"I don't like it," said Richard. "The thing is proved down to the ground. But I don't like it."
On the table lay the bundle of baby-clothes recovered by the true mother. It was untied. The little flannels, the little frock, the little woollen socks, the little cap—a touching little bundle to one who had memories of the things. And near the table, as if guarding the spoil she had carried off, Alice lay upon the sofa, slowly recovering from the excitement of the afternoon.
"Not like it, Dick?" Molly asked. "Why?"
Alice laid her hand upon the things. "I want no other proof," she said. "I made these things; I made them all. What more would you have?"
"What more can we desire?" asked Molly.
"I say that I don't like it." Dick rubbed his chin. "I don't like it at all. It means defiance. I was in hopes that she would climb down when she saw the copy of the entry. But she didn't. I understand now. She can't afford to climb down; so she must defy us. She will fight, if we make her. She sends for the mother of the child. She actually gives her another weapon, and she says, 'Do your worst. I defy you!'"
"What do you mean by not being able to climb down, Dick?"
"Why, she's not only a great lady, rich and well born, and in society. She is also a leader in all kinds of religious and philanthropic movements. A certain religious paper, for instance, called her, the other day, the Queen of the White Lilies. Exposure would be a terrible thing for her. But if she can make it look, as she will try, like an attempt on my part to get money out of Alice or herself, the thing might do her no harm. However, there's the register. They can't say I forged that entry."
"Well, but, Dick, what do you mean? You prove that her son is dead, and that he was buried under his own name without any concealment, just before the adoption; and we've got the baby-clothes, and we recognize them. What morecanyou want? She must climb down, as you call it."
"We have got lots more, if you come to that. We have got the man who found the child. I wonder how Sir Robert would like going into court and deposing that he bought a baby for adoption by an unknown person. We have also got the mother of the adopted child. Unfortunately, there is nothing at all to connect Lady Woodroffe with the adoption. Without that connection the case breaks down. There's the point."
"Does Humphrey know anything about it?"
"I believe not. Lady Woodroffe is not likely to tell him."
"You must not set my son against me," said the mother.
"Not if we can help it. But about the value of thisevidence. Now, Molly, please go into the witness-box." She stood up behind a chair, placing her hands on the back. "I am counsel. The jury are sitting over there; the judge is on your right. Keep your eyes on counsel. Now, you are Alice first—Alice Haveril. You swear, madam, that you know these clothes. How do you know them? Because you made them with your own hands. Are they made of rare or uncommon materials? Are they not made of stuff commonly used for the garments of infants? Is there anything distinctive in the materials used? They are also made in the fashion commonly used for children, are they not? Nothing distinctive, then, in the fashion? So that, for materials or for shape, there is nothing to make them different from any other baby-clothes? Nothing. Then, madam, how do you know that they were made by your own work?"
"Because I know," said Molly.
"Because you know. But how do you know?"
"Because I remember."
"But you cannot tell me how you remember them—by what mark?" He took up the frock. "Here is a crest in red silk. Did you work that? No. Yet it is on the frock."
"Well, Dick," said Molly, "you needn't take so much pleasure in knocking the case to pieces."
"I am only showing you what it amounts to. Now, get into the box again. You are Mr. Richard Woodroffe, the expert in sagacity. What have you got? A certified copy of an entry in the register of births and deaths. You place, I believe, great reliance on that entry? It records the death of the child of SirHumphrey Woodroffe. Your theory is that the child who died was immediately replaced by the child who was adopted. Very well. But if there was no concealment of the death, how could there be substitution?"
"There's an answer to that," Molly replied quickly. "The woman never thought of hiding her name until after the child was dead and buried—until she thought of the substitution."
"That is your theory. When you come to proof—how do you know that the child whose death is recorded was really the son of Sir Humphrey? Was the death announced in the papers? They have been searched, but there is no mention of the event. Yet, when a man of such great importance as Sir Humphrey Woodroffe loses his only son, the announcement of the event would be made in all the papers, both here and in India. How do you explain that omission? It is not for us—I'm on the other side, Molly—to find out the reason of this lying entry; it is sufficient for us to prove the continuous existence of the child from his birth to the present day. Who made that declaration? We do not know; we do not care. It is sufficient for our purposes to prove that Lady Woodroffe at the time was with her father in Scotland."
"Oh, Dick, this is too horrible!"
"When such a child dies, everybody knows. Did her ladyship's family hear of it? It appears not. Evidence will be brought to show that she set out for London with her boy, that she wrote on arrival, and that she wrote immediately afterwards announcingthe return of her husband. When such a child dies, the servants all know. Evidence will be given to show that none of the servants knew, or heard about, the loss of the heir—the only child. We are to prove that so terrible an event was not even announced in the servants' hall. But you shall hear Lady Woodroffe's own statement. Molly, you are now Lady Woodroffe, but I am speaking for you. 'In the autumn of 1873 I was staying at the country seat of my father, Lord Dunedin, in Scotland. I had just returned from India, and was waiting for the arrival of my husband, who was retiring from Indian service. Early in the month of February I received a telegram from Brindisi, to the effect that my husband had arrived there, and was coming home as fast as he could travel. I was to meet him at the house I had taken in London. I therefore left my father's, went on to Edinburgh, stayed the night there, and came on next morning to London, bringing with me the child and my ayah. The next day, or the day after, my husband arrived. I have never been in Birmingham in my life. My child, as an infant, never had any serious illness. As to the entry in the register, I heard of it for the first time from Mr. Richard Woodroffe, calling himself a distant cousin, a vocalist, who seems to have conceived and invented some kind of conspiracy for duping Mrs. Haveril, who is wealthy, and getting money for himself out of her!'"
"Oh, Dick," said Molly, "you haven't!"
"'You ask me'—you are still Lady Woodroffe—'what proofs I have of these assertions. I have theclearest proofs possible—the letter of my husband, telling me when he would arrive, the evidence of my father that I left Dunedin Castle in time to arrive in London a day or two before my husband—not more.' The evidence of an aged, white-haired, venerable peer will be conclusive, Molly. 'I have old servants who can prove that they have known the child from day to day, and must have discovered the fact immediately had there been any change.' Do you hear, Molly? An aged father, aged servants, a lady with a commanding and queenly presence, a brow of brass, and a voice steady and limpid as that of Truth herself. Poor Truth! she may get down into her well again."
"Well; but about the hotel and the register?"
