The Changeling

"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 children of 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 – to me, 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 own child 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A GRACIOUS LADY

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 she had done 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 sold your 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 easily established. 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 without the 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."

"What is the 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; she could 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 responsibility when 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; and this 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 the dignity 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 one more 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 —