"Dearest President of the only college where they teach sweet thoughts and gracious manners and nothing else—where they have only one professor, who is the president and the chaplain and all the lecturers—I have not seen you for so long a timethat I am ashamed. Now I am going to tell you why. I must make confession, and then I must ask your advice. I can do this much better by writing than by talking, so that I will write first and we will talk afterwards. I have to tell you most unexpected things, and most wonderful events. They are full of temptations and quandaries."First, for my confession. Your ambition for me has been that I should be ambitious for myself. I have done my best to meet your wish; I have tried to be ambitious in the best way—your way. You thought that I might make a serious attempt at serious acting—that I might become a queen of tragedy. Alas! I have felt for some time that I must abandon the attempt. I cannot portray the emotions, I cannot feel the emotions, of tragedy; my nature is too shallow; I cannot realize a great passion. I only know that it must produce in voice, and face, and speech, and gesture, changes and indications that cannot be taught. As for me, when I try, I become either stilted or wooden. The passion does not seize me and possess me. Ambition, of a kind, is not wanting. I like to imagine myself a great actress, sweeping across the stage with a velvet train; I like to think of the people rising and applauding; but, as for the part, I am not moved at all. I think about nothing but myself. If I look in the glass, I am told that I have not the face for tragedy. If I begin to declaim, I cannot feel the words. I am just like the young man who kept on dreaming that he was a great poet, until he made the disagreeable discovery that in order to be a great poet it isabsolutely necessary to write great poems. My dear Hilarie, I must put a stop to this attempt at once. I have been a burden to you for five long years. Let me not load you with more than is necessary. I don't say anything about thanks, because you know—you know."Dick—you remember Dick, my father's old young friend—the Dick that turned up on tramp that day you three cousins met—tells me that in comedy I should do well. You shall hear, directly, that it is quite possible that I may change the buskin for the sock—which he says is the classical way of putting it. He tells me that an expressive face—mine can screw up or be pulled out like an indiarubber face—a tall figure, and a fairly good voice, are wanted first of all; and that I have all three. But you will see directly that poor Dick is not quite a disinterested person. Still, he may be right, and I must say that if I am to go on the stage, I would rather make them laugh than cry. It must be much more pleasant to broaden their faces with smiles than to stiffen them with terror at the sight of the blood-stained dagger."The stage seems the only profession open to a girl like me, if I am to have a profession at all—which you will understand directly is no longer absolutely necessary. I was born behind the footlights, Dick was born in the sawdust; so there seems a natural fitness. However, until I knew you all, my acquaintances were these folk; I have never learned to think of myself as belonging to the world at all. To my young imagination the world consisted of a great many people, whose only occupation was toscrape money together in order to buy seats at a theatre. Some made things, some painted things, some built things, some contrived things, some wrote things; they were extremely industrious, because their industry brought them tickets. The shops, I imagined, were only established and furnished for the purpose of providing things wanted by the show folk. I have never, in fact, got rid of that feeling. The show was everything; all the world existed only to be dramatized. Even the Church, you see, could be put upon the stage. So, as I said, the stage is the only profession for me, if I am to choose a profession."There is another thing. I suppose I got this idea, too, from my up-bringing. It is that to be an actress is the one honourable career for a woman. Not to be a great actress—but just an actress, that's all. I believe that the people who really belong to this profession from one generation to another, don't really care very much about being great actors; they are just content to belong to the profession, just as most doctors have no ambition to become great doctors, but are just content with being in the profession. In acting it is the new-comer who wants to be great. There is something comfortable and satisfying in a position of humble utility. I may possibly become the housemaid of farce, with a black daub upon my face."The next thing is about my newly discovered cousin, Alice Haveril. She is the kindest of women—next to one. She heaps kindnesses upon me. She loads me with dresses, gold chains, bonnets,gloves, and would load me with money if I could take it. But I will not have that form of gift."I am very much with her, because she has no friends here, and her husband is much engaged with his affairs. She is in most delicate health, with a weak heart. She has a terrible trouble, the nature of which I have recently learned; and she wants some one with her constantly. I spend most of the day with her; I drive with her, go shopping with her, read to her, and talk to her."Now, dear Hilarie, here is my temptation. My cousin Alice wants me to go back to America with her and her husband. He would like it, too. They are enormously rich; they could make me an heiress. The husband, John Haveril, is as honest and kindly a man as you could wish to find. He is a man who has made his own way; he has not the manners of society; but he is not vulgar; he is well bred by instinct."This is, I confess, a great temptation. It is more than a temptation, it seems almost a duty. I have found this poor, fragile creature; I know why she suffers. I think I ought not to leave her."If I accept their offer, I shall become one of the rich heiresses of America. It will mean millions. But then I really do not want millions. I shall have to give up all my friends if I go away to America. This would be very hard. I should also lose the happiness of desiring things I cannot now obtain. I believe that longing after things unattainable is the chief happiness of the impecunious. Only think of forming a wish and having it instantly realized!How selfish, how thoughtless of other people, how fat and coarse and lazy, one would become! Dick has often spoken of the terrible effect produced upon the mind by the possession of wealth. Perhaps he has prejudiced me."The next temptation comes from a certain young man. He besieges me—he swears he cannot live without me. He wants me to be engaged secretly—he says that I have promised. But I have not. As for keeping any secrets from you, and especially a matter of this importance, it is ridiculous. The young man is, in fact, one of the cousins—Sir Humphrey."
"Dearest President of the only college where they teach sweet thoughts and gracious manners and nothing else—where they have only one professor, who is the president and the chaplain and all the lecturers—I have not seen you for so long a timethat I am ashamed. Now I am going to tell you why. I must make confession, and then I must ask your advice. I can do this much better by writing than by talking, so that I will write first and we will talk afterwards. I have to tell you most unexpected things, and most wonderful events. They are full of temptations and quandaries.
"First, for my confession. Your ambition for me has been that I should be ambitious for myself. I have done my best to meet your wish; I have tried to be ambitious in the best way—your way. You thought that I might make a serious attempt at serious acting—that I might become a queen of tragedy. Alas! I have felt for some time that I must abandon the attempt. I cannot portray the emotions, I cannot feel the emotions, of tragedy; my nature is too shallow; I cannot realize a great passion. I only know that it must produce in voice, and face, and speech, and gesture, changes and indications that cannot be taught. As for me, when I try, I become either stilted or wooden. The passion does not seize me and possess me. Ambition, of a kind, is not wanting. I like to imagine myself a great actress, sweeping across the stage with a velvet train; I like to think of the people rising and applauding; but, as for the part, I am not moved at all. I think about nothing but myself. If I look in the glass, I am told that I have not the face for tragedy. If I begin to declaim, I cannot feel the words. I am just like the young man who kept on dreaming that he was a great poet, until he made the disagreeable discovery that in order to be a great poet it isabsolutely necessary to write great poems. My dear Hilarie, I must put a stop to this attempt at once. I have been a burden to you for five long years. Let me not load you with more than is necessary. I don't say anything about thanks, because you know—you know.
"Dick—you remember Dick, my father's old young friend—the Dick that turned up on tramp that day you three cousins met—tells me that in comedy I should do well. You shall hear, directly, that it is quite possible that I may change the buskin for the sock—which he says is the classical way of putting it. He tells me that an expressive face—mine can screw up or be pulled out like an indiarubber face—a tall figure, and a fairly good voice, are wanted first of all; and that I have all three. But you will see directly that poor Dick is not quite a disinterested person. Still, he may be right, and I must say that if I am to go on the stage, I would rather make them laugh than cry. It must be much more pleasant to broaden their faces with smiles than to stiffen them with terror at the sight of the blood-stained dagger.