"Let us ask Lady Woodroffe. She says, 'I know nothing about either. I cannot understand or explain who the woman was that personated me, and said her child was the son of Sir Humphrey. It has been suggested that she may have been the mistress of my husband. I cannot for a moment allow that my husband, the most blameless of men, whose life was passed with open windows, could have carried on an illicit connection. It is impossible and absurd. I have no theory to offer about the personation. I cannot understand it.' That is all."
"She is the most shameless, most abominable, creature alive!" said Molly.
"She has her reputation to maintain. Well, what have we got on our side? The entry; the fact of the adoption; and the resemblance. Put Sir Humphrey, the second baronet, in the box. You are nowthat worthy, Molly. Look at him, gentlemen of the jury. Look at him well. Turn him round slowly like a hairdresser's waxen effigy. Observe the fall of his hair and its colour; the colour of his eyes; the shape of his head. Here is a portrait of Anthony Woodroffe, who, we maintain, was his father: could there be a more striking resemblance? Here is the respectable Richard Woodroffe, also a son—an unworthy son—of Anthony, and who, we maintain, is the half-brother of the baronet. You observe again a startling resemblance? Then up jumps the other side, with the portrait of Sir Humphrey. Same hair—same eyes. Where is your other resemblance then? Which of the two is his father? He is curiously like them both. See?
"'Resemblance,' the learned counsel continued, 'is not enough. Let us hear the evidence of Sir Robert Steele, M.D., F.R.S., Ex-President of the College of Physicians, author of the Lord knows how many treatises. Take the book, Sir Robert.' We know what he will say about the child and the adoption. Now, listen. He goes on, 'The business over, I thought no more of the matter. Nor did I know the name of the lady, nor did I inquire. It was for me a matter of business partly, because I charged a fee, and of charity partly, because the child would otherwise have gone into the workhouse. I should not like to identify the lady after all these years, when she must have changed greatly; she wore a thick veil while we talked, and I remember only a pale face and regular features.' Or stuff like that," Dick explained. "'Yes, I am now acquainted with LadyWoodroffe, and I know her son. I cannot explain his resemblance to Mr. Richard Woodroffe. The two young men are said to be distant cousins. I never knew Mr. Anthony Woodroffe. I know nothing more about the case; I express no opinion upon the claim. The lady, in adopting the child, did not express her intention of substituting it.' That is the evidence of the medical man, if he would acknowledge that he remembered anything whatever about the transfer!"
"Dick," said Molly, "Humphrey must not know anything until—unless—the case is complete. Don't make him your enemy."
"My dear child, in the event of either success or failure, my half-brother will most certainly regard me with a fraternal feeling, compared with which Cain was loving and Richard the Third was loyal."
Molly looked at Alice doubtfully. She lay back in silence, her eyes shut, paying very little attention to what was said. What, Molly thought, would be Humphrey's attitude towards his new mother, when the truth was disclosed to him? With the mother would come the relations. Molly remembered how her own father, the disinherited, used to laugh over his own cousins; over the family pride; how one was parish clerk of St. Botolph's; how one had a select Academy at Homerton; and one had a shop in Mare Street; and one was pew-opener; and one was a Baptist Minister in some unknown but privileged corner of the earth. And it occurred to her, for the first time, that the introduction of Humphrey to hisnew relations would be a matter of some difficulty and delicacy.
"I don't want any proof," said Alice. "I recognized my child when first I saw him. His father was in every feature and every look. And these are my things—mine: I made them." She laid her hand again on the bundle which brought her so much certainty after so much doubt.
"But it won't do. It isn't enough. We want proof that will convince a judge and a jury."
"If you haven't got it," she said, "I don't mind in the least. I shall send for my son and tell him all. He may stay where he is, if he likes. But I shall tell him all."
"I think," Dick continued, without heeding these words, "that we must continue to advertise."
"And then?"
"Then—I don't know. I should like to bring an action. I don't know what for. We didn't bargain for fraudulent substitution, but for open adoption. I should think there ought to be grounds for action. But, of course, I don't know. They certainly would not court publicity—at least, I should think not. Whether they lost the case or won, the evidence is so circumstantial that the world would certainly believe in the fraud. I cannot believe that even Lady Woodroffe would care to face the footlights."
"You talk as if you were at the same time perfectly certain, and also in great doubt."
"I am both. I am perfectly certain, not only from the evidence of the register and of these clothes, but from the lady's manner. How should we hear andreceive such a thing on the stage, Molly? Consider. You are receiving the discovery of a thing you thought hidden away and buried for ever—a discovery which will blast your whole life."
Molly presented immediately a stage interpretation of the emotion thus rudely awakened. She started, threw up her left hand, pressed her heart with her right hand; she opened her lips and panted; her eyes dilated.
"That is very good. But Lady Woodroffe didn't do that at all. She was much more effective. Sit bolt upright in your chair; stiffen yourself; turn your eyes upon me quickly; at the mention of the dead child, let all the colour go out of your face; at the word 'substitution' let your head swim, clutch at the arms of your chair—so—recover in a moment. Look at me again with strangely troubled eyes—so—you remember you are going to fight; harden your face; set your lips firm; let your eyes be like flints for resolution—so. Molly, my dear, if you were to practise for a twelvemonth you couldn't do it half so well as Lady Woodroffe herself. As a study she was most valuable. If there had been any doubt before in my mind, there would be none now."
"How will Humphrey take it?"
"Are you concerned about him still, Molly?—after that midnight walk of ours?"
"Well, Dick, he has not had my answer yet. I must consider him a little. And he is your half-brother, remember."
"He will become, like his half-brother, an outsider—ha! an outsider, a cad, a bounder!" Dick snorted.Forgiveness and tenderness to the man who was trying to take his girl from him could not be expected.
Just then a telegram was brought in. It came from a certain firm of solicitors at Birmingham, and was addressed to Richard Woodroffe—
"Have found the medical man who attended the child. He has his notes, remembers the case, has identified lady from photograph; will swear to her!"
"Have found the medical man who attended the child. He has his notes, remembers the case, has identified lady from photograph; will swear to her!"
"Good Heavens!" Richard waved the telegram over his head. "We have got the next step. We can identify Lady Woodroffe with the woman whose child died."
He read the telegram.
"Is there anything more wanted, at all?"
"There is one thing wanted. It is the identification of the lady as the adopter of the child, and that lies in the hands of Sir Robert."
