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The Changeling
"Never mind, Dick," said Molly; "you shall raise your branch again."
He shook his head. "There is not so much staying power," he said, "in a Sheriff as in a Lord Mayor."
Hilarie observed him curiously. "Why," she said, "you two are strangely alike. Do you observe the resemblance, Molly?"
"Yes. Oh yes!" – after a little consideration. "Mr. Humphrey is taller and bigger. But they certainly are alike."
"Good Heavens! It is wonderful. The same coloured hair, growing in the same manner; the same eyes. It is the most extraordinary instance of the survival of a type."
The young men looked at each other with a kind of jealousy. They resented this charge of resemblance.
"Like that bounder?" said the look of the young man of clubs. "Like this Piccadilly masher?" was the expression on the speaking countenance of the man on tramp.
"After five hundred years." Hilarie pondered over this strange coincidence. "Let us go back to the churchyard."
At the porch she paused, and bade them look round. "Tell me," she said, "if you have ever seen a place more beautiful or more peaceful?"
The amplitude of the churchyard was in harmony with the stateliness of the church. An ancient yew stood in one corner; the place was surrounded by trees; the steps of the old Cross were hollowed by the feet of many generations; beyond the quiet mounds the dark trees with their heavy foliage made a fitting background; two or three of the bedesmen stood at their door, blinking in the sunshine.
"The almshouse is a reading-room now," said Hilarie. "The old people have quarters more commodious for sleeping, but they come here all day long to read and rest."
They stood in silence for a while.
The swifts flew about the tower and the spire; the lark was singing in the sky, the blackbird in the coppice. The air was full of soft calls, whispers-twitters of birds, the humming of insects, and the rustle of leaves. From the schoolroom came the continuous murmur of children's voices. Another old man passed slowly along the path among the graves towards the almshouse: it seemed as if he were choosing his own bed for a long sleep. Everything spoke of life, happy, serene, and peaceful.
"I am glad you came here," said Hilarie. "It is your own. When you know it you will love everything in it – the church and the churchyard, the trees and the birds, the old men and the children, the living and the dead."
Her eyes filled with tears. Those of the man with the violin-case softened, and he listened and looked round. Those of the other showed no response – they were resting with admiration upon the other girl.
"Come" – Hilarie returned to the duty of hostess, – "let me show you the house – the old, old house – where your ancestors lived."
She led the way to the gate by which she had entered. She conducted them along a path under the trees into a small park. In the middle of the park were buildings evidently of great age. They were surrounded by a moat, now dry, with a bridge over it, and beyond the bridge a little timbered cottage which had taken the place of gate tower and drawbridge. Within was a garden, with flowers, fruit, and vegetables, all together. And beyond the garden was the house. And surely there is no other house like unto it in the whole country. In the middle was a high-roofed hall; at either end were later buildings; beyond these buildings, at one end, was a low broad tower, embattled. The windows of the hall were the same as those of the church, the school, and the almshouse.
"You cannot wonder," said the girl, "that I love to call this house my own – my very own. There is nothing in the world that I would take in exchange for this house. Come in, Cousin Humphrey," she said hospitably. "And – and – my other cousin, Cousin Dick. Besides, you are a friend of Molly's. Come in. You are both welcome."
She opened the door. Within, the great hall had a stone bench running all round; the high-pitched roof was composed of thick beams, black with age; the floor was boarded; the daïs stood raised three or four inches for the high table; the circular space was still preserved beneath the lantern, where the fire was formerly made.
"Here lived Robert," said the chatelaine, "with his four sons. There was no floor to the hall then. The servants took their meals with the master, but below him. The men slept on the floor. This was the common living-room." She led the way to the north end. "Here was the kitchen, built out beyond the hall" – there were signs of women-servants – "and above it" – she led the way up a rude stair – "the solar of three or four rooms, where the lord and lady slept, and the daughters, and the women-servants. At the other end" – she led them to the south end of the hall – "was the lady's bower, where the lady with her maids sat at their work all day. And beyond is the tower, where the men-at-arms, our garrison, lay."
