"My husband never had the least suspicion. The boy's real nature, which is selfish and callous and heartless, did not reveal itself to him. To me it was, almost from the outset, painfully apparent. He is so entirely, in every respect, the opposite of his supposed father, that I have sometimes trembled lest a suspicion should arise. For my own part, I confess that I have never felt the least tenderness or affection for the boy. It has been a continual pain to me that I hadto pretend any. So far as that is concerned, I shall be much relieved when I have to pretend no more. Whatever steps may be taken by his real mother, they will at least rid me of a continual and living reproach. I do not know how much affection and gratitude his real mother may expect from such a son in return for depriving him of his family and his position, and exchanging his cousins in the House of Lords for relations with the gutter. I wish her, however, joy and happiness from his love and gratitude."
"My husband never had the least suspicion. The boy's real nature, which is selfish and callous and heartless, did not reveal itself to him. To me it was, almost from the outset, painfully apparent. He is so entirely, in every respect, the opposite of his supposed father, that I have sometimes trembled lest a suspicion should arise. For my own part, I confess that I have never felt the least tenderness or affection for the boy. It has been a continual pain to me that I hadto pretend any. So far as that is concerned, I shall be much relieved when I have to pretend no more. Whatever steps may be taken by his real mother, they will at least rid me of a continual and living reproach. I do not know how much affection and gratitude his real mother may expect from such a son in return for depriving him of his family and his position, and exchanging his cousins in the House of Lords for relations with the gutter. I wish her, however, joy and happiness from his love and gratitude."
"Molly dear," said Alice, "the woman confesses she took the child and passed it off upon the world for her own. What do you say now, doctor?"
"If necessary, I am ready to acknowledge publicly that Lady Woodroffe is the person who bought your child. However, when you came to me about it, I did not know that fact. I found it out afterwards by a remarkable chance. But she confesses, which is all that you desire."
"She confesses! Now—at last! Oh, Molly, I shall get back the boy! He will be my own son again—not that horrible woman's son any more! Oh, my own son! my own son!"
"The other mother," the doctor murmured. Molly heard him, but understood not what he meant. "Will you, dear madam, read the latter part of the document once more, that part of it beginning, 'My husband never had any suspicion.' Perhaps Miss Molly will read it aloud."
Molly did so. As she read it she understood the meaning of these words, "the other mother." Shethought of Humphrey, with his cold disdainful eyes, his shrinking from display, his pride of birth, his contempt of the common herd, and of this warm motherly heart, natural and spontaneous, careless of form and reticence, which was waiting for him, and her heart sank for pity. The sham mother, glad at last to get rid of the pretence; her own lover Dick, eager to pull down the pretender, and full of revenge; the pretender himself maddened with rage and shame; and the poor mother longing in vain for one word of tenderness and kindness. Molly's heart sank low with pity. What tenderness, what kindness, would Humphrey have for the mother who had come to deprive him of everything that he valued?
"I have come here this afternoon," the doctor went on, "as a friend of both mothers. On the part of Lady Woodroffe, I have absolutely nothing to propose. She puts the case unreservedly in your hands. Whatever steps you take, she will accept. It remains, therefore, for you, madam, to do what you think best."
"I want my boy," she repeated doggedly. "So long as I get him, I don't care what happens."
"That is, of course, the one feeling which underlies everything. I will, if you like, see him in your name."
"Dick was going to write to him as the son of Anthony Woodroffe," said Molly.
"I know his proposals. We have to consider, however, the possible effect which the discovery of the truth will produce upon this unfortunate—most unfortunate—young man."
"Why is he unfortunate?" asked his mother jealously. "He will be restored to his own mother."
"I am going to tell you why. Meantime, you will agree with me that it is most important that the communication of the truth must not embitter this young man, at the outset, against his mother."
"No, no. He must not be set against me."
"Quite so. Dick proposes, I understand, to address a letter to him as the son of the late Mr. Anthony Woodroffe—better known as John Anthony—and inviting him to pay certain liabilities. As to the wisdom of that step, I have no doubt. It can produce no other effect than to fill him with rage and bitterness against all concerned, all—every one—without exception."
He shook a warning finger at one after the other.
"But he must know," said Molly.
