel. It's hard for us even to imagine what lies behind some of these cases, you know, Mrs. Onslie—and it certainly isn't for us to judge," the Superintendent's wife said kindly. And something in the tolerant humanity of that calmed Gwyneth just a little.
She was silent, pretending to pause for a moment to look at the view from one of the windows, pretending to take
the deepest interest in the fire-proof staircase and panelling on the way upstairs. And all the while, clutching her hand —swinging it lightheartedly at times—was Toby, her own child.
Gwyneth hardly dared to look at him. To feel his small fingers was enough. She tried to tell herself that she might be jumping to conclusions too quickly, the the evidence was, to say the least of it, scrappy.
That was all true, but it made no difference. She knew now that Toby was hers. She was not interested any more in any hypothetical little boy—not even if he were as beautiful as Freddie and the admiration of all. She wanted this dear, odd little creature with the gruff voice and the dark blue eyes and the rather absurd hair. She wanted him —^that was the awful part.
Her eyes went then to Van, grave, thoughtful, absorbed in what Dr. Kellaby was saying to him. Van!—^who was entirely unaware of the drama that was being played out beside him, whose complete world would crash in ruins if she said, in effect: "This child holding on to my hand is really my own. I must take him away with me."
No—it was impossible. You couldn't ask a man who was trustee of an orphanage suddenly to swallow the fact that one of the orphans was the illegitimate child of his own wife.
Her head began to swim, and with an effort she pulled herself together again.
And then Dr. Kellaby—Mrs. Kellaby—^what would they think? Not that it really mattered, of course, beside this frantic, growing desire to pick up Toby and take him away with her. But they were part of the problem. They represented the outside world.
"Look," Toby said importantly at that moment. "There's my bed. That's where I sleep."
Until then Gwyneth had hardly realized that they were in the much discussed new dormitory. Now she looked with overwhelming interest at the bed where her little boy slept.
"It's a very nice bed," Toby informed her, and bounced upon it to demonstrate the fact. But a firm word from Dr. Kellaby put an end to that,, and he got off it again rather meekly.
"That table's half mine." He showed her a small table which stood between his bed and the next one.
"Is it?"
"Yes. I shall put Toby Two there."
She saw he had by no means forgotten the promised present, and she supposed with a little wrench at her heart that orphans could not, in the nature of things, have many presents. She thought of the toys and clothes she would love to give him, the miniature furniture that would delight him and make him give his funny, deep chuckle.
It was incredible—^but she could not give him those things! She would have to go away presently, like any other visitor, and apparently not think of him again—except to send him her Toby jug as a pleasant memento from a casual caller who happened to be amused by his name.
"I can't bear it!" thought Gwyneth. "I simply can't bear it!"
But she had to, of course, like every
thing else connected with this unhappy secret. She even had to bear it when a big bell rang and Mrs. Kellaby said:
"That's lunch-time for you, Toby. Say good-bye to Mrs. Onslie and run along to the dining-room now."
He didn't really want to go, but -the call of food was enticing, and his counter-proposals were more half-hearted this time. It was Gwyneth who wanted to say:
"Let him stay with me—please let him stay with me. I want to see him eat his lunch. Can't he have it with us?"
But of course it was quite impossible to say such things. She had to pat his head and let him go. She couldn't even kiss him because she was not sure if visitors did kiss the children, or whether it was considered unhygienic or something of the sort. She mustn't do anything the least bit noticeable—not even anything that might strike Van as emotional and unlike her.
The only thing she could do was to call after the little figure trotting out of the dormitory:
"I'll see you again before I go, Toby."
And Toby replied: "Yes, I'll see you too."
"He's quaint, isn't he?" Mrs. Kellaby said with a laugh when he had gone. "He practically never says just "yes" or "no", but always a whole sentence."
"He's sweet," Gwyneth agreed as casually as she could. "How old is he?"
"Going on for six. I think he has a birthday in Septem-
ber." Gwyneth had known it would be so, of course, but she listened fascinatedly to this further confirmation. Mrs. Kellaby turned to her husband. "Toby is one of the Septembers, isn't he?"
Dr. Kellaby smiled.
"Yes. He seems to have taken a fancy to you, Mrs. Onslie."
"I was very flattered. He's a dear child. The kind—the kind of child one could get very fond of. Don't you think so, Van?"
Her husband looked rather surprised, smiled slightly and said:
"Yes, I dare say. Funny little beggar." And then he began to talk to Dr. Kellaby again about Annual Meetings and other uninteresting things.
Gwyneth didn't enjoy the rest of her visit very much. It was hard to show a practical and intelligent interest in the things which didn't concern her own child very personally.
It was hard to have to make casual conversation over lunch, too. She wanted to say:
"When can I see Toby again? Can I have an hour with him all by myself before I go? Could I have him stay with me? Do people ever adopt the children from here?"
But she couldn't ask these questions—^not one of them. They would all sound extraordinary—and whatever she did, she must not arouse suspicion.
The afternoon dragged away. She had seen everything by the end—the schoolrooms, the play-rooms, the kitchens, the grounds—and she had expressed a proper interest in them all. Only at the very end, when they were within ten minutes of going, did she pluck up courage to say:
"I haven't seen Toby to say good-bye."
"Toby?" Her husband looked surprised. "Do you want to see the child again?"
"I promised him I would. I couldn't think of letting him down," Gwyneth said almost sharply.
"A very good rule, Mrs. Onslie," Dr. Kellaby agreed with a smile. "Children notice promises at least as much as grown-ups."
"Of course, if you promised him." Van smiled slightly, too. "I didn't realize that a promise was involved."