"Do you think he knows?"
"I am certain he knows. Why did he ask us all to dinner, if he does not know? I am pretty certain, too, that he won't let out, unless we make him."
"How can we make him, Dick, if he won't?"
"There is only one way, Molly. The case is strong, circumstantially—that if we make it public, the world will be forced to believe it, whatever the lady may say and swear. Nothing could be stronger."
"I want no proof," said Alice. "If you cannot bring my son to me, I shall go to him and tell him all."
"The one thing that will weigh with Sir Robert and the lady is the fear of publicity. I will make onemore attempt, Molly. I will go to the lady first and to the doctor afterwards. If they remain obdurate, I will take advice as to the best way of obtaining publicity. And that will ruin the one and damage the other."
There was one other person present at this council. It was John Haveril. He said nothing, but he listened, with far-away eyes, like a gardener over a strawberry-bed. When Dick concluded, he took his hands out of his pockets and walked out of the room.
John Haveril was a man of few words, and these came slowly; but of ready action. He followed the course of the inquiry, with doubt at first, but, as one point after another came to light, he began to be interested; when the child's clothes were brought home, he had no more doubt on this point: he became impatient. Why should there be any more hesitation? If the lady persisted in her denial, why not go straight to the young man and lead him to his mother? As for what might follow after that, if he thought about it at all, should be left to Providence. Therefore, bearing in mind the agitation and anxiety in which his wife was kept by these delays, he resolved upon independent action of his own. And that was the reason why he took his hands out of his pockets and left the room.
Humphrey Woodroffe sat in his study, getting through the hour before dinner with the help of a French novel. The field of human interest occupied by the kind of French novel which he and his friends chiefly studied, is so limited that one is surprised that its readers never seem to tire of it or to ask for more. The study—which was behind the dining-room—was furnished by himself, and was an excellent exampleof the day's taste. In the higher æsthetic circles, the members of which are very limited in number, the first and most important rule is that true Art, and with it, of course, the highest expression of Art, changes from year to year; what was last year the one and eternal treatment, is now Philistine and contemptible. His piano was littered with music—mostly in MSS.—his own; weird and wonderful daubs of colour hung upon the walls—they were the pictures of the New School—they called themselves the New School—the school of to-day, of whom he was one. His table was covered with books bound in dainty white and gold, or grey and gold: they were chiefly books of poets—old poets—forgotten poets, who sang of love; it has been reserved for our age to disinter them, and to go into raptures over their magnificent and fearless realism. Poetry, like painting, music, furniture, and wall-paper, changes its fashions for the young every year.
In a word, the study was a temple. For such a temple her worshippers must all be young—under seven and twenty. It is sad to think that they will one day become old—old—old—thirty years old, and that new poets will write, new musicians compose, new painters paint, for younger æsthetes. Sad to reflect that they will then bepassés, their utterances Bohemian, their views contemptible, their standards ignoble.
John Haveril advanced into this shrine of the æsthetic muse with more of his later than of his earlier manner. The gardener was, perhaps, below the man of consideration.
"Mr. John Haveril?" Humphrey read the name from the card as if he had never heard it before, and received him with the studied chill which most effectually keeps off the outsider. "I met you, I believe, at Sir Robert Steele's?"
"Yes; I was there."
He looked about for a chair that would bear his weight. There was one which seemed equal to the task. He sat down without being invited. Humphrey remained standing, with his most repellent manner.
"I was there, young man; I was there," John Haveril repeated. "We had not much conversation; but I presume if you do meet a man once, and you have something to say to that man, you may call upon him."
"Surely. Though what Mr. Haveril, the man of millions—is it twenty millions?—and more?—I hope much more—can have to say to me, I cannot guess. Briefly, sir, I have no money; I never speculate; and I can take none of your shares."
John Haveril opened his mouth twice. Then he shook his head. "Best not to meet bad manners with worse," he replied, with dignity quite in his best manner. "I understand, young man, that you mean some kind of sneer which, let me tell you, sir, ill becomes your youth in the presence of my age."
Sir Humphrey leaned his elbow on the mantel-shelf, and adjusted his pince-nez with his unoccupied hand. This took time. In fact, he was thinking of a repartee. When the operation was finished, he turned to his visitor a face of deliberate insolence.
"You came to teach me something beside manners,I believe. Not, I am sure, that one could desire, even in manners, a more competent instructor."
"I did. Perhaps it may be worth your while to listen. Perhaps not. If it is, you may take your elbow off the shelf, and try not to look as if you were gazing at a chipmunk in a cage. Understand, sir that I will receive neither your pity nor your contempt. If you do not change your manner, I will show you, by a highly practical method, that you have made a mistake."
There was something in the man's eyes which compelled obedience. Besides, although he was forty years older than the other, there was a toughness about his build which might be formidable.
Humphrey instantly changed both his look and his attitude, and took a chair.
"You may go on," he said sulkily, "as soon as you please."
"When I heard about you, sir, in connection with the little transaction we know of, I began to inquire secretly whether we were wise to go on. 'If he turns out unworthy,' I said, 'we'd better stop where we are, and take no further steps in the matter.'"
"I shall probably understand as we go along," said Humphrey. "At present——"
"You will understand, presently. I can't say, sir, that the character I have obtained of you is encouraging."
"Kind, however, of people to give one a character at all." He threw back his head into his hands, and stretched out his legs, and looked up into the ceiling.
"I don't understand," John Haveril replied, "thetalk that says one thing and means another. I like plain and straightforward things. However, I hear of you that you gamble and drink, and that you run after dancing-girls; and that you believe, like many young Englishmen of fortune, that you belong to a separate caste, and not to the world, like common people."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Haveril, we have to belong to the world. I assure you that I would much rather not."
"You've got to. However, we did go on; I have not told the person chiefly interested all I'd heard about you, nor the half. We've now brought our business to an end. That is, we've proved up to the hilt what was at first only a suspicion."
"Again, I dare say I shall understand you presently."
"The question is, whether you know the secret. 'If,' I said, 'he does know the secret, and still carries on the pretence, the chap isn't worthy of our notice. Let's wipe our feet on him, and go on our way.'"
"Wipe—your—feet? You like plain and straightforward things, Mr. Haveril. Surely it is a poetical and an imaginative case—'wipe your feet'—upon—a—'chap.'"