"Perhaps. In that case the subject must be approached with the greatest delicacy. Dick's method is to begin with a bludgeon."
"We must think of his mother first," said Molly. "We have been working all along for his mother."
"My dear young lady, you do not understand the situation. Because we must think first of his mother, and for no other reason, we must advance with caution. Had we not to consider the mother, there would be no reason for delicacy at all. And now, if you will not interrupt, I will go on."
The warning was now necessary, because the time had arrived for the final appeal. If that failed, anything might happen.
"We must consider, dear madam, the character,in the first place, of your son, and in the next place, the conditions of his education and position. As regards his character, he has inherited the artistic nature of his father, to begin with. That is shown in everything he does in his music and musical composition."
"I have heard him sing a song of his own composition," said Molly. "It had neither meaning nor melody; he said that it only appealed to the higher culture."
"Once more"—but he spoke in vain—"I say, then, that he has inherited his father's artistic nature. He sings and plays; he paints——"
"Landscapes of impossible colour," said Molly.
"And writes verses. He has a fine taste in the newer arts, such as decoration, bookbinding, furniture——"
"And champagne."
"All these qualities he inherits from his father, with, I imagine, a certain impatience which, when opinions differ, also, I expect, distinguished his father. From his mother he seems to inherit, if I may say so in her presence, tenacity, which may become obstinacy, and strong convictions or feelings, which may possibly degenerate into prejudice. His mother's softer qualities—her depth of affection, her warm sympathies—will doubtless come to the front when his nature, still partly undeveloped, receives its final moulding under the hands of love."
All this was very prettily put, and presented the subject in an engaging light. Molly, however, shook her head, incredulous, as one who ought to know, ifany one could know, what had been the outcome of that final moulding under the hands of love.
"This is his character," the doctor went on blandly. "This is the present character as it has been developed from the raw material which we handed over to Lady Woodroffe four and twenty years ago. Next, consider his education."
"Why?" asked his mother. "Hasn't he had his schooling?"
"More schooling than you think. He has been taught that his father was a most distinguished Indian officer, in whom his son could take the greatest pride; that his mother belonged to an ancient Scotch family, his grandfather being the thirteenth baron, and his uncle the fourteenth; he was taught that there is no inheritance so valuable as that of ancient family; as a child he imbibed a pride of birth which is almost a religion; indeed, I doubt if he has any other. His school education and his associates helped him to consider himself as belonging to a superior caste, and the rest of the world as outsiders. This prejudice is now rooted in him. If he had to abandon this belief——"
"But he must abandon it," said Molly. "To-morrow he becomes an outsider."
"When you parted with your boy, you gave him, without knowing what you were doing, statesmen and captains, great lords and barons that belong to history, even kings and queens, for ancestors. Now, without warning—how could one warn a young man of such a thing?—you suddenly rob him of all these possessions. You give him for a father, a worthlessscoundrel, to use plain language—a man whose record is horrible and shameful, a deceiver and deserter of women, a low-class buffoon, a fellow who met with the end which he deserved in a workhouse, after a final exhibition of himself as a sandwich-man at one and twopence a day. The mere thought of such a father is enough to reduce this unfortunate young man to madness. And for other relations, I repeat, you offer him, in place of his present cousins, who are gentlefolk of ancient birth, with all that belongs to that possession, such humble—perhaps such unworthy—people as Dick sums up under such titles as 'the pew-opener,' 'the small draper,' and 'the mendicant bankrupt.' Can you imagine Humphrey, with his pride of birth, calling upon the Hackney draper, and taking tea with the pew-opener?"
"They are my cousins, too, Sir Robert," said Molly. "And I get along without much trouble about them."
"Yours? Very likely. Why not?" he replied impatiently. "You are used to them. You were born to them. Sir Humphrey was not." He turned again to Alice. "Have you considered these things? You must consider them—in pity to your son—in pity to yourself."
Alice made no reply.
"Your son will be crushed, beaten down, humiliated to the lowest, by this revelation. Ask yourself how he will reward the people who have caused the discovery. Will he reward the hand which inflicts this lifelong shame—it can be nothing less to him—with affection and gratitude—or——? Finish the question for yourself."
Alice clasped her hands. Then she rose and bowed her head. "Lord, have mercy upon me, miserable sinner!" she murmured.