"The stage seems the only profession open to a girl like me, if I am to have a profession at all—which you will understand directly is no longer absolutely necessary. I was born behind the footlights, Dick was born in the sawdust; so there seems a natural fitness. However, until I knew you all, my acquaintances were these folk; I have never learned to think of myself as belonging to the world at all. To my young imagination the world consisted of a great many people, whose only occupation was toscrape money together in order to buy seats at a theatre. Some made things, some painted things, some built things, some contrived things, some wrote things; they were extremely industrious, because their industry brought them tickets. The shops, I imagined, were only established and furnished for the purpose of providing things wanted by the show folk. I have never, in fact, got rid of that feeling. The show was everything; all the world existed only to be dramatized. Even the Church, you see, could be put upon the stage. So, as I said, the stage is the only profession for me, if I am to choose a profession.
"There is another thing. I suppose I got this idea, too, from my up-bringing. It is that to be an actress is the one honourable career for a woman. Not to be a great actress—but just an actress, that's all. I believe that the people who really belong to this profession from one generation to another, don't really care very much about being great actors; they are just content to belong to the profession, just as most doctors have no ambition to become great doctors, but are just content with being in the profession. In acting it is the new-comer who wants to be great. There is something comfortable and satisfying in a position of humble utility. I may possibly become the housemaid of farce, with a black daub upon my face.
"The next thing is about my newly discovered cousin, Alice Haveril. She is the kindest of women—next to one. She heaps kindnesses upon me. She loads me with dresses, gold chains, bonnets,gloves, and would load me with money if I could take it. But I will not have that form of gift.
"I am very much with her, because she has no friends here, and her husband is much engaged with his affairs. She is in most delicate health, with a weak heart. She has a terrible trouble, the nature of which I have recently learned; and she wants some one with her constantly. I spend most of the day with her; I drive with her, go shopping with her, read to her, and talk to her.
"Now, dear Hilarie, here is my temptation. My cousin Alice wants me to go back to America with her and her husband. He would like it, too. They are enormously rich; they could make me an heiress. The husband, John Haveril, is as honest and kindly a man as you could wish to find. He is a man who has made his own way; he has not the manners of society; but he is not vulgar; he is well bred by instinct.
"This is, I confess, a great temptation. It is more than a temptation, it seems almost a duty. I have found this poor, fragile creature; I know why she suffers. I think I ought not to leave her.
"If I accept their offer, I shall become one of the rich heiresses of America. It will mean millions. But then I really do not want millions. I shall have to give up all my friends if I go away to America. This would be very hard. I should also lose the happiness of desiring things I cannot now obtain. I believe that longing after things unattainable is the chief happiness of the impecunious. Only think of forming a wish and having it instantly realized!How selfish, how thoughtless of other people, how fat and coarse and lazy, one would become! Dick has often spoken of the terrible effect produced upon the mind by the possession of wealth. Perhaps he has prejudiced me.
"The next temptation comes from a certain young man. He besieges me—he swears he cannot live without me. He wants me to be engaged secretly—he says that I have promised. But I have not. As for keeping any secrets from you, and especially a matter of this importance, it is ridiculous. The young man is, in fact, one of the cousins—Sir Humphrey."
At this point Hilarie started, laid down the letter, looked up; read the words again; went on, with a red spot in either cheek.
"I confess humbly that the position which he offers attracts me. That so humble a person as myself should be elevated without any warning, so to speak, to this position—his mother is a great leader in the philanthropic part of society—is a curious freak of fortune. It is like a story-book. As for the man—well, for my own feeling about him, it is certainly quite true that I could very well live without him. I certainly should not droop and languish if he were to go somewhere else; yet—you know him, Hilarie. He is clever in a way. He thinks he has ideas about Art—he paints smudges, puts together chords, and writes lines that rhyme. He also plays disjointed bits, and complains that they do not appeal to me. That is harmless, however. His manners are distinguished, I suppose.He is quite contemptuous of everybody who has work to do. If you talk to him about the world below, it is like running your head against a stone wall. He loves me, he says, for the opposites. And what that means, I don't know. I suppose that, as a gentleman, he could be trusted to behave with decency and kindness to his wife. At the same time, I have found him, more than once, of a surprising ill temper, moody, jealous, violent, and I think that he is selfish in the cultivated manner—that is to say, selfish with refinement."I cannot and will not be guilty of a secret engagement; while a secret marriage, which he also vehemently urges, unknown to his mother or my friends, and to be kept in retirement, concealed from everybody, is a degradation to which I would never submit. I cannot understand what my lover means by such a proposal, nor why he cannot see that the thing is an insult and an impossibility."However, I have refused concealment. Meantime a most romantic and wonderful discovery is going to be disclosed. I must not set it down on paper, even for your eyes, Hilarie. It is a discovery of which Humphrey knows nothing as yet. He will learn it, I believe, in a few days. When he does learn it, it will necessitate a complete change in all his views of life; it will open the world for him; it will take him out of his narrow grooves; it will try him and prove him. Now, dear Hilarie, am I right to wait—without his knowing why? If he receives this discovery as he ought—if it brings out in him what is really noble in his character, I can trust myself to him. At thesame time, it will deprive him of what first attracted me in him; but I must not tell you more."Lastly, my dear old Dick has been making love to me, just as he did when I was fifteen and he was seventeen, going about with my father, practising and playing. Such a Conservative—so full of prejudices is Dick. I confess to you, dear Hilarie, I would rather marry Dick than anything else. We should never have any money—Dick gives away all he gets. He will not put by. 'If I am ill,' he says, 'take me to the hospital.' 'If I die,' he says, 'bury me in the hedge, like the gipsy folk.' He never wants money, and I should sometimes go on tramp with him, and we should sit in the woods, and march along the roads, and hear the skylark sing, and yearn for the unattainable, and go on crying for we know not what, like the little children. Oh, delightful! And Dick is always sweet and always good—except, perhaps, when he speaks of Humphrey, who has angered him by cold and superior airs. Dick is a philosopher, except on that one side. When I think of marrying Dick, dear Hilarie, my heart stands still. For then I get a most lovely dream. I close my eyes to see it better. It is a most charming vision. There is a long road with a broad strip of turf on either side, and a high hedge for shade and flowers, goodly trees at intervals; a road which runs over the hills and down the valleys and along brooks; crosses bridges, and has short cuts through fields and meadows; overhead the lark sings; from the trees the yellow-hammer cries, 'A little bit of bread and no cheese;' clouds fly across the sky; all kinds of queer peoplepass along—vagrants, beggars, gipsies, soldiers,—just the common sort. On the springy turf at the side I myself walk, carrying the fiddle—in the middle of the road Dick tramps, going large and free; over his shoulders hangs the bag which contains all we want; now and then he bursts out singing as he goes. In the coppice we sit down on the trunk of a tree and take lunch out of a paper bag. Sometimes, when we are quite alone in a coppice, far away from the world, Dick takes his fiddle out of the case and plays to me, all alone, music that lifts me out of myself and carries me away, I know not whither. Who would not marry a great magician? And in my dream about Dick I am never tired. I never regret my lot—I never want money. Dick is never savage, like Humphrey—he despises no one; he is loved by everybody. Oh, Hilarie, I would ask for nothing—nothing better than to give myself to Dick, and to follow him and be his slave—his grateful slave! Is this love, Hilarie? Write to me, dear Hilarie, and tell me what I ought to do."
