The Changeling

"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 – "