"'If he carries on the pretence in ignorance,' I said, 'let us tell him, and see how he takes it. If he takes it worthily, we shall know what to think of him.'"
"To think of him?" murmured Humphrey.
"Yes. Well, the time has come for you to learn the truth, if you don't know the truth already."
Humphrey smiled. "I really cannot read that riddle. No; I do not know the truth. WhetherI shall take it worthily, as you say, or whether I shall receive the wiping of muddy feet, I cannot foretell."
"You don't know? Well, I don't think it's my business to tell you. Very likely some one will tell you. Meantime, the person principally concerned does know it, and you will understand, when you do learn the truth, how much it has unsettled her. Also Dick knows it."
"Who is Dick? Fiddler Dick? Dick the Tramp? Dick who goes out in white-thread gloves, like a waiter?"
"And Molly knows it. And I know it. Very well. Now, I want you to remember very carefully what I say. If you don't understand these words now, you will later on. First of all, whatever happens, you are no relation of mine."
"Thank you! thank you!" Humphrey changed his position, sat up, and clasped his hands. "Thank you,somuch! I began to fear, Mr. Haveril, that you must be a long-lost uncle."
"And no claim can be set up on me. You are not my son, but hers."
"That is at least true. I am hers. And I certainly am not yours. This grows exciting."
"Hers, I say, not mine."
Humphrey jumped in his chair. "How the devil, man, can I be your son? What drivel is this?"
John Haveril paid no attention to this question. He was putting his own case in his own words.
"And not being my son, there's no claim," he went on slowly. "But, young man, as the thing has to come out, you will have to behave according."
"'Behave according'? Come, Mr. Haveril, I have given you a patient hearing. Pray, what do you mean by 'behave according'? But please—please tell me what you mean, or go away." He spread his hands helplessly. "I wish some one would come," he murmured, "and carry off this person."
"When you learn the truth, remember what I say now. I don't like you, nor the looks of you, nor the language of you, nor the ways of you. But there you are, and I'm bound to do something for you. Now, sir, make your mother happy; do what she wants, make her love you. And, well, your sort, I take it, is always wanting money; you never make any, and you are always spending. Make her happy, and you shall have as much as any young man can want in reason or out of reason. I know your manner of life, sir, and it's an expensive manner of life. You are in debt again; Lady Woodroffe has already paid your debts once or twice; champagne and cards and painted Jezebels—you shall have them all—all; I don't care what you want, you shall have everything, if you only behave properly to your mother."
Humphrey heard these words with real and breathless astonishment. There had been, it is true, many expostulations from his mother about extravagance and scandals; but could she have complained to this rough, coarse creature?
"I cannot for the life of me understand what you mean."
"Remember what I say, then."
"Mr. Haveril"—for once the young man spoke quite plainly and unaffectedly—"I assure you,although you assume that I know what you mean—I do not in the least. Can you explain why you take such an interest in my relations with my mother, not to speak of my personal character?"
"No, sir. You will understand, very well, in a day or two. Let me conclude, sir. I intended to explain that I married late in life."
"Oh!" Humphrey groaned. "It is like a bad dream. What does it matter to me whether you married late in life or early? Man alive! Will you take a drink—two drinks—to go? There's whisky in the cabinet."
"I say," John Haveril repeated slowly, "that I married late in life. Over forty I was; therefore I've had but small experience of women. But of your mother I must say she's the very best woman that lives—the very best."
Humphrey gasped. "Good Lord!" he cried.
"The best and the tenderest and the most pious."
"Oh! The most pious!"
"And the most beautiful. Pity that she keeps fretting about you."
"Well, it is a pity. Do you mean to say that she sent you—you—you—to tellme—me—methat?"
"Otherwise, naturally a happy nature, full of sunshine, and well-mannered."
Humphrey laughed aloud. "Well, she is well-mannered. That's a good shot."
"And speaks like a lady."
"Yes, yes; she certainly does."
"Well, then"—John Haveril rose—"I believe I've said all I came to say."
"I'm glad of that. Perhaps you'd like to say it all over again. You have told me my character; you have assured me that I am not your son; you have offered me millions if I behave properly; and you have been so good as to praise my mother warmly."
"I've said, I think, all I came to say," he repeated, in his slow manner. "Don't tell your mother—when you know the truth—what I said, nor why I came here. Best for her to believe that you behave, as you are going to behave, out of your own good heart—you can pretend a bit, I suppose, without any thought of the dollars. And when you get those dollars, you can say to yourself, young man, that you wouldn't have had them if it hadn't been for your mother."
With these words John Haveril offered his hand. Humphrey looked straight through him, taking no notice of the proffered salute.
"I was once in the service of an English gentleman," he said—"in his garden. But for that I should believe that the English aristocracy was more unmannerly than any New Mexican cowboy. Sir, to use what I understand is your favourite expression where manners are concerned, you are yourself nothing better than a cad and an outsider. But do not tell your mother, when you know the truth, that I said so. Let it be a secret between ourselves that I have found you to be a cad—an unmannerly cad."
He then departed with dignity.
Humphrey looked after him with surprise rather than anger. To be called an outsider by a beast ofa self-made Dives who had formerly been a gardener! It was astonishing; it was a new experience; it was ludicrous.
He ran upstairs to the drawing-room, where his mother was alone, writing.
"If I may interrupt," he said. "Thank you. One moment. Mother, I've had a most remarkable visit."
"Who is your visitor?"
"I wonder why they ever invented America," he said. "I wonder why we tolerate Americans—rich Americans—who have been English mechanics. Why do we admit them into our houses?"
"It is a mistake. But it is useless to protest. Why do you ask?"
"My visitor was a man who came last from America, where he has made a great fortune—robbed the people by the thousand, I suppose—a man named Haveril."
"Haveril!"
"I met the man the other night at Sir Robert Steele's."
"Vulgar, of course."
"Not so vulgar as ignorant—say, common. He told me he was a gardener's boy originally. Seemed to think it was a meritorious thing."
"It is the mock-humility of the purse-proud. But what did he want with you?"
"He is mighty mysterious about some secret which is going to be sprung upon me. It is now, he said, completely discovered."
"'Completely discovered,' you said, my son?"
"And I am to be told in a day or two. After which, everything depends upon my behaviour."
"Oh! Of what nature is the wonderful secret?"