"I confess humbly that the position which he offers attracts me. That so humble a person as myself should be elevated without any warning, so to speak, to this position—his mother is a great leader in the philanthropic part of society—is a curious freak of fortune. It is like a story-book. As for the man—well, for my own feeling about him, it is certainly quite true that I could very well live without him. I certainly should not droop and languish if he were to go somewhere else; yet—you know him, Hilarie. He is clever in a way. He thinks he has ideas about Art—he paints smudges, puts together chords, and writes lines that rhyme. He also plays disjointed bits, and complains that they do not appeal to me. That is harmless, however. His manners are distinguished, I suppose.He is quite contemptuous of everybody who has work to do. If you talk to him about the world below, it is like running your head against a stone wall. He loves me, he says, for the opposites. And what that means, I don't know. I suppose that, as a gentleman, he could be trusted to behave with decency and kindness to his wife. At the same time, I have found him, more than once, of a surprising ill temper, moody, jealous, violent, and I think that he is selfish in the cultivated manner—that is to say, selfish with refinement.
"I cannot and will not be guilty of a secret engagement; while a secret marriage, which he also vehemently urges, unknown to his mother or my friends, and to be kept in retirement, concealed from everybody, is a degradation to which I would never submit. I cannot understand what my lover means by such a proposal, nor why he cannot see that the thing is an insult and an impossibility.
"However, I have refused concealment. Meantime a most romantic and wonderful discovery is going to be disclosed. I must not set it down on paper, even for your eyes, Hilarie. It is a discovery of which Humphrey knows nothing as yet. He will learn it, I believe, in a few days. When he does learn it, it will necessitate a complete change in all his views of life; it will open the world for him; it will take him out of his narrow grooves; it will try him and prove him. Now, dear Hilarie, am I right to wait—without his knowing why? If he receives this discovery as he ought—if it brings out in him what is really noble in his character, I can trust myself to him. At thesame time, it will deprive him of what first attracted me in him; but I must not tell you more.
"Lastly, my dear old Dick has been making love to me, just as he did when I was fifteen and he was seventeen, going about with my father, practising and playing. Such a Conservative—so full of prejudices is Dick. I confess to you, dear Hilarie, I would rather marry Dick than anything else. We should never have any money—Dick gives away all he gets. He will not put by. 'If I am ill,' he says, 'take me to the hospital.' 'If I die,' he says, 'bury me in the hedge, like the gipsy folk.' He never wants money, and I should sometimes go on tramp with him, and we should sit in the woods, and march along the roads, and hear the skylark sing, and yearn for the unattainable, and go on crying for we know not what, like the little children. Oh, delightful! And Dick is always sweet and always good—except, perhaps, when he speaks of Humphrey, who has angered him by cold and superior airs. Dick is a philosopher, except on that one side. When I think of marrying Dick, dear Hilarie, my heart stands still. For then I get a most lovely dream. I close my eyes to see it better. It is a most charming vision. There is a long road with a broad strip of turf on either side, and a high hedge for shade and flowers, goodly trees at intervals; a road which runs over the hills and down the valleys and along brooks; crosses bridges, and has short cuts through fields and meadows; overhead the lark sings; from the trees the yellow-hammer cries, 'A little bit of bread and no cheese;' clouds fly across the sky; all kinds of queer peoplepass along—vagrants, beggars, gipsies, soldiers,—just the common sort. On the springy turf at the side I myself walk, carrying the fiddle—in the middle of the road Dick tramps, going large and free; over his shoulders hangs the bag which contains all we want; now and then he bursts out singing as he goes. In the coppice we sit down on the trunk of a tree and take lunch out of a paper bag. Sometimes, when we are quite alone in a coppice, far away from the world, Dick takes his fiddle out of the case and plays to me, all alone, music that lifts me out of myself and carries me away, I know not whither. Who would not marry a great magician? And in my dream about Dick I am never tired. I never regret my lot—I never want money. Dick is never savage, like Humphrey—he despises no one; he is loved by everybody. Oh, Hilarie, I would ask for nothing—nothing better than to give myself to Dick, and to follow him and be his slave—his grateful slave! Is this love, Hilarie? Write to me, dear Hilarie, and tell me what I ought to do."
Hilarie laid down the letter with a sigh. "Strange," she said. "Molly sees her own path of happiness quite plainly; yet she cannot follow it. What she does not know is that she has shattered my own dream."
She opened another letter in her hand. "I should have known," she said. "He is base metal, through and through. I should have known. Yet what a son—of what a mother! Who would suspect?" She read the letter again.
"It has been my dream ever since the fortunate day when I met you in the churchyard, to unite ourbranches of the house. You have thought me cold about your very beautiful projects and illusions. I am, perhaps, harder than yourself, because I know the world better, and because I have always found people extremely amiable while you are giving them things—and exactly the reverse when you call upon them to give to others. However, you will never find me opposing the plans suggested by your nobility of character. I have spoken to my mother upon this subject——" She stopped short—she tore the letter in halves, then, with another thought, put back the torn sheet into its envelope. "Wretch!" she cried, "I will keep your letter!"
She sat there, alone, looking out upon the porch. The sun went down and the twilight descended, and she sat among the graves, thinking.
Presently she got up, feeling cold and numbed. "It was a foolish dream," she said. "I ought to have known—I ought to have known."
She walked slowly homeward. As she came out of the coppice into her own park, she saw the old house lit up already, and through the windows she saw figures flitting about. They were her students, and they were gathering for afternoon tea.
"Why," she said, "I want to be their leader, and I dream an idle dream about a worthless man!"
With firmer step and head erect she entered the porch of her house, and found herself in the midst of the girls. Her dream was shattered—she let it go: there are other things to think about besides a worthless man.
One knows not what were the actual intentions ofthis young man. Fate would not, as you will presently discover, permit him to carry them out. We may, however, allow that he was really in love with one of the two girls—the one who attracted all mankind, not so much by her beauty as by her manner, which was caressing; and by her conversation, which was sprightly. He was in love with her after the manner of his father, who felt the necessity for an occasional change in the object of his affections. To desert one woman for another was part of his inheritance—had Hilarie known it. One should find excuses for hereditary tendencies; those who knew the truth would recognize in this treatment of women the mark of the changeling.
As for Hilarie, she wrote a brief note to Molly. "Let us talk over these things," she said. "Meantime, I implore you not to enter into any engagement, open or secret, with a man who could venture to propose the latter." She folded the note. She rose; she sighed.
"An idle dream," she said, "about a worthless man!"
Three days after this conversation, the amateur detective on his first job arrived in London with the midday train from Birmingham. He was in a state of happiness and triumph almost superhuman. For he brought with him, as he believed, the conclusion of the matter. Alone, single-handed, he had discovered the plot; the proofs were in his hands. He was on his way to compel the guilty to submission, to subdue the proud, to send the rich empty away. Poetical justice would be done; his half-brother would be restored to his fraternal arms; and Molly would be free.
I say there was no happier man than this poor credulous Richard to be found anywhere than in that third-class carriage. He wanted no paper to read; he sat in a kind of cloud of glorious congratulations. Everything was proved; there was but one step possible—that of surrender absolute.
Two letters preceded his arrival.
One was for Molly. "Expect me to-morrow evening," he said. "I bring great news; but do not say anything to Alice. The news should be still greater than what I have to tell you."
The other was for Lady Woodroffe.