So Toby was summoned, and Gwyneth had to say good-
bye to him in front of them all. It didn't count as seeing him at all, of course. She couldn't kiss him and hug him, as she wanted. She could only take his little hand and smile upon him very sweetly and say:
"Good-bye, Toby. I won't forget to send you your jug."
But he was better at this sort of thing than she was. He held up his face to be kissed and said:
"Thank you. Good-bye. Please don't forget my jug."
Everyone smiled then, and so it was quite easy to bend down and kiss him. His mouth felt very soft and damp, and she thought: "He's only a baby—my baby."
"When shall I see you again?" he asked firmly.
"I—don't know." It made her want to cry, having to say that.
"I dare say Mrs. Onslie will be down here on Founders* Day," Mrs. Kellaby suggested pleasantly. And at that, Gwyneth could have fallen on her neck and kissed her.
"Yes—yes, of course. When is it?" She had not dared to think of some possibility like that.
"In about six weeks' time."
"Near my birthday," supplemented Toby innocently.
"I'll come. It's a promise," Gwyneth assured him, trying not to notice that Van's eyes were on her in rather amused surprise.
And, after that, they said their goodbyes to the Kellabys and went, away.
At first they drove in silence. Then presently Van said:
"It's a fine place, isn't it?"
"Yes. Wonderful. I can quite understand your interest in it."
"I wondered once or twice if you had had more than enough."
"Oh no. Really, Van, no I" She was desperately anxious to show any amount of interest that might mean their going back again.
Her vehemence seemed to amuse him slightly.
"You don't have to be interested just because I am," he told her reassuringly. "But I expect you were more interested in the personal side—the children themselves rather than in the first-class organization."
"Yes, I was. That—that little boy who was so friendly— I thought he was sweet."
"Yes. A nice child. I'm afraid I'm not much good at patting their little heads and making conversation. The business side of the place is more in my line than personal contacts."
"I didn't imagine / knew much about what to say to children, but he was quite easy."
Her husband nodded carelessly.
"Van, I like him so much." She tried to make that sound like any woman who just happened to be intrigued by the child. "I wonder if I could have him home?"
Van looked simply astounded.
"For the day, do you mean? I shouldn't think so, my dear. I imagine that sort of thing would be very unsettling for an institution child. I am sure the Kellabys wouldn't encourage it."
She knew he didn't mean it at all unkindly, but to hear her little boy described as 'an institution child' set her teeth on edge.
"You—^you could use a certain amount of influence, I suppose?"
"I could, Gwyneth," he said a trifle dryly, "but I don't think I should. The child is probably very well where he is, and in our particular position, we are scarcely the people who ought to start agitating for rules to be broken."
She was silent, not because she thought—as he evidently did—that the discussion was ended, but because she was thinking how to approach it in a different way.
"Van, we shall go down there again on Founders' Day, shan't we?"
"Certainly, if you would like to. I almost always go. And I'm sure they would take it as a pleasant compliment if you came, too."
"I should like to."
There was silence again for a while and, glancing at him, she felt sure that his thoughts were now on something else —^probably business affairs, since their drawing near London would bring those to his mind. She must speak to him again, before he was quite detached from his profound, if impersonal, interests in Greystones.
"Van."
"Um-hm?"
"If I spoke very tactfully to Mrs. Kellaby on Founders'
Day, and found out whether we could have—have Toby for a visit, would you have any personal objection? I mean, if they don't object?"
Van slowed the car and looked at her in surprise.
"My dear girl, are you seriously suggesting the child should stay with us?"
"Yes." She hoped he wouldn't hear that she spoke with the obstinacy of despair.
"Why, Gwyneth, I think that's a little too impulsive a decision, don't you?"
"It isn't a decision exactly. I—I just wanted to discuss it and see how you liked the idea."
There was a pause, then he said dryly and flatly:
"I don't Hke it at all?"
&nbs
p; "Oh, Van, why?"
"My dear, we've only been married a few weeks—only had our home to ourselves for about ten days. Decidedly, I don't want a child running about the place."
She didn't answer, and perhaps he got the impression that she resented his saying that. He flushed rather deeply, an extremely unusual thing with him.
"Well," he said slowly, "I'll amplify that to what I really mean. I don't specially want a child about the place unless it's my chUd."
He couldn't possibly know, of course, how terribly significant his way of putting it seemed to her. He had said 'my child'—not 'your child' or even 'our child'. Somehow his choice of words seemed to shut a door against Toby.
There didn't seem anything else to say, but evidently her silence troubled him, because he stopped the car altogether, turning to face her with his arm along the back of the seat.
"Gwyneth, did you resent my saying that?"
"About not wanting Toby, you mean?"
"No." He dismissed Toby again with very slight impatience. There was a short pause. Then he said with something of an effort: "Did you mind the implication that we might have a child of our own some time?"
"Van!—of course not." She realized then that, in her preoccupation with Toby, she had scarcely noticed Van's change of tone. She caught his hand eagerly, in an unusual access of emotion. "I hope we do have a child, my dear— every bit as much as you do."
That was true—she did hope it. Only that must not shut out Toby. It must not.
"Thank you, darling," Van said in that curt, almost formal way of his, and leaning forward, he kissed her on her lips.
It wasn't possible to start the subject of Toby again after that, however much she might long to. Besides, what Van had said about their having had their home to themselves for only ten days was true. It was unreasonable and unkind to expect him to contemplate an intruder, yet—even such a small intruder as Toby.
She tried to point out very reasonably to herself that she had managed very well without her child for five years. Why must she feel now that she could scarcely bear to pass a day without knowing what was happening to him?
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