"You can be respectable in any situation. I am quite as proud of you in your present situation as if you were what you want to be—a lodging-house keeper at Margate." He turned to her daughter. "My dear," he said kindly, "you are a little fool."
"Why? Oh, why?"—and her heart sank.
"Because you want to give up the best work that a woman can do, where there's pay enough, and holidays, and respect——"
The girl shook her head. "You don't know," she moaned, "the work and the drudgery."
"And to change it for the worst work in the world. My dear, you should be proud of being what you are. If you were in the States, you would feel proud of your work. What? Give up that work for a miserable little shop, where you must cheat to make both ends meet? Don't be silly. Go back and thank God, my dear, that He has put you where you can do some good."
She sat down and pulled out her pocket-handkerchief. Her mother stood beside her, her lips moving, her cheek flaming.
"Shall I give you back your letter?" John Haveril asked.
She took it, tore it up, threw the fragments on the floor, seized her mother by the arm, and dragged her out; whether in repentance or in anger the bystanders could not know.
They were all gone now, except the bankrupt.
"You've got my letter, too," he said. "What are you going to do for me?"
"The kindest thing would be to drop you in the river. Alice has left it to me. Well, you are a hopeless creature. Whatever is done for you will be money thrown away. I did think of asking your cousin, the draper, to give you a place in his shop. You might sweep it out and water the floor, and carry out the parcels—or you might walk up and down outside in uniform, and a gold band to your cap."
"Mr. Haveril—sir—I am a gentleman. Don't insult a fallen gentleman, sir; I've employed my own shop-assistants."
"But I fear he would do nothing for you."
"I came here—one day three weeks ago—you were away—I knew that. I gave Alice some secret information just for her own ear, not the kind of thing she would tell you."
"Get on, man!"
"I told her—you don't know, of course; I told her you ought to know—you suppose he's dead."
"Man! man!" said John.
"Alice's first husband—Anthony Woodroffe. You think he's dead. I told her where he was."
"Where?" Dick sat up, suddenly. "Anthony Woodroffe?"
"Why should I ask whether he's dead or alive?"
"That's what Alice said. As for me, I told her I was astonished. 'Alice,' I said, 'I did think you were respectable.'"
"What does this man mean?" asked Dick. "Anthony Woodroffe?"
"Well, boy," said John, "this chap brought us the news where he was. We thought, on the whole, there was no need to tell you—so we didn't tell you. I've been to see him. He's pretty comfortable."
"He is pretty comfortable," said Anthony's late companion between the boards. "If Abraham's bosom is better than the cold kerb, and softer than the doss-house, he is quite comfortable—for he died this morning."
"Where did he die?" asked Dick.
"In the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary." The man got up and shuffled away. As he went out of the room, he held out his hand, and there was the chink of coin.
"My father dead!"
"Ay, lad, he's dead. What better for you and everybody? I've seen him, on and off, most days. He was a hardened sinner, if ever there was one."
"Dead! I have been taught to regard him with a kind of loathing; but—we can only have one father. Dead! In a workhouse infirmary!"
"He has left two sons. You are not the only one."
"Two sons. Yes"—concerning his half-brother Dick could not choose but speak vindictively—"the other will hear to-morrow who his father was. He shall hear also that his father is dead. He and I will be the mourners at the pauper's funeral."
"That man again!" Lady Woodroffe threw the card into the fire. "Tell him I will not see him. No. Let him come up."
It was Richard Woodroffe, proposing to make his last attempt. Before doing so, he had run down to Birmingham and seen the newly-found witness. He was a most trustworthy person; he picked out the photograph of Lady Woodroffe from a bundle of photographs; he remembered the case and the lady perfectly well. There was, therefore, no doubt possible that she had been in Birmingham at that time, and that she had lost her own son.
"Sir"—she sat up in her chair with angry eyes—"this is persecution! I have already given a patient hearing to your most impudent story."
"You have, Lady Woodroffe." Neither her angry looks nor her presence disconcerted him now. He was so perfectly certain of his cause, and of her shameless falsehood, that he stood before her at ease, and even with some appearance of dignity.
"I even took the trouble to invite your friend, the person for whom you profess to act, the woman with the delusion——"
"You did." He did not wait to be invited. He took a chair and sat down in it.
"In order to convince her of her absurdity."
"In which you failed. Because, after all your talk, there remained the solid fact—the death of Sir Humphrey's son."
"Sir Humphrey had one son only, who is still living. I was wrong in thinking that a plain statement of facts could move the poor mad woman. She brought with her a young person, who encouraged her to insult me. They even attempted to assault me, I believe. After the grossest abuse, they carried off a bundle of baby-linen, and things that I had treasured, for reasons which I fear you are incapable of understanding."
"No, Lady Woodroffe, on the contrary, I understand them very well. You brought them out on this occasion with the intention of showing this poor lady what I must venture to call your defiance."
"My defiance? Certainly; I accept the word. My defiance. You appear to be almost as polite as your friends, Mr. Woodroffe."
"You could not have chosen a more effective manner of announcing your intentions. 'There!' you said, 'these clothes which you made with your own fingers show that it is your boy; yet you shall not have him, and I defy you to prove that he is yours.'"
"You are correct on one point. I do defy you to prove that fact."
"Very well; I am here to-day to tell you that I have advanced one more step, and a very important step it is."
"Important or not, I defy you to prove the fact. This is not, however, exactly an acknowledgment. But I shall not argue with you; I believe I ought to hand you over at once to my lawyers, to be dealt with for conspiracy."
Richard Woodroffe smiled. "I wish you would," he said. "I should like nothing better than the publicity of an action."
"Oh," she groaned, "the pertinacity of the black-mailer!"
"I shall not be insulted, whatever you say. I am here to tell you that the proofs have now closed round you so completely, that there is not left, I verily believe, a single loophole of escape."
Lady Woodroffe rose with dignity. "You talk to me, sir—tome?—of escape and loophole. Go, sir—go to my solicitors."