"I don't know. Then he went on with a rigmarole about my being no relation of his—as if such a thing were possible! And he promises a mountain of dollars if I obey the wishes of my mother. Have you any special wishes, mother?"
"None—except those which you already know, and do not respect."
"I live as other men in my position are expected to live."
"Go on about your mysterious visitor."
"He began to talk about you, mother. Spoke of your good manners. I ought to have knocked him down for his impudence."
"Did he reveal his secret?"
"No. He gave me a warning—as I told you—and he went away."
Lady Woodroffe looked up, with a perfectly calm face.
"I believe I could tell you something about his secret." Truth was stamped plainly on that marble brow, with all the other virtues which belong to thegrande dame de par le monde. "The woman Haveril is, I believe, crazed. The man is a fool, except in making money, where he is, I dare say, a knave. They are aided and abetted by a man of your name, a Richard Woodroffe, who is clearly making money by the conspiracy—and a girl they call Molly Something."
"What? Is Molly in it?"
"Pray, are you concerned with that person as well as——?"
"She is aprotégéeof Hilarie. It was there I met her. As for the fellow, Richard Woodroffe, he is just a horrid little cad."
"Well. That will do. You need not worry yourself about it, Humphrey. I am busy now." She turned to her work, having been interrupted in an essay on the treatment of hardened sinners, considered in connection, I believe, with the case of Jane Cakebread.
Once more, guest night at the college. A good many guest nights had passed since the first. The thoughtful and the curious no longer came; they were not missed by Hilarie and her friends at the place about which there had been at first so much discussion and derision. A college which taught nothing, and was only a place of culture, and consolation, and rest, and good breeding—a mere establishment for reminding women perpetually of their very highest functions and duties—was sure to excite derision. Meanwhile, it went on doing its own work, and nobody derided any longer. This is the way of the world, and it is like one of the three—nay, four, things which the Proverbial philosopher found too wonderful for him—things which he knew not. A man proposes to found, or establish, or create, something new—something which will, perhaps, cause changes small or great in the current order and the current talk. It is immediately fastened upon and he is held up to derision. Nothing is so truly ridiculous as a thing which is new; besides, it makes admirable "copy." If the man kicks out in return, he is jumped upon again. The world is then called upon toobserve how completely the creature is squelched, how he lies flat and lifeless on the arid sand. Presently the world observes that the man, so far from being flat and lifeless, is going on just as if there had been no jumping at all; he bears no apparent mark of bruises, no bones are broken, there are no patches of diachylum on his head; he just proceeds quietly with his plan. Then comes another but a fainter sound of derision, because, when people do get hold of a good thing to worry, they like to keep at it. But the dead man, twice killed, goes on, without paying any attention. Then silence falls. It is unwise to let the world understand that the man you have just killed is going about alive and quite unhurt, and that the theory you have covered with contempt is flourishing like a vigorous vine, already bearing blossoms and rich with promise of purple clusters.
"Yes," said Hilarie, "my simple college is going on; we are quite full. We teach nothing except the true functions of woman, and her place in the human comedy. We admit all those who have to work. Here they learn that work for money and a livelihood is a kind of accident for woman. For man it is necessary; his nature makes him crave for activity. For woman it is an accident, which belongs to our imperfect social system. She ought not to work for pay. And in the case of many women, perhaps most, it degrades and lowers them, because it turns them from what should be the main object of their lives. In this place we warn, and here we daily strive to hold before them the necessity of keeping beforethemselves a standard. They must never lose sight of the fact that woman is the priestess of civilization. We do our best to prevent our girls from being degraded by the unhappy accident of having to work for wages. All women's work should be work for love."
"But it is said that you pauperize them by taking them in for nothing."
Hilarie laughed. "If the gift is a gift of love, repaid by love, what harm? But there is a rule about payment, and nobody knows except myself who pays and who does not. They come when they like; they go when they like. It is a college in the old sense of the word, not the new—a place of residence."
She left her guests and spoke to Molly. "I have asked my cousin Humphrey to come," she said. "Will you give him an answer to-night?"
"I thought I would wait to see how he would receive——"
"Yes; you told me. It is a most wonderful story, Molly. But I do not believe that it will be allowed to go beyond those who know it at present. I do not believe that he will ever be told this story at all. If he were, I know very well how he would behave. There is another reason, Molly dear; you will understand presently, when I show you a letter. Take him into the library, when the people are going away. Do not answer him until I come to you. I promise you, Molly, that after I have shown you a certain paper, you will thank God that your doubts and your temptations were all removed."
"But if he were to go through this ordeal? It is a trial that would prove the noblest nature."
"It is. But there is another ordeal. Will you trust me?"
"Why, Hilarie! If I am to begin by distrusting you!"
Dick was present, and had brought his fiddle, on which he presently discoursed, to the joy of everybody except his distant cousin.
Later on Molly led Humphrey to "sit out" in the library, where two or three other couples were already occupied in the same selfish evasion of duty.
The young man was in a most ill temper—perhaps on account of Dick's presence—— He made no pretence at concealing this ill temper.
"I have every reason to complain," he said. "You avoid me; you will not answer my letters."
"I am waiting to give you your final answer."
"You gave that long ago."
"I did not. I have told you all along that I was not certain whether the thing would tend to your happiness or my own. Above all, I refused to have any concealments."
"This objection to concealment is a new thing. Before, you consented."
"No; I never did consent. I have always told you that I would not be hidden away, like a thing to be ashamed of."
"And I have always told you that my only reason was respect for my mother's prejudices."
"Let me have my own prejudices, too; and I mean to have them respected."
"You know that I love you, Molly."
"That is no reason why you should insult me. If I am ever married, it must be openly, and in the sight of the world. I think I should ask my relations to be present. You would like to meet the parish clerk, and the pew-opener, and the ragged bankrupt. Don't use bad language, Sir Humphrey. Poor and lowly they may be, but perhaps—I'm sure I don't know—they are virtuous as well."
"I don't mind what you say, Molly."
"Then there are the Haverils."
"The rich people! The man called upon me the other day, and talked conundrums. What have you got to do with them?"
"They are my cousins. I am a great deal with them just now."
"Oh! Is that what makes you so infernally independent?"
"Shall I become the heiress of millions, or shall I be hidden away in a box by a husband who is ashamed of his wife? I have this choice."
"Oh! Their heiress! If they will do that! But have you told them of your engagement?"
"I am not engaged."