"Madam" (he wrote)"I have to inform you that I have made a discovery closely connected with you. The discovery is (1) that the only son of the late Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, the first baronet, died at Birmingham, on February 5th, 1874, and is buried there; and (2) that he died at the Great Midland Hotel, where your name is entered as being on that day accompanied by an Indian ayah and a child. There is a note to the effect that the child died the same night. The child is entered in the register as born on December the 2nd, 1872. I observe in the Peerage that the present baronet was born on that day."I propose to call upon you to-morrow afternoon at about three o'clock, in the hope of obtaining an interview with you on this subject."I remain, madam, your obedient servant,"Richard Woodroffe."
"Madam" (he wrote)
"I have to inform you that I have made a discovery closely connected with you. The discovery is (1) that the only son of the late Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, the first baronet, died at Birmingham, on February 5th, 1874, and is buried there; and (2) that he died at the Great Midland Hotel, where your name is entered as being on that day accompanied by an Indian ayah and a child. There is a note to the effect that the child died the same night. The child is entered in the register as born on December the 2nd, 1872. I observe in the Peerage that the present baronet was born on that day.
"I propose to call upon you to-morrow afternoon at about three o'clock, in the hope of obtaining an interview with you on this subject.
"I remain, madam, your obedient servant,
"Richard Woodroffe."
Now you understand why Richard Woodroffe came to town in so buoyant and jubilant a mood. He saw himself received with shame and confusion by a fallen enemy. He saw himself playing, for the first time in his life, a part requiring great dignity—that of the conqueror. He would be chivalrous towards this sinner; he would utter no reproach: to lay his proofs before her, to receive her surrender, would be enough. Richard was not a revengeful person; wrongs he forgot; injuries he forgave. At the same time, he would have been more than human if he had not contemplated, with some kind of satisfaction, the reduction of the second baronet to his true level,which would leave him with no more pride and no more superiority.
Alas! He was not prepared for what awaited him. Had he asked himself what kind of woman he should meet, he would have imagined a person broken down by the discovery of her guilt; throwing herself at his feet, ready to confess everything—a woman with whom he would be the conqueror. That the tables would be turned upon him, he never even thought possible. Who would? He had discovered that the real heir to the name and title of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe had actually died at Birmingham twenty-four years ago. Who, then, was the present so-called Sir Humphrey?
"Thou art the woman!" "Alas! alas! I am the woman."
This was the pretty dialogue of conquest and confession which he fondly imagined.
What happened?
At the hour of three he called and sent in his card.
He was taken upstairs to the drawing-room, where a lady of august presence and severe aspect, who struck an unexpected terror into him at the outset, was sitting at a table with a secretary. This severe person put up her glasses curiously, and icily motioned him to wait, while she went on dictating to the secretary. When she had finished—which took several minutes—she dismissed her assistant and turned to her visitor, who was still standing, hat in hand, already disconcerted by this contemptuous treatment, and expectant of unpleasantness.
She pushed back her chair and took a paper from the table.
"You sent me a letter yesterday, Mr. Woodroffe."
"I did," he said huskily. Then, with a feeling of being cross-examined, he cleared his throat and tried to assume an attitude of dignity.
"This is the letter, I believe. Read it, to make sure."
"That is the letter."
"Oh! And you are come, I suppose, to talk over the matter, to see what you can make out of it. Well, sir, I have taken advice upon this letter. I was advised to have the door shut in your face; I was advised to send you to my lawyers; but I am not afraid, even of the black-mailer. I resolved to see you. Now, sir, you may sit down, if you like." Richard sank into a chair, his cheeks flaming. "Go on, then," she added impatiently. "Don't waste my time. Explain this letter, sir, instantly."
She rapped the table sharply with a paper-knife. The triumphant detective jumped.
"I can—I can explain it." The poor young man felt all his confidence slipping away from him. For it looked as if she was actually going to brazen it out—a contingency that had not occurred to him.
"One moment, Mr. Woodroffe. I am the more inclined to give you an opportunity to explain personally, because I hear that my son has already met you. I can hardly say, made your acquaintance—met you—and that you are, or pretend to be—it matters nothing—a distant cousin of his. And now, sir, having said so much, I am prepared to listen."
"I can give you the whole story, Lady Woodroffe."
"Thewhole story?Awhole story, you mean.Call things by their right names. But go on. Do not occupy my time needlessly, and do not be tedious."
"I will do neither, I assure you." He plucked up some courage, thinking of his proofs, but not much. "I even think I shall interest you. First of all, then: my father, who was a comedian playing under the name of Anthony, which was his Christian name, married, as his first wife, a London girl. My father was not a man of principle, I am sorry to say. After a time, he deserted his wife, and left her alone with her child in the streets of Birmingham—Birmingham," he repeated.
Lady Woodroffe winced. It might have been his fancy, but she certainly seemed to wince at the mention of that great city. She sat upright, with hands crossed; her face was pale, her eyes were hard, though she still smiled.
"Go on, sir," she said; "left his wife in Birmingham. I dare say I shall understand presently what this means."
"This was twenty-four or twenty-five years ago. The deserted wife could not believe that she had lost his affection; but she knew that the child's presence annoyed him. That fact, perhaps, influenced her. There was also the certainty of the workhouse before her for the child; she was therefore easily persuaded to consent to an arrangement, by means of some doctor of the place, to give her child into the charge of a lady who had lost her own, and was willing to adopt another. She did this in ignorance of the lady's name."
"Did she never learn the lady's name?" The question was a mistake. Lady Woodroffe perceived her mistake, and set her lips tighter.
"Never. She had no means of finding out. She went after her husband, and followed him from place to place, till she finally caught him in some town of a Western State. Here, as soon as she appeared on the scene, he divorced her for alleged incompatibility of temper. Afterwards he married again. I am the son of the second marriage."
"Yes. This is, no doubt, an interesting story. But I am not, really, interested in your—your pedigree," she sighed. "Oh, do go on, man! Why do you come here with it?"
"It is the beginning of the story which ends with that letter of mine."
"You promised, Mr. Woodroffe"—she smiled icily, and her eyes remained hard—"that you would neither bore me nor waste my time. Are you sure that you are keeping your word?"
"Quite sure. I go back to the story. I concluded from the story as it was told me, that the lady's child had died in Birmingham—in some hotel, probably——"
"One moment. May I guess that your object is, apparently, to find this person who bought or took charge of the child?"
"It is on behalf of the mother, who is now in England. Above all things, she desires to find her child. That is natural, is it not?"
"Perfectly natural. Let us hope that she may succeed. Now go on, Mr. Woodroffe. Of course,a woman who would sell her child does not deserve to get it back again."
Perhaps the last remark was also a mistake. At least it showed temper.
"Perhaps not. This woman, Mrs. Haveril, however, who is married to an extremely wealthy American——"
"Haveril! Can it be the millionaire person whom my son met—with you—at Sir Robert Steele's house?"
"That is the lady."
"Indeed! I always tell my son that he should be more careful of his company. Well, go on."
Richard smiled. The insolence of the observation did not hurt him in the least. It lessened the power of the presence, and gave him confidence.
"This lady," he continued, "fancies or discerns an extraordinary resemblance to her husband, my father—and to myself—in your son, Lady Woodroffe. The resemblance is very striking. He has most undoubtedly my father's face, the same colour of his hair—his figure even more strongly, it is said, than myself. Yet I am considered like him."
"And because there is this resemblance, she imagined——"
"Hardly imagined. She dreamed——"
"Dreamed! What have I to do with her dreams? Well, she has only to ascertain the real parentage of Sir Humphrey—my son. Oh, I have your letter in my mind! Sir Humphrey, you said, the second baronet. We shall come to your letter presently."