"Certainly." Richard continued, however, to occupy his chair. "I will go to your solicitors whenever you please. I would rather go to them than come here. But for the sake of others, I would prefer that you should acknowledge the fact, and let the son go back to his mother. He is my own half-brother, but it is not fraternal affection that prompts me in this research, I assure you. If you refuse to hear me, I shall have to go to your solicitors through Mrs. Haveril's solicitors."
"Oh, go on, then!"
She sat down again, and crossed her hands in her lap, assuming something of the expression of a person bored to death by a very bad sermon.
"I have certain evidence in my hands, then"—hecould not avoid a smile of satisfaction—"which connects you with the dead child—your child."
Lady Woodroffe caught her breath and started, as if in sudden pain.
"Go on, sir."
"I will tell you what it is. You arrived one evening at the Great Midland Hotel, Birmingham, with an Indian ayah and a child. You engaged three rooms—a sitting-room and two bedrooms; you explained that the child had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill in the train; you sent out for a medical man; he came; he kept the maids running about with hot water, and the boys going out for remedies and prescriptions; he stayed with you all night, watching the case; in the morning your child was dead; three days afterwards you buried him. There is no monument over the child's grave, because you made an arrangement with the help of Dr. Robert Steele, and substituted another child for him, and you went away two or three days after the funeral, and disappeared. The rooms were taken in your name; the books of the hotel prove so much."
"Oh! This man is tedious—tedious—with his repetitions."
"I have been down to Birmingham again. I have now found an old waiter who remembers the circumstance perfectly well—Indian ayah and sick baby and funeral. He says he remembers you, but that I doubt. I have also found the medical man who was called in. He not only remembers the case, which he entered at the time in his note-book, but he also remembers you——"
"After four and twenty years——!"
"—and picked you out of a bundle of photographs. I think you will admit that this is an important step?"
She made no reply. Her face was drawn and twisted with the pain of listening.
"What is wanted now," Richard added, "is the connection of yourself and the child. If we fail there——"
"You will fail."
"We shall ask Sir Robert."
"You will fail."
"Then we shall give publicity to the case—I don't quite know how. All the world shall understand. You will have to explain——"
"All the world? It is the High Court of Justice that you must address. I shall look to the judge to protect me. Remember it is in my power to prove that I was in Scotland at that very time."
"On that very day when the child died?"
"On that very day," she replied, firmly and without hesitation.
"Lady Woodroffe, I cannot believe what you say."
"You can prove what you like," she repeated, "but you cannot prove that I bought the child."
"To speak plainly, I don't believe one word about your proving analibi, Lady Woodroffe, any more than I believe that remarkably bold falsehood about the child's clothes. We shall prove the death of the child beyond a doubt. You can then, if you please, find out something that will amuse the world about Humphrey. As for the publicity——"
"Since you will only prove that a woman took my name, I care nothing. My reputation is not likely to be injured by such a story. Who will believe against my word—that I—Lady Woodroffe—a leader, sir, in a world of which you and your like know nothing—the world which advances humanity—the world of religion and of charity—the world which combats vice unceasingly—should condescend to a crime so ignoble and so purposeless?"
"I am not concerned with your credibilities, Lady Woodroffe. I learn that you made a large use of them with Mrs. Haveril, and only desisted when they proved a failure. Then you took to defiance."
"The publicity will fall upon the fashionable physician, the great man of science, the head of his profession, who will have to acknowledge that he found a child and bought it for a certain unknown person—a noble way for a young physician to earn a fee! The publicity will also fall upon the now notorious lady who has got up in the world since she sold her only child for fifty pounds, to keep it and herself out of the workhouse. No injurious publicity will fall upon me, other than the discovery of some woman who once took my name."
"You are identified by your photograph. You forget that."
"Can I? After four and twenty years? Can any woman of my age—forty-nine—be identified, by a stranger, with another woman of twenty-five or thereabouts? Now, Mr. Richard Woodroffe, what else have you got to say?"
"I have only this to say. I came here to-day, LadyWoodroffe, in the hope that what I have told you would show you the danger of your position. For the sake of this lady, who is worn almost to death by the anxiety of her situation, I hoped that you would confess."
"Confess! I to confess! You speak as if I were a common criminal."
"No," said Richard, "not common by any means."
Lady Woodroffe left her chair and stepped over to the fireplace. She looked older, and the authority went out of her very strangely. She laid her hand on the shelf, as if for support, and she spoke slowly—with no show of anger—slowly, and with sadness.
"I think, sir, I do think, that if you could consider the meaning of this charge to a person in my position, the suffering you inflict upon me, the mischief you may do to me, and I know not how many more, by persisting in this charge, you would abandon it."
"I cannot; I am acting for another."
"You are playing a game to win. I don't accuse you of sordid motives. You want to win."
"Perhaps I do."
"Have you asked yourself the simple question, whether it is possible for me to commit such a crime, and then to confess?"
"I have to win this game, Lady Woodroffe. I think I have won it."
"It is not won yet. And believe me, sir, it will not be won unless I choose."
"We can place you in a very awkward position, anyhow."
"Mr. Richard Woodroffe, you came here to make afinal appeal to me; it is my turn to make a final appeal to you. I am a woman, as perhaps you know, of very considerable importance in the world. Such a charge as you bring against me would not only crush me, if it were proved, but it would dislocate or ruin a great many associations and institutions of which I am the very soul. Thousands of orphans, working girls, Magdalens, and sinners, would lose their best friend. I am their best friend; my tongue and my pen keep up the stream which flows in to their relief. Is it not possible for that woman to think of these things? Or, there is the boy. He is partly, I suppose, what he is by education, partly by his nature; take away from him his position as a gentleman of rank and family, send him out disgraced to make his own way in the world, and he will sink like lead. You call him your half-brother. Well, Mr. Woodroffe, he is not a young man of many virtues; in fact, he has many vices."
"That I can well believe."
"If he has seven devils now, after this disclosure he will have seventy-seven devils."
"That also I can well believe. But, of course, I do not think about him."
"Then, Mr. Woodroffe, can you not persuade that poor woman to go home, to be content with what she has seen and you have proved?"
"No, I cannot."