Molly laid her arm round her waist.
"Take me to my room," she murmured.
Her room opened out of the sitting-room. Through the open door Sir Robert saw her lying rather than kneeling at the bedside, her arms thrown upon the counterpane. Molly stood over her, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
The doctor beckoned the girl to leave her. "My dear"—his own eyes were dim with an unaccustomed blurr; he could walk without emotion through a hundred wards filled with suffering bodies, but he had never walked the ward of suffering souls—"my dear, leave her for a while. We are all miserable sinners, you and Dick, with your revengeful thoughts, and I, and everybody. And the greatest sinner is the young man himself."
"I did not think," Molly sobbed. "I only thought—we only wanted to prove the case."
"It is the old, old parable. The false mother thinks only of herself; the true mother thinks of her son. Solomon, I thank thee!"
The true mother came back. "Doctor, do what you will—what you can—I will spare him. Let things remain exactly as they are."
He made no answer. He gazed upon her with troubled eyes.
"Tell me, doctor," she said, "what I must do."
"Will you do, then, what I advise?"
"If you will only save my son from his mother.It's a dreadful thing to say. Doctor, I would rather lose the boy altogether than think that he hates and despises his mother."
"When you put the child into my hands, when you undertook to make no inquiry after him in the future—then you lost your child. I told you so two months ago, when this inquiry began. Nothing but mischief could come of it—mischief, and misery, and hatred, and shame, and disappointment. This you could not understand. Now you do."
She sighed. "Yes, I understand."
"Our duty is plain—to hold our tongues. Humphrey will remain where he is. It is a family secret, which will die with us."
"And is he—Dick's brother—to go on holding the place to which he has no right?" asked Molly.
"There will be no change. It is a family secret," he repeated. "A close family secret, never to be whispered even among yourselves."
"He must never know," said Alice. "Yet I must speak to him once; I must hold his hand in mine once."
"If you can trust yourself. If you can only keep calm. Then, I will bring him—this very afternoon. I will go to him. You shall tell him briefly that he is like your son—that is all—your son which was lost, you know. And, remember, there will not be the least show of affection from him. Let Sir Humphrey—Sir Humphrey he must be—leave you as he came—a changeling—with no suspicion of the fact."
Alice lay patiently. It was done, then. Her punishment was ended; she was to see her son for once—only for once.
"My dear," she said, "my dream will come true. I shall see my son—to call him my son—for once—only for once. And then? But there will be nothing left."
Dick came bursting in. "I've drawn up the case, and I've got the advertisements ready. If by this time to-morrow the doctor makes no sign, I shall act. Here's the case."
He drew out a document in foolscap, tied with red tape—a most imposing document. "And here are the letters—
"'Sir,—I beg to inform you that the funeral of your father, the late John Anthony Woodroffe, who died yesterday, Tuesday, October 15th, will take place from that institution at twelve o'clock on Friday. Your half-brother, Mr. Richard Woodroffe, has ordered me to convey to you this information.'
"'Sir,—I beg to inform you that the funeral of your father, the late John Anthony Woodroffe, who died yesterday, Tuesday, October 15th, will take place from that institution at twelve o'clock on Friday. Your half-brother, Mr. Richard Woodroffe, has ordered me to convey to you this information.'
"I hope he'll like that," said Dick, rubbing his hands. "And here is the second letter—
"'Sir,—I am requested by Mr. Richard Woodroffe to inform you that your father, Mr. John Anthony Woodroffe, has died in debt to a certain Mrs. Welwood, widow of a grocer, of LissonGrove. The amount is about £60. He wishes to know whether you are prepared to join him in paying off the liability. Your obedient servants.'
"'Sir,—I am requested by Mr. Richard Woodroffe to inform you that your father, Mr. John Anthony Woodroffe, has died in debt to a certain Mrs. Welwood, widow of a grocer, of LissonGrove. The amount is about £60. He wishes to know whether you are prepared to join him in paying off the liability. Your obedient servants.'
"I hope he will like that," said Dick. "And here is the advertisement—
"'Died. On Tuesday, the 13th, at the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary, John Anthony Woodroffe, father of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, baronet, aged 55.'