These rooms were furnished. "They are our sitting-rooms." Three or four girls now rose as Hilarie entered the room. She presented her cousins to them. "My friends," she said, simply. "Here we live; we take our meals in the hall. Our servants sleep in the gate-house; we in the solar. Confess, now, my newly-found cousins, is it not a noble house?"
She showed them the tower and the dungeon and the guard-room, all belonging to the Wars of the Roses. And then she led them back to the hall, where a dainty luncheon was spread on a sideboard. The high table was laid for about a dozen. The girls, to whom the cousins had been presented, trooped in after them. At the lower table stood the servants, the coachman and grooms, the gardener and his staff, the women-servants, the wives and children of the men. All sat down together at their table, which ran along the middle of the hall. Before Hilarie's chair, in the middle of the high table, stood an ancient ship in silver; ready for her use was a silver-gilt cup, also ancient; silver cups stood for each of her guests.
"We all dine together," she said – "my friends and I at our table, my servants below; we are one family. My ancestors" – her cousins sat on each side of her – "dined in this fashion. There is something in humanity which makes those friends who break bread together."
"It is like a picnic five hundred years back," said Humphrey. "I have heard talk, all my life, about this place. My father always intended to visit it, but at last grew too old."
Hilarie watched her two guests. The taller, Humphrey, had the manners of society; he seemed to be what the world, justly jealous, allows to be a gentleman. Yet he had a certain coldness of manner, and he accepted the beauty of this ancient place without surprise or enthusiasm.
"What are you by profession, Cousin Humphrey?" she asked.
"Nothing, as yet; I have been travelling since I left Cambridge." He laid his card before her – "Sir Humphrey Woodroffe."
"You have the title from your father. I hope you will create new distinctions for yourself."
"I suppose," he said coldly, "that I shall go into the House. My people seem to want it. There are too many cads in the House, but it seems that we cannot get through the world without encountering cads." He looked through his hostess, so to speak, and upon the third cousin, perhaps accidentally.
"You certainly cannot," observed the third. "For instance, I am sitting with you at luncheon."
"You will play something presently, Dick, won't you?"
Molly, sitting on the other side of the table, saw a quick flush upon her friend's cheek, and hastened to avert further danger. One may be a cad, but some cads are sensitive to an openly avowed contempt for cads.
Dick laughed. "All right, Molly. What shall I play? Something serious, befitting the place? Luncheon is over – I will play now, if you like." He looked down the hall. "That, I suppose, is the musicians' loft?"
"That is the musicians' gallery. It is a late addition – Elizabethan, I believe."
"The musicians' gallery? Well, Miss Woodroffe, I am the music. Let me play you something in return for the fine ancestors you have given me, and for your gracious hospitality."
He took up his violin-case, to which he had clung with fidelity, marched down the hall, climbed up into the gallery, and began to tune his fiddle.
"Hilarie," Molly said, "Dick plays in the most lovely way possible. He carries you quite out of yourself. That is why everybody loves him so."
However, the artist, standing up alone in the gallery, struck a chord, and began to play.
I suppose that the magic belonged to the fiddle itself. It is astonishing what magical powers a fiddle may possess. This was the most sympathetic instrument possible. It was a thought leader or inspirer. The moment it began, all the listeners, including the servants below the salt, sat upright, their eyes fixed upon the gallery, rapt out of themselves.
Hilarie, for her part, saw in a vision, but with a clearness and distinctness most marvellous, her ancestor Robert with Hilarie his wife. They were both well-stricken in years; they were standing in the porch with their eldest son, his wife and children, to receive their visitors. And first, across the drawbridge, rode the great Lord Archbishop and Lord Chancellor, followed by his retinue. When the Archbishop dismounted, the old man and his wife, and the son, and his wife, and his children went on their knees; but the Archbishop bade them rise, and kissed his parents lovingly. Meantime, the pages and the varlets were unloading pack-horses and pack-mules, because the Archbishop would not lay upon his father so great a charge as the entertainment of his following. And she saw next how the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff, his brother, rode up side by side, the Sheriff a little behind the Mayor, and how they dismounted and knelt for their father's blessing; and so all into the hall together, to take counsel for the great things they were minded to do for their native village.