"Can you not remind her that she sold the child on the condition that she would never trouble about him, or seek to know where he might be living?"
"No, I cannot. She has seen her son; she knowswho he is; she wants your acknowledgment. Give her that, and, I don't know, in fact, what will happen afterwards."
Lady Woodroffe sat down and sighed heavily. "Be it so," she said. "You will go on; you will do your worst."
Richard Woodroffe regarded her with a sense of pity, and even of respect. The woman had supported her position by a succession of shameless lies; she was now virtually confessing to him that they were lies. But she had so much to lose—her great position among religious and charitable people, her reputation, the respect which her blameless life and her great abilities had won for her. All these things were threatened.
"Madam," he said, his face full of emotion, "if it were only your son to be thought of, I would retire. But there is this poor lady, who is only kept alive, I believe, by the hope and belief that her son will be restored to her. Believe me, if I may speak of pity for you——"
"Pity?" She sprang to her feet with fire and fury in her cheeks and eyes. It is, happily, the rarest thing in the world to see a woman—I mean a woman of culture—overmastered by passion. Yet it lies there; it is always possible. In the heart of the meekest maiden, the most self-governed and most highly bred woman, there lies hidden the tigress, the fish-wife, the scold, the shrew. Formerly, whenever women were gathered together, they quarrelled; whenever they quarrelled, they fought—sometimes with fists, cudgels, brooms, chairs, sometimes withtongues. Men were so horribly frightened by the scolding wife, that they ducked her, put her in a cage, carried her round in a cart. The little word "pity" was the last drop in the cup. Lady Woodroffe raged and stormed at the unfortunate Richard. For the time her mind was beyond control; afterwards, he remembered that such a fit of passion showed the tension of her mind. He made no reply. When her torrent of words and threats was exhausted, she threw herself into her chair, and buried her face in her hands.
Then Richard quietly withdrew.
Richard Woodroffe walked away with hanging head. A second time he had learned that his proofs might not be so convincing, after all. The defence set up by a woman of the highest social position, character, and personal influence, that she had never been in Birmingham in her life, that on the day of the alleged death of her child she was in Scotland, that she knew nothing of the person who was said to have assumed her name, could only be met by evidence concerning that person by an identification of that person with Lady Woodroffe by an old man, speaking of an event of four and twenty years ago, and by an alleged resemblance; as to the packet of clothes, that would certainly be no evidence at all. He himself was perfectly certain of the fact; there was no doubt left in his own mind. But would his proofs be accepted in a court of justice?
As he walked along with these heavy reflections, he was startled by a hand upon his shoulder—a thing which, in former times, caused the sufferer to swoon with terror, because it was the familiar greeting of the sheriff's officer, the man with a writ. That part of the officer's duty is now, however, gone. It was,in fact, the hand of Sir Robert Steele, who, his day's work finished, was taking the air.
"Dick," he cried, "I haven't seen you since—since—when?"
"Since the day when you made a study of heredity."
"Oh, you mean when you dined with me? Yes, Dick, my boy, I have heard things about you—the Strange Adventures of a Singer."
"Of course you have. Lady Woodroffe has told you."
"How you are fishing in troubled waters, and catching nothing. Yes, I have seen Mrs. Haveril—a most interesting woman; but she ought to go home and keep quiet. Keep her quiet, Dick. Put down your fishing-rod, and make that good lady sit down, and keep that good lady quiet."
"I will as soon as I have restored her son to her. We have found him, you know."
"You tell me so. You think it is Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, is it not?"
"We are perfectly certain it is. Lady Woodroffe has told you, I dare say, what we have done."
"Something—something. You are working, no doubt, in the interests of the second baronet?"
"Yes, oh yes." Dick grinned. "He is my half-brother, you know. I am anxious to restore him to his real rank, which is mine. He shall become what he is pleased to describe me—an outsider and a cad."
"Two Cains and no Abel. A slaughterous pair. Well, have you proved your case yet?"
"To our own satisfaction, perfectly. To the complete satisfaction of the world as soon as the story is told. For lawyers—well—there is one point lacking."
"That one point! That one point! Always that one point! It is like connecting your family with illustrious ancestry—always the one point wanting. I need not ask what that point is."
"No, because you are the person who can supply the link."
"Is that so?" asked the doctor, dryly. "Then, while you are waiting for that link, my dear Richard, I advise you to tie up your papers and go back to legitimate business." He stopped, because they were arrived at his own door. "Come in," he said. "Now then, my dear boy, sit down and let us have it out. First of all, however, understand that you cannot establish that link. You say that I am the only person who can supply it. Well, if that is so, remember that I shall not."
"You mean, will not."
"Just as you like. The distinction betweenwillandshallis sometimes too subtle for the rules of syntax."
"But, my dear Sir Robert, just consider what a lot I can prove. Lady Woodroffe goes to a hotel in Birmingham. She drives in hurriedly; her child is ill. She sends for a medical man. She takes two bedrooms and a sitting-room. She has an ayah. The medical man stays with her the whole night. In the morning the child dies——"
"How do you know all these things?"
"By the note-book of the man who was called in,by the books of the hotel, by the evidence of the medical man himself, by the evidence of a waiter who remembers the case, by the register of deaths."
"All this looks strong, I admit."
"So that we can actually prove the death of Sir Humphrey's only son. And we can call upon Lady Woodroffe to inform us who is the man calling himself Sir Humphrey's only son."
"You prove that a woman calling herself Lady Woodroffe did all these things."
"And we can produce a witness who will swear to her identity."
"After all these years I doubt if you could—if that evidence would be received. I admit that you have a case. As it is, you could make acause célèbre. You are able to make things horribly uncomfortable for Lady Woodroffe; and you are able to inspire the young man, her son, with a lively animosity against yourself."
"I don't mind that in the least. I shall go and see him. I shall say, 'You are my half-brother. You are first cousin to a collection of common folk, whose commonness will rejoice your heart. I will introduce you to them. You shall take tea with them—the tea of shrimps, periwinkles, and watercress, that you have yet to learn—and to love.' I shall exhaust myself in congratulations."