"'Died. On Tuesday, the 13th, at the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary, John Anthony Woodroffe, father of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, baronet, aged 55.'
"I hope he will like that."
"There is something more for you," said Molly. "Lady Woodroffe confesses. There is the paper."
"Confesses?" Dick snatched the paper, and read it through with a hunter's sense of disappointment. "Well," he said, "I thought better of her. I thought she would die game. Never trust appearances. Well, this changes these matters. Instead of sending the letters and the advertisement, I shall now go myself with the case and the confession, and bring him to his——"
"No, Dick," said Molly. "There is to be no shame for him, and no humiliation."
"What?"
"No shame for him at all. He is to be left in ignorance unless he has guessed anything. We shall tell him nothing. All will go on as before."
"Oh, Molly! have we given in? With victory assured? Don't say that!"
"You don't understand, Dick. Everything is changed. It is now Lady Woodroffe who would spare him nothing. It is his mother who would save him from everything."
Dick looked at the pale woman lying on the sofa.Then he understood, and a tear stood in his eye. 'Twas a tender heart. He went over to the sofa and kissed her forehead.
"Forgive me," he said.
"Oh, Dick!" she murmured. "Would to God you were my son! As for him, he is what they have made him."
They had made him grumpy and obstinate. At that moment the doctor was urging upon him compliance with a simple thing.
"You want me to go to the rooms of the gardener man who insulted me? I am to listen to some rubbish about his wife. What do I care about his wife? I tell you, Sir Robert, this is trifling. I won't go, there; tell them so. I won't go."
"Then, Sir Humphrey, I tell you plainly, Ruin stares you in the face. Yes; the loss of everything in this world that you value—everything. You will lose all. I cannot explain what this means. But you will have letters to-morrow which will change your whole life—and all your thoughts. They mean, I say, the loss of everything that you value."
"I don't believe a word——"
"You wanted to know what Mr. Haveril meant, what your mother meant, what Miss Molly Pennefather meant. They meant Ruin—Ruin, and loss of everything, Sir Humphrey—that and nothing else."
"Tell me more. Tell me why."
"I shall tell you no more. I shall leave it to your—to Richard Woodroffe, whom you love so well. He will tell you."
The young man hesitated. "What do you want me to do?"
"You are to come with me to Mrs. Haveril's rooms; she will receive you; she will make a communication to you. Whatever she says you are to receive with courtesy—with courtesy, mind. That done, you may return, and everything will go on as usual. You can then forget what you heard. Are you ready? Very well."
"If that cad, the fiddler, is there——"
"Hark ye, Sir Humphrey, if you behave or speak like a cub and a cur, I throw you over. By the Lord! I will have no mercy upon you. I will tell you myself what it all means. Now!"
Molly waited, sitting beside Alice, who lay with closed eyes. Perhaps she slept. Presently John Haveril came home. Molly told him what had happened.
"Ay, ay," he said. "Let him come. Let Alice have her say. They've made a cur of him between them. Let him come."
He sat down beside his wife, and whispered words of consolation and of soothing. They would go home again—out of the atmosphere of deception. They would be happy once more in their own home on the Pacific slope.
"John," said Alice, "it was good of you to bring me over on the strength of a dream, and a promise of a dream—to give over all your work——"
"Nay, nay, lass. What is work compared with thee?"
"I shall see my son again. I have prayed for that. I did not pray, John—I could not—for his love—that was gone. Yet I hoped. Now I must be satisfied only to take his hands in mine."
"We will go home again—we will go home again."
"My dream said nothing about going home again." She was silent for a while. "John," she said, "what was it you were going to tell Molly and Dick?"
They were all three standing over her.
"Why," said John, "Alice had a fancy—because she loves you both—to see you join hands—so."
Alice laid her thin hands across their joined hands, and her lips moved.
"And I was to tell you both that I would not give you a single dollar out of all the pile. You are happier without, she says. And so do I," he added.
It was a strange betrothal, with tears in the eyes of both.
At that moment arrived the doctor, with Humphrey. The young man looked dark and lowering; his cheek was flushed. He glanced round the room, bowed low to Alice, recognized Molly by a cold inclination, Mr. Haveril by a nod, and Dick by a blank stare, which did not recognize even his existence—the frequent employment of this mode of salutation had made him greatly beloved by all outsiders.
