She gave him his hat and his stick and pushed him out of the room.
"You're as bad as a child," she said; "I don't believe you trust me at all."
"I do trust you," he protested, "I have implicit faith in everything you do."
"Go on then," she said, "and don't look so crushed."
He walked along the road mechanically, and down the twisting streets and avenues to the sea-front. It was like a dream, the houses were phantom things, the people were shadows. Nice was a city that he did not know, alien and unfriendly. It seemed to him that this shock of his mother's weakness had shown to him, in ugliness and force, that his own life was also without foundation. There was no security any more. Nothing was sure or solid.
Even the children back in London lacked reality.
They were like little ghosts who had drifted with him through the years. Nothing had been real or living since he had left Clonmere and turned the key upon the past.
As he heard the flat sea break on the dull beach he thought of the swift tide in the creek at home, and the surf running upon Doon Island. He remembered the soft winds and the pale sun, and the white clouds above the top of Hungry Hill. He thought of the little churchyard at Ardmore, and the robin who sang in winter. And all that was finished and done with, he had no part in it, he did not belong there any more.
He went and sat in the lounge in one of the big hotels and waited for Adeline Price. He waited one hour, two hours, and she did not come.
Finally he could stand it no longer; he went outside and jumped into a fiacre, and ordered the driver to take him to the Home.
It was dark now, and he could not see much, except the endless avenues, and the trees. The sea kept breaking on the shore in the distance. The frogs set up their nightly croaking. The wind was cold.
The fiacre drove past a high wall and came to a great gate. It was shut. The driver rang the bell, and presently a concierge looked through the narrow grille.
"It's prison," thought Henry. "I don't care what they say, it's prison."
After a few minutes the concierge opened the gates. The fiacre drove up a long, winding avenue, closely shut by tall trees. They came at last to the building. Few lights showed. The curtains were drawn for the night. Another fiacre was waiting outside the front door. Henry recognised the driver. He was one of the men who kept his vehicle in the little square near his mother's villa. Henry got out and enquired if Mrs.
Price and Mrs. Brodrick had gone inside the building. The man said they had been there for over an hour. He said something about extra time, and he hoped he was going to be paid for it. Henry gave him ten francs at once, and the man pocketed them, muttering to himself. Henry went and rang the bell of the front-door. It was opened by a man in a white coat.
"My name is Brodrick," said Henry. "I'm the son of Mrs. Brodrick who arrived here this evening."
"Oh, yes, number 34," said the man, in good English. "If you'll come to the reception room, I'll make enquiries for you. Do you want to see your mother?"
"If you please," said Henry. "And there was a lady with her, Mrs. Price. Perhaps she could come down and speak to me?"
The man showed Henry into a large room on the right of the entrance. It was comfortably furnished- with chairs, and tables, and books. There was nobody in it. As he waited a loud bell clanged for dinner. Through the half-open door he could hear people file along the corridor to the dining-room. He caught a glimpse of a green uniform, and the white cap of a nurse. A little old man was walking with the aid of crutches.
"Come on, Mr. Vines, don't be all day about it," said someone sharply.
Other people were talking. Someone laughed in a high, silly way. The footsteps and the voices died away, and a door shut in the distance.
Henry went on waiting. Then a man in a grey frock-coat, with a monocle hanging down the front on a black cord, came through the door and held out his hand.
"I am Doctor Wells," he said. "I'm afraid my superior is dining in Nice, but I am in charge here for the evening. You are Mrs. Brodrick's son, I understand. We've had just a little difficulty, but nothing for you to worry about. Your friend Mrs. Price has been so sensible."
"What do you mean, difficulty?" said Henry.
"Mrs. Brodrick was a trifle bewildered on arrival. Very natural. They often are, you know. But your friend is with her, and the nurse on duty is an excellent woman. We thought it better she should have her supper upstairs the first evening, and then she will be able to go into the dining-room tomorrow. I think Mrs.
Price is coming down now."
He turned towards the door as Adeline Price came into the room. She seemed quite unruffled and composed, as though nothing had disturbed her.
"It's all right," she said, "she's quite quiet now. I've left her showing photographs to the nurse. And such a nice dinner has gone up to her on a tray. Well cooked, well served. I must say you look after them well, doctor."
Doctor Wells smiled, and toyed with his monocle.
"The little things are so important," he said.
Adeline Price was staring at Henry.
"Why did you come?" she said reproachfully. "I thought I told you to go and wait for me at the hotel?"
The doctor smiled.
"No doubt Mr. Brodrick was anxious," he said smoothly, "and perhaps as he is here it would be more satisfactory if he just popped his head round the door and said goodnight to his mother. He would know then that she was quite comfortable."
"Yes, I should like to do that," said Henry.
Adeline Price frowned.
"Is it wise?" she said. "Wouldn't it upset her?"
"I don't think so," said the doctor; "it might be just the right touch. Of course we shall give her a small sleeping draught, as it's her first evening and everything will seem a little strange."
"I'll wait for you in the fiacre," said Adeline Price abruptly. "No point in my going up there again."
She swung out of the room, a tall, confident figure in her grey coat and gown. Henry followed the doctor upstairs. The corridors were of shiny wood, scrubbed clean, and carpetless. The walls were green, like the uniforms of the nurses. A young nurse at the top of the stairs smiled at him.
She looked kindly, sympathetic. Henry clung to this like a straw.
"Are many of the nurses young?" he asked. "That one who passed, will she have much to do for my mother?"
"The matron would tell you that better than I could," said the doctor. "I can make enquiries for you, of course. Number 34. This is your mother's room."
He tapped on the door. It was opened by a stout, middle-aged nurse in glasses.
"What is it?" she said sharply. "Oh, it's you, doctor; I'm sorry. Will you come in?"
Doctor Wells murmured in her ear.
"Mr. Brodrick," he said, "just come to say goodnight to his mother. He won't stay more than a few minutes."
"All right," said the nurse, "but I want to get her washed and settled down for the night as soon as possible. We're short-handed this evening."
"It's only eight o'clock," said Henry. "My mother's been used to staying up until midnight or after."
The nurse began to speak, but the doctor cut her short. "It's only for tonight," he said. "Tomorrow she will be with the others, leading quite a normal life."
Henry went into the room. It was green like the corridor, but had a large window, and there were coloured mats upon the floor. The curtains were yellow, with green flowers upon them. The room was smaller than he had imagined. There was one easy chair in the corner. His mother was sitting up in bed, counting some money in her bag. She did not see him come in. She was scattering coins over the bedclothes, and talking to herself. Her hair hung in a cloud over her shoulders, silver white. Suddenly she saw him, and held out her arms.