"With the domestic affections I never interfere. Here, however, is a difficulty. You say 'we' will do this and that. Who is 'we'? You yourself? Suppose you spring all this upon the world? And suppose nobody takes any notice?"
"I may advertise the whole history, and offer a reward for the discovery of the identification of the woman."
"But nobody can identify Lady Woodroffe."
"My old doctor——"
"Your old doctor would break down. Lady Woodroffe has only to deny absolutely that she is the woman. Counsel can always suggest—man in India—another woman—assumption of name—real wife with her father, Lord Dunedin—letters to prove it—old nobleman swears it. Venerable old nobleman—ever seen him?—rather like Abraham."
"Well, we shall find some way of forcing the history upon the public. And a certain event has just happened which may give me an opportunity."
"What is that?"
"My father is dead. He died yesterday. He was also Humphrey's father."
"Oh, I am sorry."
"No one need express any sorrow on that account. As he left my mother when I was a baby, I have never seen him. I did not know that he was in England. It appears that he has been a sandwich-man for some time. And he died in a pauper infirmary. As for myself, I feel neither shame nor grief; he was to me, as to you, a stranger. But perhaps I can use the event in order to give publicity to our story, if we must court publicity."
"Well, let us hope—— But go on."
"As for Lady Woodroffe, she has actually confessed the thing."
He then proceeded to tell the story of the child's clothes.
The doctor became thoughtful. The audacity of showing and claiming the clothes astonished him.
"It isn't evidence, Dick," he said.
"No; but it's complete proof to the true mother."
"Perhaps—to her."
Sir Robert, in fact, admitted everything. But at this stage a mere admission of the kind meant nothing.
"It was a strange thing to do," said the doctor. "There is the audacity of despair about it. She had quite forgotten the fact that the register of deaths contained the name of the boy. If it had been a common name, it would have mattered little. She did not tell me that the child died in Birmingham. That doctor—what is his name? Ah! I don't know him. Does he know the meaning and bearing of his evidence?"
"I believe not. He will not talk, however. He has undertaken to preserve absolute silence until he is called upon to speak."
"Keep the power of disclosure in your own hands, Dick. Above all things, do that. Why did she produce the child's clothes? Woman's wit is hard to follow. 'My word against all the world,' she meant, I believe. As if she must be believed on her bare assertion, against all the facts that could be brought against her. It was her pride. Like all female leaders, she is incredibly proud. She means to stand up and deny. On the other hand, the situation is harassing; there are points in the case which make it almost impossible——"
"The goings-on of my ill-conditioned brother, I suppose?"
"Perhaps—perhaps. I wish she had told me when and how the child died."
They dined together. Over an excellent bottle of Chateau Mouton they exchanged further confidences.
"My dear Dick," said the doctor, "it's a serious situation. You propose to cover a woman of the highest reputation with infamy. She says, in effect, 'You are quite right. I am that infamous person. But prove it.' You want to restore to another most amiable and honourable woman her son, and he would break her heart in a year. You want me to identify the lady, and thereby to confess my share in a transaction which might be made to look like complicity in a fraud and a conspiracy. I told her at the time that it looked like substitution, though she called it adoption. Well, I can imitate the lady's frankness; that is to say, I do not in so many words confess the truth, but I show it; I allow you to conclude that the thing is true. And, like the lady, I defy you. You will find out nothing more. And if you were to put me in the box—if you were to make me tell the truth about that infernal babe—never, never would I confess to knowing the name of the lady. And without that evidence you can never prove your case."
As a rule, the doctor was the last man in the world either to dream or to trouble himself with dreams; nevertheless, there fell upon him an incubus of the night which was so persistent, that, though hewaked a dozen times and shook off the thing, a dozen times it came again. And so vivid was it that he saw it still when he awoke in the morning, and heard it, and remembered it, and felt it.
For in this dream he saw himself giving evidence in a court of law as to his own share in the substitution of another child for the dead child.
And in the dream he saw himself losing reputation, character, practice, everything. As the evidence was reluctantly given, he saw the face of the judge growing more and more severe, the faces of the jury harder, the faces in the court more hostile. He read in all his own condemnation.
This is what he had to say.
"In the years 1873-1876 I was carrying on a general practice in a quarter of Birmingham. I was, in fact, a sixpenny doctor, charging that sum for advice and medicine, and having a fairly good reputation among the poorer class of that quarter. On a certain afternoon in February, 1874"—here the witness referred to his books—"a lady entered the surgery. She was deeply veiled, and in much trouble. She told me that she wanted to adopt a child in the place of her own, whom she had just lost by death. She asked me, further, if I knew of any poor woman who would give up her child. It was to be about fifteen months old. She gave the date of her dead child's birth as December the 2nd, 1872. And it must have light hair and blue eyes."Among my patients was a woman left penniless by her husband, who had deserted her. She wanted, above all things, money to go in search of him. Ashe was an actor in a small way, she thought it would be easy to find him if she had money to travel with. The woman was mad with grief. She was ready to give up the child in return for the money she wanted. At the time, she would have given up her own soul for the money. The child was somewhere about the required age—a month more or less mattered little; it had blue eyes and light hair. I made the arrangement with her. I took the child, also by arrangement, to the Great Western Railway Station, and gave it to an Indian ayah, who carried it into a first-class carriage, where the lady sat. Then the train went off, and I saw nothing more of the lady or the child for twenty-four years."I did not know, nor did I ask, the lady's name or address; only on a half-torn envelope, in which she had placed the notes—ten five-pound notes—for the mother of the child, was the word, 'Lady W——,' as part of an address."I did not know, nor did I ask, the lady's intentions. She said she wanted to adopt a child. I arranged this for her. I took the mother the sum of fifty pounds, and I charged the lady a fee of three guineas. The only question we discussed was that of heredity, and especially the danger of the child inheriting criminal tendencies."Four and twenty years later I received a visit—being then a physician practising in London—from the mother of the child, who had remembered my name. She was anxious to learn, if possible, what had become of her son. She had become rich, and would willingly claim the child."Upon her departure I began to think over the case, which I had almost forgotten. I remembered, first, the half-torn envelope. And then, looking at my note-book, I remembered the date of the dead child's birth—December 2, 1872. I took down a Peerage, and looked through the pages. Presently I discovered what I wanted, under the name of Woodroffe. The present baronet, the second, is there described as born on December 2, 1872. Now, the son of the first baronet, the late Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, who died early in 1874, was born on that day. It was so extremely unlikely that two women enjoying the title of 'Lady W.' should have a son born on the same day, that I naturally concluded the second baronet and the adopted child were one and the same person. So convinced was I of this fact that I ventured to call upon Lady Woodroffe, and satisfied myself that it was so."As, however, I had ascertained the truth in this unexpected manner, I assured Lady Woodroffe that the secret should remain with me until she herself should give me permission to reveal it."Meantime, one of Mrs. Haveril's friends began to make inquiries into the case. He ascertained that the son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe died, a child of fifteen months old, at Birmingham, early in 1874. He further learned that the so-called son, in person, figure, and face, closely resembled the father of the adopted child; and he learned also that the medical man who attended the dead child knew its name, and could absolutely identify the mother as the present Lady Woodroffe. In fact, the case was sofar capable of proof that no reasonable person could entertain the slightest doubt on the subject."It was certainly open to Lady Woodroffe to perjure herself by denying that she had ever been in Birmingham. This she was going to do. I took no steps to dissuade her; nor did I take any steps to put an end to the fraudulent representation of this young man as Sir Humphrey's son; in fact, I became a party to the conspiracy."