"Ah," thought Dick, "if you knew what I've got in my pocket, you'd change that look."
"Mrs. Haveril," said Sir Robert, "I have brought you Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, at your request. I believe you have something to say to him."
"Molly dear, give Sir Humphrey a chair near me—so.I want to tell you, Sir Humphrey, of a very strange dream, if I may call it—a hallucination."
"You may, madam," said the doctor, for the young man sat down in silence.
"Which has, I fear, given your mother a great deal of annoyance. I am, unfortunately, too weak at present to call upon her, or to explain to her. Therefore I have ventured to ask you to be so very kind as to come here, so that I may send a message to Lady Woodroffe."
"I am here," said Sir Humphrey, ungraciously.
"I will not take up much of your time. I had an illness in America which touched my brain, I believe. I imagined that a child which I lost twenty-four years ago was still living. He was the son of my first husband, whose name was Woodroffe. He was also the father of Richard Woodroffe here. More than that, I fancied that one person was that child. That person was yourself. I fancied that you were the child. I had not lost it by death. I surrendered it to a lady by adoption."
Humphrey started. He changed colour. He sat up in his chair. He listened eagerly. His lip trembled.
"He understands," Molly whispered.
"No; he begins to understand what was meant," Dick returned. "He cannot guess the whole."
Yes; he understood now that he was face to face with a great danger. Many things became plain to him—Molly's words, John Haveril's words, Sir Robert's words.
He understood the nature of the danger. Helistened, while a horrible terror seized him at the mere prospect of that danger. He heard the rest with a sense of relief, equalled only by his sense of the danger.
Alice went on. "I first saw you at the theatre one night. You were so much like my husband that I concluded that you must be my son. I met you at Sir Robert's. I became certain that you were my son. We made inquiries. Please tell him, Sir Robert."
"These inquiries," said the doctor, "proved certain things which were curious and interesting. I may confess that they seemed to point in your direction. This lady became too hastily convinced that they did so. She is now as firmly convinced that they did not."
Humphrey sighed deeply.
"It was an awkward case," Sir Robert went on—"one that required tact."
"I gave a great deal of trouble"—Alice took up the wondrous tale again.
"But it is all over now," the doctor added. "Do not talk too much."
"Yes, all over. My bodily frame is weak, but my mind is clear again. Now, Sir Humphrey, I wish you, if you will be so kind, to go to Lady Woodroffe, and tell her from me that the hallucination has passed away, and give her my regrets that I disturbed her. Sir Robert will perhaps go with you, to make the explanation clearer, because he knows all the details."
"I will certainly call upon Lady Woodroffe this evening," said the doctor. "Indeed, Sir Humphrey is ignorant of certain facts connected with the casewhich will probably incline Lady Woodroffe to forgive and excuse the more readily."
"Will you do this, Sir Humphrey?" asked Mrs. Haveril.
"Yes, if that's all," he replied hoarsely. "Is that all? Was it, as you say, hallucination? Are you quite certain?"
The doctor felt his patient's pulse. "All hallucination," he replied. "Now, please finish this interview as soon as you can."
"I want Sir Humphrey to give me his own forgiveness."
"If there were anything to forgive."
"Since there is nothing," said the doctor, sternly, "you can even more readily go through the form."
"Well, if you wish it."
Humphrey held out his hand.
"Tell her, man," said the doctor, impatiently—"tell her what she wants."
"Since you desire it"—Humphrey obeyed, coldly and reluctantly—"I forgive you. Will that do?"
Alice raised her head; she pushed back her hair with her left hand. Molly held her up. She gazed upon her son's face; it was cold and hard and pitiless. She stooped over her son's hand; it was cold and hard, and seemed as pitiless as his face—there was no warmth nor impression in the hand. She bent her head and kissed it. Her tears fell upon it—her silent tears. Humphrey withdrew his hand. He looked round, as if asking what next.
Dick went to the door, and pointed to the stairs, holding the door open.
Alice lay back on the pillow. The doctor took her wrist again.
"Doctor," she whispered, "I have never wholly lost my boy till now."
Her eyes closed. Her cheek grew white.
The doctor laid down her hand. "Never," he said, "till now."
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.