"One would think——"
"Has she any other reason to go upon besides the resemblance?"
By this time it was evident that she understood exactly what was meant.
"She had, until yesterday, no other reason. Yet, from one or two simple facts that I have discovered—they are in my letter—I am certain that she is right."
"Indeed! Do you understand, Mr. Woodroffe, the exact meaning of those words, 'that she is right.' Then what is my son?"
"He would be no longer your son. He would be her son."
"Then what am I?"
"That, Lady Woodroffe, is not for me to say."
"I promised to give you an audience. Therefore go on."
"Since there was no kind of proof of this imagining—or this dream—I thought that I would go down to Birmingham to search the registers."
"You are a detective, or a private and secret inquirer?"
"No; I am acting only for this lady."
"She is a millionairess. I hope she pays you well. But the facts—the facts. And you found——"
"A great deal more than I hoped. The facts which I set forth in my letter."
"An entry in the register, purporting to record the death of my son, and an entry in a hotel-book, giving my name,—that is all!"
"Is it not enough? The child was about the same age as the one adopted. There are not many childrenof that age who die every week—even in Birmingham. Again, if the child died in Birmingham at all, it must have been at a hotel. There are not many children of the same age likely to die in the same week in a Birmingham hotel. I had the register of deaths searched, and found—what I told you. Copies have been taken. I went to the hotel nearest the station, and had the visitors' book searched. I found—what I told you. Copies have been taken."
"Very good. What next?"
"I sent you that letter, and I came to hear what you say about it."
"What should I say about it?"
"Who is this young man who calls himself the second baronet?"
"He is my son."
"Then who is the child that died?"
"How am I to tell? You must ask some one else."
"And who was the Lady Woodroffe who came to the hotel?"
"How do I know? You must ask some one else."
"Oh!"
He might have considered this attitude as possible at least. But he had not. His face expressed bewilderment and surprise.
"You actually suggest to me—tome, of all people in the world!—that I, actually I myself, a woman of my position, bought a child in place of a dead child! That is your meaning, is it not, sir?"
"Certainly it is," he answered with creditable valour. "I know you did it! There's no way out of it but to confess!"
"Why, you miserable little counter-jumper!"
Dick stepped back in some alarm, because it looked as if she were going to box his ears. She was quite capable of it, indeed, and but for the guilty conscience that held her back, she would have done it. As it was, her wrath was not feigned. It maddened her to think that this man should so easily discover a whole half of the thing she thought concealed for ever.
"You wretched little counter-jumper!" she repeated, with reginal gesture, tall and commanding—taller than poor Richard, and, dear me! how much more commanding! "And you pretend a trumpery resemblance! Why, my son is half a foot taller than you! My son's father was a gentleman, and his face and manners show it. Yours—— But your face and manners show what he was. Leave the house, sir!" Dick dropped his hat in his surprise. "If you think to black-mail me, you are mistaken. Leave the house! If you dare to speak of this again, it shall be to my lawyers."
Richard picked up his hat. The action is a trifle, but it completed his discomfiture.
"No; stay a moment. Understand quite clearly, that you can make any use of these entries that you please. But you may as well understand that I have never been in Birmingham in my life; that persons in my position act and move among a surrounding troop of servants, to speak nothing of friends and relations. That the heirs of persons like Sir Humphrey do not die and get buried unknown to their friends—perhaps you have not thought of all this."
He heard this statement with open mouth. He was struck dumb.
"Understand at once, make your principal—who is she? the rich person—understand that I have never been in Birmingham in my life; and that every hour of my life can be accounted for."
"Who was that child, then?"
"Find out, if you can. It has nothing to do with me. If, twenty years ago, some woman chose, for purposes of her own, to personate the wife of Sir Humphrey—who was then in Scotland—while Sir Humphrey was on his way home from India, do you think I am going to inquire or trouble my head about her impudence?"
Richard murmured something indistinct. He did not know what to say. How could this majestic woman have done such a thing? Yet who else could have done it?
Lady Woodroffe sat down again. "I have been wrong," she said, "in getting angry over this matter. Perhaps you are not, after all, a black-mailer."
"Indeed, I am not."
"I have heard my son," she said, in a softer voice, "speak of you, Mr. Woodroffe. But I must warn you that any attempt to bring this charge will be met by my solicitors. One word more. Miss Hilarie Woodroffe has also, I believe, taken some interest in you. I would suggest, Mr. Woodroffe, that it would be foolish to throw away the only respectable connections you possess in a wild-goose chase, which can lead to nothing except ignoble pay from a woman who, by your own confession, threw away her ownchild or sold it to a stranger. Now you can go, sir." She did not ring the bell for the servant. She pointed, and turned back to her desk. "Have the goodness to shut the door behind you."
It was with greatly lowered spirits that Richard walked down those stairs and out of the door.
Once removed from the presence of the great lady and the overwhelming authority of her manner, her voice, and her face, Richard began to consider the situation over again. The lady denied any knowledge of the fact. He might have expected it. Why, how could such a woman, in such a position, face the world, and confess to having committed so great a crime? He ought to have known that it was impossible. So he cursed himself for an ass; steadied his nerves with the reflection that shehaddone the thing, whatever she might say; considered that people can always be found to believe great and solid and shameless liars; and remarked with humiliation that on the very first occasion in his life, when he wanted dignity to meet dignity, and authority to meet authority, he had come to grief.
"Serious comedy, however"—by way of consolation—"is not my line."
In the evening, after dinner, he repaired to the hotel, but not with the triumphal step which he had promised himself.
Molly was reading a letter aloud to Alice. "Dick," she cried, "perhaps you can explain what this means. It has just arrived."