"Don't be silly, Molly. How can you refuse what I offer you? Why did the man call on me, then?"
"Did he call? What did he tell you?"
"He talked about some tremendous secret—talked about my mother. I thought he meant you and the engagement. Then he told me—which was a most curious thing—that if I followed the wishes of my mother, I should have as much money as I want.Wishes of my mother! Why, if I told her that I was engaged to a lady named Pennefather, she would ask what your county was, and with whom you were connected, and where your people's property might lie. And if I said—you know—why, it would be a case of cutting me off with a shilling. Yet that respectable Dives went on talking about my mother's wishes."
"Perhaps you did not understand him. At all events, he could not mean my engagement, because I am not engaged. This is the tenth time that I have reminded you of that fact, Sir Humphrey."
"My mother would certainly like me to back out—I mean, not to go on."
"Pray do back out."
"I believe you want to take up with that detestable cad—the man you call Dick—loathsome worm!"
"You are doing your very best to be pleasant this evening, and to ingratiate yourself! All the world are cads, are they not? except a small class. But it is quite true. Dick wants me to marry him."
"You'd better, then, and go off on the tramp with him."
"Perhaps I shall. But now, Humphrey, just to come back to ourselves. You continually insult my people—the class to which I belong—whenever you open your lips to speak. You have nothing but contempt for the people who work for their living, to whom I belong, and the people outside your own little circle. What do you want to marry me for? To make me happy by having to listen to this continual flood of contempt?"
"Because, Molly"—the young man's artificial smile vanished and his pince-nez dropped—"because you are unlike everybody I know. None of the girls that I know are in the least like you. It pleases me to see you get indignant in defence of cads. It is like coming into a different atmosphere. I like to feel like coming down into another class. When we are married, I mean to go on living with my mother and her set, and to keep you apart—don't call it concealment—in some cottage away from the West End."
"And my own people?"
"Well, of course you won't have them to your house, I suppose. You can go and see some of them, if you like. You can't possibly want to see all——"
"And my old friend Dick?"
Humphrey turned red; he lost his repose; he flushed a vulgar red.
"You shall not associate with that abominable cad, Molly. I shall forbid it altogether. You must promise——"
"When I promise anything—perhaps——"
"Then you know, Molly, you are soothing to the nerves. After seeing a bad picture, or hearing a bad piece of music, or listening to the cheerfulness of that—that BEAST they call Dick, only to watch you consoles, and to talk with you restores."
"I am glad to have some qualities, in spite of my birth."
"You have risen above that misfortune, Molly. If you would only refuse to know these people——"
"Certainly not."
"Give me your promise, Molly."
She rose. "Well, at all events, I understand exactly what you mean. If you are so good as to marry me, I am to be hidden away; I am to serve as a soothing syrup for shattered nerves; I am to be an antidote to bad music; I am to be ashamed of my own people, and to give up my old friends. That is understood, is it not?"
"We exchange sacrifices—mine the sacrifice of marrying beneath me; yours, that of giving up an ignoble troop of relations."
To plain persons every word that this girl had spoken would have been a clear announcement of her decision. To this young man no such intention was conveyed. Still in the fulness of his self-conceit, the sacrifice he himself proposed in actually marrying a girl with such family connections seemed so enormous, while the prospect of becoming his wife seemed to him so dazzling, that he was totally unable to understand any hesitation. Molly was whimsical; she did not like to surrender her independence. He liked her the better for it. No meek submissive maiden, however lovely, would be able to command that sacrifice. And, besides, there was that strange magic about the girl's face and eyes and voice, that in her presence, as has been explained already, the young man's mind was full of yearnings after transports unspeakable—after the Flowery Way, where the dancers are, with the castanets and the champagne and raptures that even the newest Art cannot bestow.
"Humphrey," she said, "suppose that in a moment—all in a moment—the things you value most in the world should vanish?"
"My Art? My genius?"
"No; not such genius as you may possess. That is not what you value most. I mean your birth and rank and position in the world. Suppose that were to vanish suddenly away?"
"You talk nonsense."
"I say, suppose it were to vanish suddenly away—suppose you were to become—say—one of my cousins—born like them——"
"Molly, don't waste time in talking nonsense."
"Well, perhaps—— Oh, here is Hilarie."
The library was now deserted, save for these two, when Hilarie appeared at the door. Her face, always grave, was now stern. Humphrey saw the look on her face and coloured, conscience-stricken. With her came his other cousin, also looking grave.
"Molly dear," said Hilarie, "has Sir Humphrey been pressing you?"
The young man became confused and agitated. He understood.
"He has. He wants me to promise to go into hiding with a secret marriage. He is unable to understand that the sacrifice could not be compensated even by his society."
Hilarie turned to Sir Humphrey. "I asked you here to-night," she said, "in order to arrange this little scene. Molly, you can read this letter."
Molly read it, and looked up from the page into the shamefaced cheeks of Humphrey.
"I—I—I must go," said the double lover. "Good night, Molly."
"No, sir. Not before Molly has read the letter."
Richard moved a step towards the door.
Molly read it, and looked up amazed. She read it again, and her cheek flamed. And a third time. Then she returned the letter to Hilarie.
"Wretch!" she said.
Since Hilarie used the same word to express the same idea, there is no doubt that the dictionary ought to have a special line on this meaning of the word "wretch."
"Do you understand it, Molly?"
"There can be no doubt about it, Hilarie. Won't you make him go?"
Hilarie pointed to the door contemptuously, as one dismisses a messenger or a boy; not in the tragic vein at all, but by a little gesture of her forefinger. Dick threw the door open with a gesture of command.
Humphrey obeyed, with an effort at preserving some appearance of dignity. To be found out under such circumstances, to be exposed in such a manner, to be ordered off the premises so contemptuously, would make the proudest of men leave the room with the appearance of ignominy.
"Molly, my dear," said Hilarie, "when you think of the man and what he is, you will never regret him."
She laid her head upon Hilarie's shoulder with a deep, deep sigh.
"One doesn't like a man making love to somebody else at the same time. But I dare say I shall get over that. And then—oh, my dear Hilarie, it is such a relief! I cannot tell you what a relief. For, youknow, sometimes I seem to think that I did consent."
"And as for my other cousin here?"
"Dick," said Molly, "the fiddle is very light to carry. I shan't feel the weight of it—not a bit. Are you satisfied, Dick?"