Hilarie turned to her cousin on the right. "Cousin," she said, still in her dream, "we must think of our forefathers, and of what they did. We must ask what the Archbishop would have done in our place."
But her cousin made no reply. He was looking with a kind of wonder at Molly. Had the man never seen an attractive girl before? He had; but out of a thousand attractive girls a man may be attracted by one only.
And the music went on. What was it that the musician played? Indeed, I know not; things that awakened the imagination and touched the heart.
"No one knows," said Molly, "what he plays; only he makes one lost to everything."
As for herself, she had a delicious dream of going on the tramp with Dick, he and she alone – he to play, and she – But when she was about to tell this dream, she would not confess her part in the tramp.
The music was over; the fiddle was replaced in its case; the musician was going away.
In the porch stood Hilarie. "Cousin," she said, "do you go on tramp for pleasure or for necessity?"
"For both. I must needs go on tramp from time to time. There is a restlessness in me. I suppose it is in the blood. Perhaps there was a gipsy once among my ancestors."
"But do you really – live – by playing to people?"
"He needn't," said Molly; "but he must. He leaves his money at home, and carries his fiddle. Oh, heavenly!"
"Why not? I fiddle on village greens and in rustic inns. I camp among the gipsies; I walk with the tramps and casuals. There is no more pleasant life, believe me!"
He began to sing in a light, musical tenor —
"When daffodils began to peer,With heigh! the doxy over the dale,Why then comes in the sweet o' the year;For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.The lark that tirra-lirra chantsWith heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,Are summer songs for me and my aunts,While we lie tumbling in the hay.""You are a strange man," said Hilarie. "Come and see me again."
"I am a vagabond," he replied, "and my name is Autolycus."
Dick took off his hat and bowed low, not in Piccadilly style at all; he waved his hand to Molly; he glared defiance at Humphrey, who loftily bent his head; and then, catching up his violin-case, he started off with a step light and elastic.
Humphrey, the other cousin, half an hour later, stood beside his carriage.
"I must congratulate myself," he said, "on the good fortune which has presented me to the head of my family."
"To two cousins, say."
"Oh! I fancy we shall not see much of Autolycus. Meanwhile, since you kindly grant me permission, I hope to call upon you again."
"I shall be very pleased."
As he drove away, his last look was not on Hilarie, but on the girl beside her – the girl called Molly – the nymph attendant. Some, the goddess charms; but more, the nymph attendant.
"What was she doing with all those girls?" he asked. "Making a home for them, or some such beastly nonsense, I suppose."
CHAPTER IV.
THE CONSULTING-ROOM
The doctor's servant opened the door noiselessly, almost stealthily, and looked round the room.
There were half a dozen people waiting. One was an ex-colonial governor, who had been maintaining the empire with efficiency in many parts of the world for thirty years, and was now anxious to keep himself alive for a few years in the seclusion of a seaside town, if certain symptoms could be kept down. There was a middle-aged victim to gout; there was an elderly sufferer from rheumatism; there was an anæmic girl; there was a young fellow who looked the picture of health; and, sitting at one of the windows, there was a lady, richly dressed, her pale face, with delicate features of the kind which do not grow old, looking anxious and expectant.
They were all anxious and expectant: they feared the worst, and hoped the best. One looked out of window, seeing nothing; one gazed into the fireplace, not knowing whether there was a fire in it; one turned over the pages of a society journal, reading nothing; all were thinking of their symptoms. For those who wait for the physician, there is nothing in the whole world to consider except symptoms. They have got to set forth their symptoms to the physician. They have to tell the truth, that is quite clear. Still, the plain truth can be dressed up a little; it can be presented with palliatives. A long course of strong drinks may figure as a short course of weak whisky-and-soda. Perhaps the danger, after all, is not so grave. Patients waiting for the doctor are like persons waiting to be tried for life. Can a man take any interest in anything who awaits his trial for life – who hopes for an acquittal, but fears a capital sentence?