"Dear Madam,"I have had an interview with a certain Mr. Richard Woodroffe, who calls himself a distant cousin of my son. He brought me a strange story of a strange delusion, which he seemed to consider supported by a certain discovery of an entry in a register of births and deaths. I cannot believe his allegation without further evidence, because it is so extremely improbable—on the face of it, one would say impossible—and I cannot understand it, even if it rests on the strongest evidence. I have, however, forwarded the case to my solicitors, who will probably communicate with Mr. Woodroffe. With him personally I do not desire any further speech. The circumstances of the case, as first placed before me, naturally awaken a woman's sympathies. A mother bereaved of her son is, at all times, an object of pity, even when her bereavement is not due to the common cause, but to her own conduct; and that conduct not such as can be readily excused."The story which this person brought me is to the effect that you have seen my son at a theatre; that you afterwards met him at the house of Sir Robert Steele; that you observed or imagined certain points of resemblance with your own first husband; and certain others with the man Richard Woodroffe. It certainly did not occur to me, when he called, that he could claim the honour of the most distant resemblance to my son. However, I learned from him that you have jumped to the wonderful conclusion that he is actually none other than your son, whom you lost, not by death, but by sale—that you soldyour child, in fact, for what he would fetch—as a farmer body sells a pig. I do not venture to pronounce any judgment upon you for this act; the temptation was doubtless great, and your subsequent distress was perhaps greater than if you had lost the child by act of God. I write to you only concerning the strange delusion."Apart from the imaginary resemblance on which this delusion is founded, your adviser, this Mr. Richard Woodroffe, has discovered, he tells me, this entry, to which I have already referred, in the register of deaths at Birmingham. It states, he says, that on a certain day there died in that place one Humphrey, son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. On that day, as I find by reference to my diary, and to certain letters which have been preserved, I was staying with my father, Lord Dunedin, at his country seat in Scotland. My child, then an infant, who was born at Poonah, in India, was with me. A few days later I travelled south, to London, in order to meet Sir Humphrey, who was returning from India. And, of course, the boy came with me."It is not my business to inquire, or to explain, why this entry was made in the register, or why it was thought by any one desirable that a dead child should be entered under a false name. That the child could have been Sir Humphrey's was unlikely, first because he had been in India for ten years before his return, and next, because he was a man of perfectly blameless life."Observe, if you please, that these facts can all be proved. My father still lives; the dates can be easilyestablished. Even as regards resemblance, it can be shown that the child was, and is, strikingly like his father—of the same height, the same hair, the same eyes."When a delusion of this kind seizes the brain, it is likely to remain there, and to become stronger and deeper, and more difficult to remove, as the years go on. I have therefore thought it best to invite you to meet me. We can then talk over the matter quietly, and I shall perhaps be able to make you understand the baseless nature of this belief. I need hardly say that I should feel it necessary, in case of your persisting in this claim—that is, if you propose advancing such a claim seriously—to defend my honour with the utmost vigour, and in every court of law that exists. You cannot, of course, be ignorant of the fact that more than the loss of my child is concerned; there is the loss of my good name, because you would have the world to believe that a woman, born of most honourable and God-fearing parents; married to a man of the highest reputation, herself of good reputation, should stoop so low—one can hardly write it—as to buy a baby of a woman she had never seen, of a poor woman, of a woman of whom she knew nothing except that she was the deserted wife of a strolling actor; and to pass this child off upon her husband and the world as her own."I say no more by letter. Perhaps I have spoken uselessly; in that case, words must give place to acts. However, I will confer with you, if you wish, personally. Come here to-morrow afternoon about five; we will try to discuss the subject calmly, and withoutthe prejudice of foregone conclusions. In offering you this opportunity I consider your own happiness only. For my own part, it matters very little what any one chooses to believe as to my son. There is always within my reach the law, if injurious charges or statements are made against my character. Or there is the law for your use, if you wish to recover what you think is your own."I remain, dear madam, very faithfully yours,"Lilias Woodroffe."
"Dear Madam,
"I have had an interview with a certain Mr. Richard Woodroffe, who calls himself a distant cousin of my son. He brought me a strange story of a strange delusion, which he seemed to consider supported by a certain discovery of an entry in a register of births and deaths. I cannot believe his allegation without further evidence, because it is so extremely improbable—on the face of it, one would say impossible—and I cannot understand it, even if it rests on the strongest evidence. I have, however, forwarded the case to my solicitors, who will probably communicate with Mr. Woodroffe. With him personally I do not desire any further speech. The circumstances of the case, as first placed before me, naturally awaken a woman's sympathies. A mother bereaved of her son is, at all times, an object of pity, even when her bereavement is not due to the common cause, but to her own conduct; and that conduct not such as can be readily excused.
"The story which this person brought me is to the effect that you have seen my son at a theatre; that you afterwards met him at the house of Sir Robert Steele; that you observed or imagined certain points of resemblance with your own first husband; and certain others with the man Richard Woodroffe. It certainly did not occur to me, when he called, that he could claim the honour of the most distant resemblance to my son. However, I learned from him that you have jumped to the wonderful conclusion that he is actually none other than your son, whom you lost, not by death, but by sale—that you soldyour child, in fact, for what he would fetch—as a farmer body sells a pig. I do not venture to pronounce any judgment upon you for this act; the temptation was doubtless great, and your subsequent distress was perhaps greater than if you had lost the child by act of God. I write to you only concerning the strange delusion.
"Apart from the imaginary resemblance on which this delusion is founded, your adviser, this Mr. Richard Woodroffe, has discovered, he tells me, this entry, to which I have already referred, in the register of deaths at Birmingham. It states, he says, that on a certain day there died in that place one Humphrey, son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. On that day, as I find by reference to my diary, and to certain letters which have been preserved, I was staying with my father, Lord Dunedin, at his country seat in Scotland. My child, then an infant, who was born at Poonah, in India, was with me. A few days later I travelled south, to London, in order to meet Sir Humphrey, who was returning from India. And, of course, the boy came with me.
"It is not my business to inquire, or to explain, why this entry was made in the register, or why it was thought by any one desirable that a dead child should be entered under a false name. That the child could have been Sir Humphrey's was unlikely, first because he had been in India for ten years before his return, and next, because he was a man of perfectly blameless life.
"Observe, if you please, that these facts can all be proved. My father still lives; the dates can be easilyestablished. Even as regards resemblance, it can be shown that the child was, and is, strikingly like his father—of the same height, the same hair, the same eyes.
"When a delusion of this kind seizes the brain, it is likely to remain there, and to become stronger and deeper, and more difficult to remove, as the years go on. I have therefore thought it best to invite you to meet me. We can then talk over the matter quietly, and I shall perhaps be able to make you understand the baseless nature of this belief. I need hardly say that I should feel it necessary, in case of your persisting in this claim—that is, if you propose advancing such a claim seriously—to defend my honour with the utmost vigour, and in every court of law that exists. You cannot, of course, be ignorant of the fact that more than the loss of my child is concerned; there is the loss of my good name, because you would have the world to believe that a woman, born of most honourable and God-fearing parents; married to a man of the highest reputation, herself of good reputation, should stoop so low—one can hardly write it—as to buy a baby of a woman she had never seen, of a poor woman, of a woman of whom she knew nothing except that she was the deserted wife of a strolling actor; and to pass this child off upon her husband and the world as her own.
"I say no more by letter. Perhaps I have spoken uselessly; in that case, words must give place to acts. However, I will confer with you, if you wish, personally. Come here to-morrow afternoon about five; we will try to discuss the subject calmly, and withoutthe prejudice of foregone conclusions. In offering you this opportunity I consider your own happiness only. For my own part, it matters very little what any one chooses to believe as to my son. There is always within my reach the law, if injurious charges or statements are made against my character. Or there is the law for your use, if you wish to recover what you think is your own.
"I remain, dear madam, very faithfully yours,
"Lilias Woodroffe."
"Whatisthe meaning of this letter, Dick?" Molly repeated. "What is this entry that she talks about?"
"Molly, I thought I was coming home with a discovery that was a clincher. And I believe I've gone and muddled the thing."
"Well, but tell us."
He told them.
"But what more do we want?" asked Molly. "The child that died was hers."
"So I believe—I am sure. I remember how she took it—and her lies, and her pretences, and her rage. It wasn't the wrath of an innocent woman, Molly; it was the wrath of a woman found out and driven to bay. I am sure of it."
"Then what does she mean by this letter?"
"It's her reply. It means defiance."
"Ought we to go, then?"
"I don't know. I think that I was wrong to go. But that may make it right for Alice to go."
Alice did go. She took Molly with her because she wanted support. She went filled with doubt.The woman's letter was confident and braggart; but there was the discovery of the child's death, and there was the resemblance. She came away, as you shall see, in certainty, yet more in doubt than before.