"In the years 1873-1876 I was carrying on a general practice in a quarter of Birmingham. I was, in fact, a sixpenny doctor, charging that sum for advice and medicine, and having a fairly good reputation among the poorer class of that quarter. On a certain afternoon in February, 1874"—here the witness referred to his books—"a lady entered the surgery. She was deeply veiled, and in much trouble. She told me that she wanted to adopt a child in the place of her own, whom she had just lost by death. She asked me, further, if I knew of any poor woman who would give up her child. It was to be about fifteen months old. She gave the date of her dead child's birth as December the 2nd, 1872. And it must have light hair and blue eyes.
"Among my patients was a woman left penniless by her husband, who had deserted her. She wanted, above all things, money to go in search of him. Ashe was an actor in a small way, she thought it would be easy to find him if she had money to travel with. The woman was mad with grief. She was ready to give up the child in return for the money she wanted. At the time, she would have given up her own soul for the money. The child was somewhere about the required age—a month more or less mattered little; it had blue eyes and light hair. I made the arrangement with her. I took the child, also by arrangement, to the Great Western Railway Station, and gave it to an Indian ayah, who carried it into a first-class carriage, where the lady sat. Then the train went off, and I saw nothing more of the lady or the child for twenty-four years.
"I did not know, nor did I ask, the lady's name or address; only on a half-torn envelope, in which she had placed the notes—ten five-pound notes—for the mother of the child, was the word, 'Lady W——,' as part of an address.
"I did not know, nor did I ask, the lady's intentions. She said she wanted to adopt a child. I arranged this for her. I took the mother the sum of fifty pounds, and I charged the lady a fee of three guineas. The only question we discussed was that of heredity, and especially the danger of the child inheriting criminal tendencies.
"Four and twenty years later I received a visit—being then a physician practising in London—from the mother of the child, who had remembered my name. She was anxious to learn, if possible, what had become of her son. She had become rich, and would willingly claim the child.
"Upon her departure I began to think over the case, which I had almost forgotten. I remembered, first, the half-torn envelope. And then, looking at my note-book, I remembered the date of the dead child's birth—December 2, 1872. I took down a Peerage, and looked through the pages. Presently I discovered what I wanted, under the name of Woodroffe. The present baronet, the second, is there described as born on December 2, 1872. Now, the son of the first baronet, the late Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, who died early in 1874, was born on that day. It was so extremely unlikely that two women enjoying the title of 'Lady W.' should have a son born on the same day, that I naturally concluded the second baronet and the adopted child were one and the same person. So convinced was I of this fact that I ventured to call upon Lady Woodroffe, and satisfied myself that it was so.
"As, however, I had ascertained the truth in this unexpected manner, I assured Lady Woodroffe that the secret should remain with me until she herself should give me permission to reveal it.
"Meantime, one of Mrs. Haveril's friends began to make inquiries into the case. He ascertained that the son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe died, a child of fifteen months old, at Birmingham, early in 1874. He further learned that the so-called son, in person, figure, and face, closely resembled the father of the adopted child; and he learned also that the medical man who attended the dead child knew its name, and could absolutely identify the mother as the present Lady Woodroffe. In fact, the case was sofar capable of proof that no reasonable person could entertain the slightest doubt on the subject.
"It was certainly open to Lady Woodroffe to perjure herself by denying that she had ever been in Birmingham. This she was going to do. I took no steps to dissuade her; nor did I take any steps to put an end to the fraudulent representation of this young man as Sir Humphrey's son; in fact, I became a party to the conspiracy."
He looked round the court in his dream, and read his own condemnation in all the faces.
When he awoke in the morning, the scene began all over again.
"Confound the baby!" he groaned. "Am I never to get to the end of it?"
He went down to breakfast, trying to shake off the feeling of disquiet that possessed him.
Just as he sat down, Richard Woodroffe called. "I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I have just been called to the Hôtel Métropole. Mrs. Haveril has had a miserable night. Molly sat up with her. She was weeping and crying all the night. This morning she is a wreck. There is, perhaps, no time to be lost——"
"I knew something was going to happen."
"If she is to get her son back, it must be soon, or that dream of hers will not come true."
"Sit down, Dick. I've had a horrid night too. We will consider directly what is best to be done."
While he spoke there came a letter—"By hand. Sir Robert Steele. Bearer waits."
"Dear Sir Robert,"Come to see me as soon as you can. I have had the most terrible night."Yours,"L. W."
"Dear Sir Robert,
"Come to see me as soon as you can. I have had the most terrible night.
"Yours,
"L. W."