The doctor's manservant looked round the room, and then glided like a black ghost across the thick carpet. He stopped before the lady in the window.
"Sir Robert, madam, will see you."
There are some who maintain that the success of this eminent physician, Sir Robert Steele, M.D., F.R.S., is largely due to the virtues of his manservant. Certainly this usher of the chamber, this guardian of the portal, this receiver of those who bring tribute, has no equal in the profession. In his manner is the respect due to those who know where the only great physician is to be found. There is also an inflexible and incorruptible obedience to the laws of precedence, or order of succession. Thirdly, there is a soft, a velvety, note of sympathy in his voice, as one who would say, "Be of good cheer, sufferer; I bring thee to one who can relieve. Thou shalt not suffer long."
The rest of the patients looked at each other and sighed. He who would follow next sighed with increasing anxiety: his fate would soon be known. He who had yet to wait several turns sighed with impatience. It is hard to be tormented with anxiety as well as with pain. Those symptoms again! They may be the final call. Did Christiana, when the call came, repair first, in the greatest anxiety, to a physician! Or they may be only passing clouds, so to speak, calling attention to the advance of years.
The doctor, in his consulting-room, held a card in his hand – "Mrs. John Haveril." The name was somehow familiar to him. He could not remember, at the moment, the associations of the name. A physician, you see, may remember, if he pleases, so many names. To every man's memory belongs a long procession of figures and faces, with eyes and voices. But most men work alone. Think of the procession in the memory of a physician, who all day long sees new faces and hears new voices! "Haveril." He knew the name. Was she the wife of a certain American millionaire, lately spoken of in the papers?
"The doctor, madam, will see you."
The lady rose and followed him. All the patients watched her with the same kind of curiosity as is shown by those waiting to be tried towards the man who is called to the honours of the dock. They observed that she was strangely agitated; that she walked with some difficulty; that she tottered as she went; that her lips trembled, and her hands shook.
"Locomotor ataxis," whispered one. "I myself – "
"Or perhaps a break-up of the nervous system. It is my own – "
But the door was shut, and the patients in waiting relapsed into silence.
The lady followed the manservant, who placed a chair for her and withdrew.
Instead of sitting down, the patient stepped forward, and gazed into the doctor's face. Then she clasped her hands.
"Thank God," she cried; "he is the man!"
"I do not understand, madam. I see so many faces. The name – is it an American name?"
"You think of my husband. But I am English-born, and so is he."
"Well, Mrs. Haveril, even the richest of us get our little disorders. What is yours?"
"I have been very ill, doctor; but it was not for that that I came here."
"Then, madam, I do not understand why you do come here."
"You don't remember me? But I see that you don't." Her trembling ceased when she began to speak. "Yet I remember you very well. You have changed very little in four and twenty years."
"Indeed?"
"I heard some people at the hotel talking about you. They said you were the first man in the world for some complaints. And I remembered your name, and – and – I wondered if you were the man. And you are the man."
"This is a very busy morning, madam. If you would kindly come to the point at once. What do you want with me?"
"Doctor, I once had a child – a boy – the finest boy you ever saw."
"It is not unusual," the doctor began, but stopped, because the woman's face was filled with a great trouble. "But pray go on, madam."
"I had a boy," she repeated, and burst into a flood of tears.
The doctor inclined his head. There is no other answer possible when a complete stranger bursts into tears from some unknown cause.
"I lost the boy," she proceeded. "I – I – I lost the boy."
"He died?"
She shook her head. "No. But I lost my boy," she repeated. "My husband deserted me. I was alone in a strange town. My relations had cast me off because I married an actor. I was penniless, and I could find no work. I sold the boy to save him from the workhouse, and to get the money to follow my husband."
"Good Heavens! I remember! It was at Birmingham. Your husband's name was – was – ?"
"His professional name was Anthony."
"True – true. I remember it all. Yes – yes. The child was taken by a lady. I remember it perfectly. And you are the deserted wife, and the rich American is your husband?"
"No. I followed my husband from place to place; but I had to cross the Atlantic. I came up with him in a town in a Western State. When I found him, he got a divorce for incompatibility of temper. I lost both my husband and my child, and neither of them died."