They found themselves in a room in which not only the refinement which may be purchased of an artistic decorator is visible, but the refinement which can only be acquired by many generations of wealth and position and good breeding. Books, pictures, curtains, carpets, furniture,—all bore witness to the fact that the tenant was a gentlewoman. The Anglo-American, born and brought up in the poverty of London clerkery; accustomed to the bare surroundings of poverty in the Western States; able to command, after many years, and to enjoy, the flaunting luxury of a modern hotel; felt with a sense of sinking, that her son—if this was her son—must have been brought up with social advantages which she could never have given him. On the table lay a small bundle tied up with a towel; curiously out of place this simple bundle looked among the things beautiful and precious of this drawing-room. You know how a little matter will sometimes revive an old recollection. What had this parcel wrapped in a towel to do with that time, twenty-four years ago, when the mother, broken-hearted, laid her child in the arms of the doctor who carried it into the railway station? Yet she was reminded of that moment—that special moment—in the history of her bereavement. To be sure, the mind of the woman was easily turned to this subject. It possessed her; shecould think of nothing else, except when Molly came to talk and sing to her.
The door was opened and a lady came in. She was not dressed in nearly so costly a manner as her visitor, but her appearance impressed. She was a great lady in manner and in appearance. She was also gracious. Though a speaker on platforms, an advocate of many causes, she was still feminine and dignified.
She produced the effect which she desired without apparent effort. She carried in her hand a bundle of letters and papers. She bowed to her visitors.
"It is very good of you," she said, "to come. If you will excuse me one minute——" She sat down and touched a hand-bell. It was answered by a young lady. "These are the letters," said Lady Woodroffe. "I have indicated the replies. You can let me have them at six." Then she turned to Alice again. "You will forgive a busy woman, I am sure," she said. "I am for the moment greatly occupied with rescue work of all kinds. It is a beautiful thing to snatch even one poor woman from a life of crime."
One may observe that she received Alice as she had received Richard—with a great show of important philanthropic work. The effect produced was not quite the same, because Alice was thinking of something else, and to Molly it was only good play-acting. She was not in the least impressed by the presence or the authority. She only considered that the business was well done.
Lady Woodroffe finished. "Now," she said, smiling sweetly, "we will begin to talk."
"I have brought my cousin, Miss Pennefather," said Alice. "She knows why I am here."
"Oh yes!" Lady Woodroffe recognized Molly's presence with the inclination which asserts a higher place. "Shall we take some tea first?"
She was disappointed in the appearance of the woman who claimed her son. One expects of a woman who would sell her baby a face of brass and eyes of bronze; one expects vulgarity in a highly pronounced form—perhaps with ostrich feathers. She came in expectant of a battle with a red-faced, over-dressed female. She found a woman dressed quietly, yet in costly stuffs, a pale face, delicate features; no sign of the commoner forms of vulgarity; a woman of apparent refinement. Of course, we all know that a person may be refined yet not a gentlewoman. Many there are who take comfort in that reflection.
She rang the bell for tea and began to talk. "It is very good of you to come," she began. "Tell me, have you been long in the old country? Do you find it altered since you left it—so long ago? I believe you are not an American by birth. Have you any children? Do you soon return to the States?"
She went on without paying much attention to Mrs. Haveril's replies.
"I hear that your husband is a millionaire. We shall soon begin to think that all Americans are millionaires. It must be strange to have unlimited command of money. I am sure you will do a great deal of good with it. The sense of responsibilitywhen there is so much waiting to be done must be overwhelming. Here in this country we are all so poor—so very poor. We have our country houses, you know, which are very fine houses—some of them, and our parks and gardens. But then, you see, the houses and gardens cost so much to keep up, and our farms remain unlet. However ... here is the tea."
Then she plunged into the subject. "My dear lady," she began. "I do assure you that I feel for you. It is the most extraordinary case that I have ever heard of. I believe, if I remember right, there is an account of a woman in Béranger's Autobiography, who had made her baby a foundling, and spent the rest of her life in looking for him, and became mad in consequence. Do let me implore you not to begin looking for your boy; the case is hopeless—you will never succeed—you will only make the rest of your life miserable. It is quite impossible that you should ever find him, and if you did find him, it is utterly impossible that you should be able to prove that he is your child. You will, I assure you, heap disappointments and miseries upon your head."
Alice said nothing. Lady Woodroffe glanced at Molly. She was looking straight before her, apparently quite unmoved.
"Now let us argue the point calmly and quietly. You see a resemblance—you jump to a conclusion. Now, first, as regards the resemblance. There is a very remarkable family resemblance among many of the Woodroffes. Three cousins, at least—Miss Hilarie Woodroffe, whom you know, perhaps; my son; andthis Mr. Richard Woodroffe, who appears to be a play actor of some kind—claim kinship after five hundred years—five hundred years. They met by accident in the old church of the family—they made acquaintance—both young men curiously resemble the young lady——"
"It isn't only the face," said Alice; "it's the voice, and the eyes, and the manner. My husband had most beautiful manners when he chose."
"On the stage, I believe, they learn to assume some kind of manners, supposed to be those of society, when they choose. My son, however, always chooses to have beautiful manners. But we must, I am sure you will admit, take into account differences as well as resemblances. For instance, I gather from the whole history that your husband was, in some respects, especially those which most touch a wife's sense of wrong—a—what we call a wretch—a disgraceful person."
"He was. He deserted me. He divorced me. He married an American actress. He deserted her. Richard Woodroffe is his second son."
"My son is quite the reverse. He is a young man of the highest principle and of perfectly blameless character."
Molly smiled, looking straight before her.
"Again, your husband, I believe, was a low comedian—a singer, a dancer, a buffoon—anything."
"He was a general utility actor. Sometimes he had a variety entertainment."
"Humphrey, my son, has no talent for acting at all; like his father, he would conceive it beneath thedignity of a gentleman to make merriment for his friends."
Alice sighed. Molly sat looking straight before her, either unmoved or unconcerned.
"Another point. Was your husband a bookish man?"
"No; he was not. He never opened a book."
"My son is essentially studious, especially in the history of Art."
Molly smiled again, but said nothing. To call Humphrey studious was, perhaps, stretching the truth; but there certainly were the rows of French novels.
"Now, my dear madam, I will ask you to set these points down side by side. That is to say, on one side resemblance in face, real or imaginary; on the other side dignity, good breeding—hereditary breeding, a constitutional gravity of carriage, studious habits, ambition, a total absence of the acting faculty. I ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from your husband? As we are here alone, I would ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from you?"
She paused for a reply. There was none. Alice looked at Molly and sighed. Molly smiled and looked straight before her.
"I do not say these things offensively," Lady Woodroffe continued, in soft and persuasive accents. "My sole desire is to send you away convinced that my son cannot possibly—cannot under any possibility—under any imaginable possibility—be your son. To return to the points of difference. I will ask you onemore question. Was your husband a man of unselfish habits and even temper?"
"He was not."
Lady Woodroffe smiled. "I am sorry to hear it, for your sake. My son, on the other hand, is absolutely unselfish, and always sweet-tempered."
She looked sharply at the girl. Why did she smile? What did she mean? What did she know about Humphrey? However, Lady Woodroffe went on, still bland and gracious—
"Do not delude yourself any longer, madam. For the sake of your own peace and quiet, put it away from you. Oh, this dreadful delusion will possess you more and more! You will yearn more and more for the possession of the son you have lost. Your mind will become so filled with this delusion that you will be able to think about nothing else. It will drive you to some desperate act; it will poison your daily life; it will turn your wealth into a heavy burden. I implore you, for the sake of those you love, to abandon this baseless belief."
"Oh! If you only knew! If you only knew!"
The tears rose to the eyes of the woman who sought her son.
"After all these years, I thought I had found him again. I recognized him at the theatre and at the doctor's dinner."