Once more the relations met together, this time by invitation. They would have preferred separate and individual treatment. Each one received a letter, inviting him or her to the hotel on the afternoon of such a day. Each came expectant, hopeful, confident; and their faces dropped when they found, each in turn, that all had been invited together. They mounted the stairs; they entered the room; they stood about or they sat down in silence. If they spoke, it was to remark in murmurs on the interesting motives of certain persons in connection with rich cousins. The broken one, shabbier than ever, sat hanging his head. "I wouldn't ha' come," he said aloud, "if I'd expected a crowd like this." But the draper of Mare Street, Hackney, stood erect, his hand thrust into his bosom, as one who is gently rocked and lulled upon his own motives, as upon the cradle of the deep.
Presently John Haveril came in, accompanied by Dick, who attended as a kind of private secretary, and took no part in the proceedings until the end.
John carried in his hand a bundle of papers. "Well," he said, "you're all come, I think—all come."He turned over the papers, and nodded to the writer of each letter in turn. "All come. I invited you all to come." He spoke gravely and with dignity—in his most dignified manner.
"First, sir"—the self-constituted spokesman offered his hand—"we trust that you continue in good health, in the midst of your truly colossal responsibilities."
"Yes, sir, yes—I continue pretty well." Again he looked round. "Perhaps you will all sit down."
"I, for one, should be ashamed to sit." The draper spoke with reproach in his voice, for the rest had taken chairs. "Ashamed, sir, while you are standing."
It was something like the old-fashioned reading of the will, but before the funeral instead of after. They sat expectant, hungrily expectant. Out of so many millions, surely, surely something would come to every one! Would it take the form of hundreds?
"Alma," said the pew-opener, coming along in the omnibus, "he's got a good heart; you can see it in his deep blue eye. He's bound to give us what we ask—and Alice my own first cousin and all, and you but one removed."
"Perhaps Cousin Charles has been at him behind our backs."
It is disheartening to observe the readiness with which young ladies on a certain social level ascribe and suspect the baser springs of action.
"Trust him!" The lady of the pews should have learned more Christian charity. "But I hope he won't be able to poison Cousin John's mind against honest people. I call him 'Cousin-John-by-marriage,'not 'Mr. Haveril,' and I say he took us over with Alice when he married her. A man marries, my dear, into his wife's family. Alma!"
"What is it, mother?"
"They've got no children. Somebody must have it when they go. Why not you and me?"
"Why not, mother? We could make a good use of it."
"We could. Ah!" She closed her eyes for the space of a furlong.
"Mother, how much did you ask for?"
"A hundred and twenty pounds. I could do it for less, perhaps, because there's my own furniture. He must give it; he can't refuse—and me Alice's first cousin, and you but one removed. My dear, I've always longed to have a Margate lodging-house since I stood upon Margate jetty as a girl, and paid a Margate bill as a grown woman, before you were born."
"I've asked for seventy pounds. I believe I could start respectably for less; but seventy would be plenty. And oh! to sit behind your own counter, covered with dolls and fancy-work and pretty things, and have no work to do! Oh!" She clasped her hands in ecstasy.
"Yes, Alma; it's all very well if the people come in to buy your things. But what do you know about shops and what to charge?"
"Come to that, mother, what do you know about keeping lodgings?"
It was with speculations such as these, with castles in the air or in Spain, that the cousins beguiled their way towards the Hôtel Métropole. The fancy ofthe broken one dwelt upon the tobacco-shop. It seems that this kind of shop attracts many of the best and brightest. There is so little to do; the money drops in all day long; you can smoke your own tobacco morning, noon, and night, while the laughing hours dance along and strew the way with roses. The bankrupt looked, indeed, as if roses would be a change for him after his long staying among the flagons and the apples.
"I asked you, when you were here last"—John Haveril remained standing—"to send me letters if you wanted me to do anything. I wanted to know quite clearly what you wanted. You have done so. I find, as I expected, that you all want me to give you money."
"Excuse me, sir," said the spokesman, "we distinguish between begging and borrowing. To give—to bestow alms—upon unworthy persons"—he looked severely at the bankrupt, who paid no heed—"or upon persons who are best left in their own humble station in life"—he waved an insulting hand towards the pew-opener—"is one thing; to advance capital which will be regarded as a loan, to be repaid with interest, is quite another thing. To solicit alms, as has been done, I fear, by some in this room, is one thing; to offer an investment, on the solid security of a sterling and established place of business, is quite another thing."
"Very true," said John Haveril. "Very true."
"Where the security is a concern—a concern, sir, improving every day, with four and twenty young ladies as shop-assistants——"
"Fed on scrag of mutton and margarine!" observed the pew-opener, aloud.
"—in a promising suburb and in a crowded highway, with the electric light, a carriage often at the door, and the proprietor a churchwarden—a very different thing," he concluded, running down and forgetting the construction of his sentence.
The others said nothing; but the Board school teacher examined the pictures on the wall, and was absorbed for the moment in art criticism.
"You all want money," John Haveril repeated; "that is the reason why I invited you here to-day."
"Why shouldn't we?" asked the broken one. "You are the only one of the family who has got any money. As for this fellow"—he indicated the draper—"hollow, hollow! There's no stability in him, I know. Where I am there he ought to be—down among the dead men."
"Where a few pounds would be the making of us, and them not so much as missed," said the pew-opener, "why not?"
"I don't know," continued the capitalist, "that you've got any claim on me. You cut your cousin Alice off—out of the family—for her first marriage."
"What else," asked the spokesman, "could we do? She married an actor, sir—a common actor. No doubt she has long since repented her early choice. How different from her second venture—her second prize! Ah! a prize indeed."
"Some of us were not born then," said the Board school teacher. "I'd as soon marry an actor as a draper—sooner, too." She was a sharp-faced girl,quick and ready—perhaps too quick—with woman's most formidable weapon. "Actors don't sweat shop-girls."
"Alice tells me," John Haveril went on slowly, "that none of you ever made any kind of inquiry after her, or answered her letters—except one—Will—also an actor, who is now deceased."
"How could we, when some of us hadn't even got into the cradle?" asked the teacher.
"I didn't quarrel with Alice," said the bankrupt. "I never saw her nor heard of her. And I didn't quarrel with Cousin Will. Why," he added conclusively, "I borrowed money of him."
"If she had been in want," John Haveril added, "would you have helped her because she was your cousin?"