"Again! Three terrible nights for the three principal conspirators. The devil is in the business, I believe. Now, Dick, I have to call on Lady Woodroffe. Before I go to see this lady——"
"I sincerely hope she will treat you as she did me. The manners of the aristocracy never showed to such advantage in my experience."
"Before I go to see this lady——" Sir Robert repeated.
Again Richard interrupted him. "We cannot afford to wait any longer. Mrs. Haveril's condition forbids it. I have determined to write to Humphrey. I shall begin by informing him of his father's death. I shall invite him to join me in paying his father's debts. I shall then advertise the death of Anthony Woodroffe in the Marylebone Infirmary as the father of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. That will make him do something. If he likes to go to law, we will meet him; if he wishes to see me, I will tell him everything."
"Why not go to him at once without any letter?"
"Because he will thus learn, in the most dramatic way possible, the name and the social position of his real father."
"Dick, you make this a personal matter."
"Yes, I do." He became suddenly vindictive. "The scoundrel wanted Molly to marry him secretly,and live secretly with him—you understand that—while he was making love to Hilarie Woodroffe."
"It is steep, certainly steep. But perhaps he did not mean——"
"Doctor, you know the kind of men they are—this Johnnie and his friends. They have no honour, as they have no heart; they are rotten through and through—rotten and corrupt."
"Dick, there are others to be considered."
"I will make the whole story public—I will write a play on it."
"Is this revenge or justice, Dick?"
"I don't care which. Revenge is wild justice."
"When are these letters to be written?"
"To-day—this morning."
"Dick"—the doctor laid a persuasive hand upon his arm—"you don't understand what it is you are doing. Wait till this evening. Give me, say, eight—ten hours. Let me beg you to wait till this evening. If I can effect nothing in twelve hours—with the principals—the two—the three principals concerned—you shall then do as you please."
"Well, if I must—— If you really think—— Well, I will wait; but I will have no compromise. I could forgive him anything—his insolence and his contempt, but not——"
"Love has many shapes, my Richard. He may become a soldier—but a hangman, an executioner, he who brandishes the cat-o'-nine-tails—no, Dick, no—thatrôledoes not suit Love. Stay thy hand——"
Dick turned away. "Take your twelve hours."
"I am going, then, at once—to Lady Woodroffe."
There were once two women who claimed the same child. The case was referred to the king, who in that country was also lord chief justice.
"It is clear to me," said the king, after hearing the evidence on both sides, "that the case cannot be decided one way or the other; therefore bring me the child." So they laid the child before him. He called his executioner. "Take thy sword," he said, "and cut the child into two equal portions." The executioner drew his sword. Then said the king, "Give one half to each of the two women; they can then go away content." And the woman who was not the mother of the child said, "Great is the wisdom of the king. O king, live for ever!" But the other woman, with tears and sobs, threw herself over the child, saying that she could not endure that the child should be killed, and she would give it up to save its life.
Parables, like fables, belong to all time. This parable applies to the conclusion of the story.
Sir Robert found the lady in a condition closely resembling hysteria. She had sent away her secretaries; her letters lay piled on the table. She herself paced the room in an agony.
"I cannot bear it," she cried; "I cannot bear it any longer. They persecute me. Help me to kill myself."
"I shall help you to live, rather."
"I have resolved what to do. I will struggle no longer."
"Above all, do not struggle."
"You have deceived me. You told me that without your evidence they can prove nothing."
"That is quite true. Without my evidence they can prove nothing."
"They have found proof that I was in Birmingham at the time."
"Yes, yes; I know what they have found. They have found enough to establish a suspicion—a strong suspicion, difficult to dissipate—which would cling to us all."
"Cling? Cling? What would that mean—to me?"
"We must, therefore, avoid publicity, if we can. We are threatened with public exposure. That, if possible, I say, must be avoided. Are you listening? If there is still time, we must prevent scandal."
"I can no longer bear it, I say." She pressed her hand to her forehead. "It drives me mad! I thought, last night, I was mad." She threw herself on a sofa, and buried her head in her hands. "Doctor"—she started up again—"that man has been here again. He has found some one—I don't know—I forget—some one who remembers me—who recognizes me."
"So I believe—and then?"
"Day and night the thought is always with me.How can I bear the disclosure? The papers will ring with it."
"I hope there will be no disclosure. Believe me, Lady Woodroffe, no one can be more anxious than myself to avoid disclosures and scandals."
Lady Woodroffe, this calm, cold, austere person, whose spoken words moved the conscience of her audience, if not their hearts, whose printed papers carried conviction, if not enthusiasm, gave way altogether, and sobbed and cried like a young girl.
"It is all lost!" she moaned. "All that I have worked for—my position in the world, my leadership, my career—everything is lost. I shall have shame and disgrace, instead of honour and respect. Oh, I am punished—I am punished! No woman has ever been more punished."
"Perhaps," said the physician, "your punishment is finished. Four and twenty years is a long time."
"I have written out a confession of the whole business," she said wearily: "I had to. I got up in the middle of the night. My husband stood beside me. Oh, I saw him and I heard him. 'Lilias,' he said, 'what you did was in pity and in tenderness to me. I forgive you. All shall be forgiven you if you will confess.' So I sat down and wrote; and here it is." She gave him a paper, which he placed in his inner pocket. "You know what I had to say, doctor. I was young, and I was in agony: my child was dead—oh, my child was dead! No one knows—no man can tell—what it is to lose your only child. All the time I wrote, my husband stood over me, his noble face stern and serious as when he waslieutenant-governor. When I finished, he laid his hand upon my head—I felt it, doctor, I tell you I felt it—and he said, 'Lilias, it is forgiven.' And so he vanished. And now you have got my confession."
"Yes, I have it. Give me—I ask your leave—permission to speak."
"Oh, speak! Cry aloud! Go to the house-top, and call it out! Sing it in the streets! I shall become a byword and a mockery!" She walked about, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. "My friends will have no more to do with me. I have brought shame on my own people!" She panted and gasped; her words came in jerks. "Doctor, I am resolved. I will turn Roman Catholic, and enter a convent. It is for such women as myself that they make convents. There I shall live out the rest of my life, hearing nothing and knowing nothing. And none of the scorn and shame that they will heap upon my name will reach the walls of my retreat."