"Oh! And then – then you came back to look for the boy?"
"No; I married John Haveril. It was before he made his money."
"And now you come to me for information about the child, who must be a man by this time?"
"I've never forgotten him, doctor. I never can forget him. Every day since then I have thought of him. I said, 'Now he's six; now he's ten; now he's twenty.' And I've tried to think of him as he grew up. Always – always I have had the boy in my mind."
"Yes; but surely – Perhaps you had no more children?"
"No; never any more. And last spring I fell ill – very ill. I was – "
"What was the matter?"
She told him the symptoms.
"Yes; nerves, of course. Fretting after the child."
"You know. The American doctor did not. Well, and while I was lying in my dark room, I had a dream. It came again. It kept on coming. A dream which told me that I should see my child again if I came to London. So my husband brought me over."
"And you think that you will find your child?"
"I am sure that I shall. It is the only thing that I have prayed for. Oh, you need not warn me about excitement; I know the danger. I don't care so very much about living; but I want that dream to come true. I must find the boy."
"You might as well look for him at the bottom of the sea. Why, my dear lady, your boy was intended to take the place of a dead child; I am sure he was. I know nothing at all about him. There is no clue – no chance of finding the child."
"Do you know nothing?"
"Upon my honour, madam, I cannot even guess. The lady did not give me her name, and I made no inquiries."
"Oh!" Her face fell. "I had such hopes. At the theatre, yesterday, I saw a young man who might have been my son – tall, fair, blue-eyed. Oh, do you know nothing?"
"Nothing at all," he replied decidedly. "And you came here," he went on, "remembering my name, and wondering whether it was the same man? Well, Mrs. Haveril, it is the same man, and I remember the whole business perfectly. Now go on."
"Where is that child, doctor?"
"I say that I don't know. I never did know. The lady gave me the money, received the child at the railway station. You brought it to the waiting-room. She had an Indian ayah with her, and the train carried her off, baby and all. That is all I can tell you."
Mrs. Haveril sighed. "Is that all?"
"Madam, since such precautions were taken, it is very certain that no one knew of the matter except the lady herself, and she will certainly not tell, because, as I have already told you, the case looked like substitution, and not adoption."
"What can I do, then?"
"You can do nothing. I would advise you to put the whole business out of your head and forget it. You can do nothing."
"I cannot forget it: I wish I could. The wickedness of it! Oh, to give away my own child only to run after that villain!"
"My dear lady, is it well to allow one single episode to ruin your life? Consider your duty to your second husband. You should bring him happiness, not anxiety. Consider your splendid fortune. If the papers are true, you are worth many millions."
"The papers are quite true."
"You yourself are still comparatively young – not more than five and forty, I should say. Time has dealt tenderly with you. When I knew you, in Birmingham, you were a girl still, with a delicate, beautiful face. How could your husband desert you? Your face is still delicate and still beautiful. You become the silks and satins as you then became your cottons. Resign yourself to twenty years more of happiness and luxury. As for that weakness of yours, it will vanish if you avoid excitement and agitation. If not – what did your American adviser warn you?"
She rose reluctantly. "I cannot forget," she said. "I must go on remembering. But the dream was true. It was sent, doctor; it was sent. And the first step, I am sure and certain, was to lead me here."
After a solitary dinner, Sir Robert sat by the fire in his dining-room. A novel lay on a chair beside him. Like many scientific men, he was a great reader of novels. For the moment, he was simply looking into the fire while his thoughts wandered this way and that. He had seen about twenty patients in the course of the day, and made, in consequence, forty guineas. He was perfectly satisfied with the condition of his practice; he was under no anxiety about his reputation: his mind was quite at ease concerning himself from every point of view. He was thinking of this and of that – things indifferent – when suddenly he saw before him, by the light of the four candles on the table, the ghost of a date. The figures, in fact, stood out, luminous, against the dark mahogany of his massive sideboard. "December 2, 1872." He rubbed his eyes; the figures disappeared; he lay back; the figures came again.