"Since I, for one, never heard that she was in want"—again the teacher—"how can I tell what I should have done? It's like this, Mr. Haveril—you must know it yourself. It isn't respectable to have cousins ragged and in want. If I could afford it, I would give them money to go away. Look at that Object"—she pointed to the bankrupt. "Object, I call him."
"Object yourself!" retorted the broken one.
"Is he a credit to the family? No; I've got no money to spare, or I'd pay him to go right away. Same with Cousin Alice. Don't talk to us about cousinly love. We like respectability."
"Very good," said John Haveril.
"Cousin Alice has brought you a lot of relations," Alma continued, emboldened. "Here we are,fawning, like Cousin Charles; begging, like Cousin Alfred; and telling you the truth, like me."
"One, sir, one at least"—this was, of course, the draper—"has ever been ready to acknowledge the tie of blood."
"I'm sure," said the pew-opener, "if Alice had come to my humble place, which she never did——"
"Never," her daughter added.
"—there'd have been a cup of tea made in no time, and a chair by the fire."
"You have among you"—John Haveril pointed to the bankrupt—"a cousin who is poor and distressed. What have you done for him? Which of you has helped this unfortunate man?"
"Not one," the unfortunate replied for all; while Charles regarded his fallen relation vindictively. "Not one," the bankrupt continued. "And now your guilty hearts are exposed and your greedy natures brought to light. Grabbers and grubbers—every one. And this to me—to me—Mr. Haveril, the only gentleman of the lot! What do they care about gentlemen?"
"You ask me, all of you, to help you with gifts or loans of money. On what pretence? Because I am your cousin's husband——"
"Cousin-John-by-marriage," said the pew-opener. "You took us over as your own when you married Alice. You married into the family. That you can't deny."
"If that is the reason why I am to help you, why don't you help this cousin?"
"Hear! hear!" from the cousin indicated.
"He is in the last stage of poverty and misery."
"Because it serves him right." The draper once more stepped forward, while the rest of the family murmured assent.
"Outside," said John, "it is raining, with a cold wind; he has no great-coat,—nothing but a thin jacket; the soles of his boots are parting——"
"Help him? He's always been a disgrace to the family," said the pew-opener.
"You ask me, however, to help you, and you offer no reference as to character."
"Reference? What reference do you want?" asked the Board school teacher. "Haven't I got a responsible situation? Isn't mother in a responsible situation? Mr. Haveril, I wouldn't talk about this poor ragamuffin, if I were you. It's beneath you. Give him a great-coat yourself, and in ten minutes it will be five shillings, and in an hour it will be drunk. Help him? I wouldn't help Cousin Alfred if I had hundreds—nor Cousin Charles if I had millions."
"You wouldn't," said the bankrupt, "if it was an angel from heaven; you'd see him starve first."
"Some of us, my dear sir," the draper explained sadly, "have to draw the line at disgrace. Character, in business, goes a long way. Bankruptcy brings disgrace even upon those members of the family who are otherwise regarded with respect."
"You think it is a mistake to give money?"
Cousin Charles retracted. "We must distinguish between giving and advancing. I would recommend the advance—the advance only—of capital to those who can help themselves."
"My friend, if you can help yourself, you want no help."
"In a sense, most true; in fact, profoundly true," Cousin Charles replied. "I will make a note of those words. They shall become my motto: 'Those who can help themselves want no help.' So truly wise."
"And if so," John continued, "to help those who cannot help themselves is throwing money away."
"It is—it is." He pointed to the bankrupt. "Why help him? He cannot help himself. I have always felt that to help my cousin Alfred is a sin—if waste of money is sinful. He failed, sir; he became a bankrupt in Mare Street, only five doors from my place of business; with my surname over his door. I wonder I survived it."
"You'll survive your own failure next," said the bankrupt.
"Come back to your own case, mister. You agree that one should not help those who can help themselves. Let us lay hold on that. If you can help yourself, why do you want help? You've helped yourself, I understand, to a flourishing business. You are evidently, therefore, beyond the necessity of further help. You want me to advance you a large sum of money. Why? You have shown that you can help yourself. Very well; the best thing you can do is to go on helping yourself."
Cousin Charles changed colour. His face dropped, to use the familiar expression.
"Sweating four and twenty girls in black with white cuffs," murmured the teacher.
"This," John continued, slowly and with weight,"is my answer to your letter. Go on, as you have already begun, trusting to yourself alone. It is best for you. If you are on the downward grade, you would only be saved for a time. If you are going up, the advance you ask would not help you. That is my answer, mister, to your letter."
The draper grew very red in the face. "Then," he asked, "you—you—you refuse—you actually refuse this trifling assistance?"
"Actually."
"You hear, Charles," said the bankrupt.
"Am I in my senses?" He looked round him. "The husband of my cousin Alice, much loved—'sweet Alice, Ben Bolt'—a man of millions, refuses me an advance, upon undeniable security, of a simple thousand pounds. Why, the bank will do it for me with alacrity."
"Then go to the bank."
The poor man changed from red to white. His cheeks became flabby. His arms, which had been folded, dropped. He suddenly grew limp. It is rather terrible to see a confident, aggressive man become suddenly limp. Perhaps he had built confidently on this advance; perhaps he was not quite so substantial as he boasted and as he seemed; perhaps that great shop, with four and twenty girls in black with white cuffs, all in a row, was haunted by the spectre of which nobody talks, though it is seen daily by so many—the grisly, threatening, lean, gaunt, fierce-eyed ghost called Bankruptcy.
He clapped his hat on his head. He recovered a little. He tried to smile. He assumed some showof dignity. He even laughed. Then he replied, with genuine heartfelt emotion, "The Lord forgive you!" and walked out of the room.
John Haveril turned to the pew-opener. "Here is your letter," he said; "I return it to you. Why should I give you anything? You are fifty years of age, you say. You have a son in good employ. You have a daughter—this girl, I suppose—in the School Board service. You have a reasonably good situation."
The lady's face dropped and lengthened. "Oh!" she cried; "don't refuse! don't refuse! It's such a trifle to you; you would never miss it, and never feel it. And it would be the making of me—it would indeed."
John Haveril shook his head with the deliberation and the expression of a bear. His mind was made up. The woman went on, but feebly—
"You can't like to own—you so rich, and all—that you've got a cousin in such a humble place as mine."
"You might help her to be respectable," her daughter put in.