"You must not think only of yourself, my dear madam. What about Humphrey?"
"He must do what he pleases—what he can. What does it matter what he does? Sir Robert, I assure you that he is a selfish wretch, the most hardened, the most heartless; he thinks about nothing but his own pleasure; under the guise of following Art, he is a cold sensualist. I have never detected in him one single generous thought or word; I have never known him do one single unselfish action. I have never cared for him—now, I declare that it costs me not one single pang to think that he will lose everything. Let the wretch who has mademe suffer so much go back to the gutter—his native slime!"
"Stop! stop! my dear madam. Remember, in adopting the boy, you undertook to look after him. Every year that you have had him has increased your responsibilities. You owe it to him that since he was brought up as Sir Humphrey's son, you must make him Sir Humphrey's heir. In other words, whatever happens, you must not let him suffer in fortune."
Lady Woodroffe was silent.
"Do you understand what I mean? You adopted him. He is yours. It is not his fault that he is yours. He may be robbed of his father by this discovery; he cannot be robbed of his education and of the ideas which belong to your position; he may have to recognize for his father a most unworthy, shameful man instead of a most honourable man. Selfish—callous—as he may be, that will surely be misery enough. He must not, at the same time, be deserted by the woman who adopted him."
"I don't care, I tell you, what becomes of him," she replied sullenly.
"Then, madam, I retire." He rose as if about to carry the threat into execution. "Here is your confession." He threw it on the table. "Use it as you please. I am free to speak as I please. And things must take their own course." He moved towards the door.
"Oh!"—she flung out her arms—"do what you please—say what you please."
"The one thing that remains is to soften the blow,if that is possible. Do you wish me to attempt that task?"
"Soft or hard, I care nothing. Only, for Heaven's sake, take away that wretched boy—that living fraud—that impostor——"
"Who made him an impostor? It is not Humphrey that is a living fraud. It is yourself—yourself, Lady Woodroffe," he repeated sternly. "And I am your accomplice."
"Well, take him out of my sight. His footstep is like a knife in my side. I could shriek even to hear his voice. Oh, doctor! doctor!"—her own voice sank to a moan—"if I could tell you—oh, if I could only tell you!—how I have always hated the boy. Take him back—the gutter brat—take him back to that creature, his mother. He is worthy of her."
Sir Robert sat down again and took her hand in his. "Dear lady"—his voice was soft and soothing, and yet commanding; his hand was large and comforting, yet strong; his eyes were kindly, yet masterful—"your position is very trying. You want rest. In an hour or two, I hope, we shall settle this business. Then you will be easy in your mind again. Come. I shall send you news that will be worth the whole pharmacopœia, if I know the heart of woman."
She burst again into sobs and tears. "Oh, if you knew—if you knew!"
"Yes, I know. Now I am going. You will be better when I am gone. Once there were two mothers," he murmured, "in the parable." He looked down upon her bowed head. "One thought of herself—the other—— I go to see the other."
On the stairs he met Humphrey.
"Sir Robert? Been to see my mother? She's not ill, I hope?"
"Best not go to her just now. She is a little troubled about herself."
"Nothing serious, I hope?" He spoke with the cold show of interest in which one might speak of a servant.
"Anything may become serious; but we will hope that in this case——"
"Come into my room for a moment, if you can spare the time." He led the way to his study. "I want to ask you about a man I met at your house—that fellow with the money, who says he was a gardener once, and looks it still."
"What about him?"
"He's been here. He called here the other day. Sat half an hour—said he wasn't used to my kind of conversation."
"Well, he isn't—is he?"
"I dare say not. But as we don't regulate our discourse by the acquirements of gardeners, it doesn't matter. However, I asked him what he came for, and hinted that I wasn't going to take any shares, if that was what he wanted. Then he began to talk conundrums."
"What did he tell you?"
"Told me nothing. Hinted that there was a lot that I ought to know."
"He didn't give you any hint of what that was?"
"No. Why? I thought that you, who know everything, might know what he meant."
"My young friend, I learn a good deal about the private affairs of many people. They remain private affairs."
"Very good. This fellow seemed mad. He informed me, among other things, that he was no relation of mine."
"Unnecessary."
"Quite so. Then he began to speak in high terms of my mother, for which I ought to have kicked him."
"Of your mother?"
"Then he said that if I followed the wishes of my mother, there would be any amount of money for me. That was to come after I learned the truth. What is the truth?"
"How am I to know what he meant? Perhaps he called on the wrong Woodroffe. There's another man of your name, you know—Richard Woodroffe."
"I know. Little cad! Perhaps that may explain the whole thing. It never does to treat those outsiders as if they were gentlemen born, does it? Once in the gutter, always in the gutter, eh?"
"I don't know."
"Look here, Sir Robert, you come here a good deal. My mother says she knew you years ago——"
"Very slightly."
"Well, there's something going on. She's miserable. I had hints from Molly—from a girl—as well as this gardener fellow—that there's something going on. Is it a smash? Has my mother chucked her fortune? The girl said something about losing everything. I can't get my mother to attend to business, and I must have some money soon. You'rea man of the world, Sir Robert. There's a row on, you know."
"Another? Why, man, I hear you were engaged to Miss Woodroffe and to Miss Pennefather at the same time. There are the materials for a pretty row. Is there another?"
"Well, if my mother has got into a mess, I was thinking that it might be as well to make it up with Molly, and stand in with the gardener, and get as much as I can out of him."
"Perhaps—perhaps." He considered a little. "Look here, Sir Humphrey, I am on my way to see Mrs. Haveril. Be here—don't go away—I shall come back in an hour or two, with something to tell you."
When we are waiting for the call to do something—to say something—of cardinal importance; something that will affect the whole of our life, all that remains of it: when we are uncertain what will happen after or before we have said or done that something; then the very air round us is charged with the uncertainty of the time. Even the hall and the staircase of the Hôtel Métropole, when Molly entered that humble guest-house, seemed trembling with anxiety. Her cousin's rooms were laden with anxiety as with electricity.
