The Changeling

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 he waked 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. As he 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 so far 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."

"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 – that rôle does not suit Love. Stay thy hand – "

Dick turned away. "Take your twelve hours."

"I am going, then, at once – to Lady Woodroffe."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FIRST MOTHER

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 was lieutenant-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 made me 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're a 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."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SECOND MOTHER

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 true mother 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 the bottom 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."