"My poor dear lady"—again Lady Woodroffe took her hands and soothed her—"it was indeed strange that you should find such a resemblance. As I told you, see how impossible it is to find anything out. Nevertheless, if I can be of any help to you, Iwill willingly do all I can. Only, my advice is that you let bygones sleep, and remain contented with the wonderful gifts that Heaven has poured into your lap. To desire more is surely a sin."
"I would give them all to the first beggar in the street, if I could only get back the boy."
"We will suppose"—Lady Woodroffe got up and stood before the fireplace, looking down upon her visitor, who was now trembling and tearful—"we will suppose, I say, that you take some steps. I hardly know what steps you can take. Would you go to a lawyer? Perhaps. Would you go to my son? Perhaps. In either case the evidence will be examined. On your side a fancied resemblance. Why"—she pointed to a portrait on the wall—"that is my husband at the age of thirty. Whose eyes, whose face, whose hair, do you see in that portrait? Is it, or is it not, like my son?" There really was a strong resemblance. Lady Woodroffe, however, did not explain that she had copied it herself from an early portrait, perhaps with additions and slight alterations. "This portrait alone will meet the case. Besides—a chance resemblance—again—what is it?"
Alice shook her head sadly. She was shaken in her faith.
"Next, you find an entry in a register. Who made that entry? You do not know. Why? You cannot tell."
"Yet Mr. Woodroffe says——"
"Never mind Mr. Woodroffe. Listen to what I say. You then come forward yourself, and you tellthe very disgraceful story of how you sold your own child—your own boy. Oh, a terrible—a shameful story!"
"Who was the child that died?" Molly put a word for the first time.
"Who was that child? I cannot tell you. Some one, for purposes unknown, chose to represent a dead child as my husband's child. I say that I do not choose to offer any explanation of this personation. I will tell you, however, how Mr. Woodroffe explains it, which you know already."
She waited for a reply. There was none.
"He supposes that the child was my child; and he supposes, next, that the person who bought your child was myself. That is what he calls certainty."
"Who was the child, then?" Molly repeated.
"Even supposing that my own child died at Birmingham, which is absolutely false—how will you connect the dead child's mother with the transaction which followed?"
"I don't know." Alice looked to Molly for support, and found none. Molly sat with cold, impassive face.
"When you have made it quite clear that you sold your child, you have then to fix your crime upon me as well. How will you do it? For I have letters showing where I was. The dates prove that I could not be in Birmingham at the time; they prove also that I was at my father's house in Scotland with my boy. Now, what have you got to say?"
"I want my son."
"Find your son," she replied, with a touch oftemper. "He will be proud indeed of his mother when you do find him!"
Alice shuddered.
"I can do nothing to get that delusion out of your mind, then?"
"I want my son."
The woman's face was obstinate. She had left off crying and shaking; her eyes were fierce, her pale face was set; she meant fighting. The interview had been a failure.
"Who was the child that died?" Molly's question made all clear and plain again.
In moments of great and serious importance we think of little things. Lady Woodroffe saw, in this set and serious face, in the lines of her mouth, in the determination of the eyes, something that reminded her of Humphrey. She should have asked the woman what other qualities, apart from those she had enumerated, he might have inherited from her.
She was now certain that the interview was a failure. No persuasion, no soft words, could prevail against the certainty in this woman's mind.
"I want my son," she repeated.
Lady Woodroffe turned to Molly. "You have heard everything," she said. "What is your opinion, Miss——? I did not catch your name."
"We must find out who that child was—the dead child," Molly replied, with tenacity.
"Then we will talk no more." She smiled again, but showed her teeth. She then did the boldest thing in her power, a thing which deliberately confessed the truth and bade them defiance. Like everybold stroke, it was a stroke of genius. Yet, like every stroke of genius, perhaps it was a mistake. For she had brought down the very clothes in which the child had come to her. And now she showed them to the mother, and claimed them for her own. "I am only going to delay you one minute, Mrs. Haveril. It is a foolish thing, perhaps; but it is an appeal to sentiment. I suppose that there is nothing a woman treasures more than her son's baby-clothes. I am going to show you a bundle of things that I made with my own hands, for my baby—mine—woman—do you hear?"—with the real ring of temper—"mine!
"These things"—she untied the towel slowly—"are my son's clothes when he was about twelve months of age. They are made of quite common materials, after the old Scotch fashion. The very things I made myself—with my own hands—for the child." She laid back the corners of the towel. She took up the things one by one. "His frock—he had gone into short frocks—his flannel, his shirt, his socks, his shoes, his cap." She held them up, and she looked at her visitor with mockery in her eyes and defiance in her words. "My things—that I made. You would like to have the baby-clothes of your own son—whom you sold—would you not?"
Alice started and sprang to her feet, gazing upon the baby-clothes.
"You see," Lady Woodroffe went on coldly and calmly, as if every word was not a lie, "the work is not very fine. There is his name in marking-ink. I did this embroidery. I made everything except hissocks and his shoes. There is his rattle." It was a cheap common thing. "Here is his little cap. You have made such things, Mrs. Haveril, I dare say, for your child—the child you sold. I thought I would show them to you, to prove better than any words of mine, that my child is my own."
"Oh!" It was the scream of a tigress. "Oh, mine—mine—mine!" Mrs. Haveril threw herself literally over the clothes. She clutched and dragged them, and with quick fingers huddled them into the towel again and tied the corners. "Mine!" she repeated, standing up again, her hand on the bundle. "Mine!" Her voice was like a roar of rage, sunk down deep and low and rough—not like her customary voice, which was gentle and sweet. "Mine!" She held the bundle to her heart.
Molly rose at this point and laid her hand on her cousin's shoulder.
"Keep quiet, dear—keep quiet! Let us leave this house." She turned to Lady Woodroffe. "It is a house of lies."
Lady Woodroffe looked at her as if she were not present, and had not spoken.
"The delusion is stronger than I thought," she said, affecting surprise and wonder.
Alice recovered and stood up, still holding the things to her heart.
"Oh," she cried, panting and gasping, "you are a bad woman! a false woman!"
"For Heaven's sake," said Molly, "keep quiet! You have said enough. Think of yourself."
"I had better ring the bell, I think." LadyWoodroffe laid her finger on the knob, but refrained to press it.
"Oh! What can I say?"
"Say nothing, dear," said Molly.
"Will you give me back those things?" Lady Woodroffe moved as if she would take them. "No? Then keep them. After all I have—my son—mine—my son. That is the main thing."
"I made these things—every one—I made them. See, Molly—here is the very paper I wrote. I pinned it to his little frock." She kissed the frock. "'His name is Humphrey.' I wrote it. His father said there was always a Humphrey in the family. I wrote that paper—now!"
Lady Woodroffe smiled sadly. "Poor creature! But perhaps you had better go at once."
"Where is my son?"
"I have done my best to relieve you of a most remarkable delusion. You reward me by robbing me of my child's things. I cannot fight you for them, and I do not like to make my servants take them by force. Keep them."
She rang the bell.
"They are my things."
Lady Woodroffe continued to follow her movements with eyes of compassion.
"It is indeed wonderful!" she murmured. "All this great fortune! And this most miserable delusion to spoil it!"
Alice moved towards the door. She was trembling. She leaned upon Molly. She clung to the bundle. She turned.
"You have given my son back to me. I want no further proof."
Molly bore her down the stairs, as she retired, with some loss of dignity, her face tearful, her cheek flushed, but clutching the bundle.
"Now she knows the whole," said Lady Woodroffe. "And I defy her to move a step. She may look at the boy from afar off." She rang her hand-bell, and called her secretary, and resumed her struggle against sin.