"Come in, Molly," said Alice. "No, I am not any better; I try to rest, but I cannot. I keep saying to myself, 'I shall get my son back; I shall get my son back.' How long shall I have to wait?"
"I hope—to-morrow. Dick has prepared a way to tell him."
"Will he be ready to go away with his own mother, to America, do you think, Molly dear?"
"Perhaps. But you must remember. He has his own friends and his own occupations. And we don't know yet——"
"He will be glad—oh, how glad!—to get his truemother back. He's a handsome boy, isn't he, Molly? As tall as his father—Dick isn't nearly so tall—and stout and strong, like my family. He's like Cousin Charles."
"Don't tell him so, Alice."
"Why not? His face is his father's—and his voice. Oh, Molly! will he come to-morrow?"
"Dick was going to send his letter to-morrow." Her heart sank as she thought of the contents of that letter, which would reach its destination, not as a peace-offering or a message of love at all. The poor mother! Would her son fly to her arms on the wings of affection?
Their discourse was interrupted or diverted—there was but one topic possible that day—by the arrival of Sir Robert Steele.
As a skilful diplomatist, he began with the second of the two mothers where the first ended. That is to say, he sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and held it, talking in a soft, persuasive voice.
"We are such old—old friends, dear lady," he began—"friends of four and twenty years—that I have taken a great liberty. That is—I am sure you will forgive me—I have consented to act as ambassador on a delicate mission."
"He comes from Lady Woodroffe," thought Molly, "or perhaps from Humphrey."
"Yes," the doctor went on, his voice being like the melodious cooing of the stock-dove—"yes. As a friend of the past, I thought you would forgive this interference. Things have changed, with both of us, since that time, have they not? I was then at thebottom of the profession—I am now at the top. I was then a sixpenny doctor—fill your own bottle with physic, you know; with a red lamp, and a dispensary open from six to ten every evening. Now I am what you know. You are a great lady—rich—a leader. I am sure you sometimes think that 'not more than others we deserve'——"
"I do, doctor, constantly. But the loss of my boy has poisoned everything. Yet now, I hope——"
"Now, I promise and assure you. This day—this evening——"
She fell back on her pillow.
"I will not let you see him," he said, "unless you keep calm. Don't agitate yourself. Shall I go on? Will you keep as quiet as possible? Now, I've got a great deal to say. Lie down—so. We must remember our present position, and what we owe to ourselves. Think of that. There are three of us concerned."
"Oh!" cried Molly. "Then you own it at last!"
"First, there is Lady Woodroffe. Exposure of this business will ruin that lady."
"She deserves to be ruined," said Molly.
"Because she has taken a poor child and brought it up in luxury? Let us not inflame the situation by hard words."
"I don't wish to be hard on her," said Alice. "But she said my baby-clothes were hers."
"Forgive her, Mrs. Haveril. We must all forgive. Before I leave you to-day I must take your forgiveness with me."
"Oh, Sir Robert!" said Molly. "She will forgive you too, if you restore her son."
"As for myself, the second of the three. It will be a pleasing thing for the world to read, and for me to confess, that I was the person who found the child and arranged the bargain. And that afterwards, when I discovered that for 'adoption' I must read 'substitution,' I held my tongue until proofs had been discovered which rendered further silence impossible. I am an Ex-President of the College of Physicians; I am a Fellow of the Royal Society; I have written learned works on points of pathology; I am a leader in practice; I am a K.C.B. It will be a very delightful exposure for me, will it not?"
"Well," said Molly, "but you might have told us when you found it out."
"As for yourself, my dear madam, I believe that in the States they are curious about rich people."
"They just want to know even what you eat and drink."
"Then consider—you must—the effect upon your own reputation, which will be produced when you have to confess that you sold your child—sold: it is an ugly word, is it not?—sold your child for fifty pounds."
"Why should the story come to light at all?" asked Molly.
"There are secrets in most families. In my position I learn many. I certainly considered this as one of them. The only reason why this must come to light is that the young man must lay down his title. His name fortunately remains unchanged."
"Who cares for a title?" asked Molly.
"You would, young lady, if you had one. Anhereditary title, however, cannot be laid down at will. It belongs to a man—to his father, to his eldest son. To lay it down would require explanation. And there is no other explanation possible except one—that the man is not the son of his putative father."
"Doctor," said Alice, "I don't care what the world says. I shall not listen to what the world says. I want my boy."
"Very well. You shall have your boy, if you like. But we must have a little talk first about him—about your son."
"Ah! my son."
"Now, dear lady, I want all your sympathy." He pressed her hand again. "Your sympathy and your affection and your self-denial, even your self-effacement. I have to call upon all these estimable qualities. I have to ask of your most sacred affection—your maternal affection—a self-sacrifice of the highest, the most noble, the most generous kind."
He looked into his patient's eyes. As yet there was no mesmeric response. Alice was only wondering what all this talk meant. If there was any other expression in her eyes, it was the hungry look of a mother bereft of her children. The doctor let her hand drop.
"I shall succeed," he said. "Of that I have no doubt. But I fear my own power of presenting the case with the force which it demands."
He then, with as much emphasis as if he were on the stage, produced a manuscript from his pocket, and unfolded it with an eye to effect.
"I received this," he said, "half an hour ago. It isLady Woodroffe's confession. It was written in the dead of night—last night. If the imagination of the writer can be trusted, it was written by order of her dead husband, who stood beside her while she wrote. The intensity of feeling with which it was written is proved by that belief."
"Ghosts!" said Molly, contemptuously. "Stuff with her ghosts!"
"My dear young lady"—the doctor felt that his ghostly machinery had failed—"will you kindly not interrupt? I am speaking with Mrs. Haveril on a subject which is more important to all concerned than you can understand. Pray do not interrupt."
But the impression which might have been produced by the vision of the dead husband was ruined by that interruption. If a ghost does not produce his impression at the outset, he never does.
Alice received the confession coldly. "Am I to read it," she asked.
She opened it and read it through. What it contained we know very well. It was written quite simply, stating the plain facts without comment. The concluding words were as follows:—